Across the Mekong River (7 page)

At least fifteen people, old and young,
crowded together in the space to the left of ours. Blankets and clothes were scattered on their sleeping platform. An elderly man, with an oozing red eye, nodded a welcome. A young woman waved as she sat on a stool nursing her baby. A small boy wandered in and stared at Nou.

Kia arrived with a pile of wood in one arm and a water pail and la
rge mosquito net in the other. She dropped the wood on the ground and handed the net to Shone, nodding toward the platform. He immediately climbed up to hang it over the sleeping mat.

In our village, Yer and I had always laughed at the way tiny Kia, a bundle of fire, had taken charge in her home while Shone s
miled and nodded in agreement. Few Hmong husbands would allow their wives to treat them this way. I was not sure why, but it cheered me to find this had not changed.

Kia turned to Yer.
“Later, I will help you unpack.” She bustled about, straightening the wood. “Bring this pail, Yer. We must go to the water tanks while the pumps are open. You can wash up, and I’ll show you the latrines. They are so smelly, and half the time they’re overflowing, running down the road.” She shook her head.

Yer looked over at me, and the miracle of a s
mall smile formed on her lips. It was a fleeting, almost involuntary movement, one she seemed completely unaware of. I had prayed many hours for her anguish to end. This was only one tiny step, but it lifted my spirits.

Kia leaned down to Nou, who had been hid
ing behind her mother’s skirt. “I remember you as a baby. Come and meet your cousins, my Mee and Tou, and Blia and Ger.” She straightened. “Everyone come. We will eat soon.”

The celebration lasted late int
o the night and early morning. Fourteen family members spilled onto the walkway in front of the room shared by Shone and Souas’ families. Kia and cousin Yer prepared a special meal, splurging on two fresh chickens and extra vegetables purchased in the market to supplement the rations of rice. The other men and I ate the dishes of rice, chicken, mustard greens, squash, and hot chili peppers. When we were done, the women and children gathered around the plates and finished the meal. Relief flooded over me to see Yer chatting with the others and occasionally smiling. Perhaps we could resume some semblance of a normal life.

Soua winked at me and produced a
bottle of whisky. His head was almost bald and two of his lower teeth were missing, but his grin spread as broad and warm as ever. After three years of malnutrition, beatings, and forced labor in the prison in Laos, my hair too had thinned and half my teeth had fallen out.

Yer left with the other women to wash dishes. They would go back to our place with the children to gossip. We sett
led on low stools by the fire. Two friends of Soua stopped by to share a drink and conversation. Everyone wanted news of Laos.

I shook my head.
There was nothing but bad news to tell. “I know little really, only rumors. Once I escaped the prison camp, we left right away.”

Soua frowned.
“Where were you held?”

“Xieng Khouang, near Phon
esavanh. But there is little left there. The whole valley was destroyed by the American bombs—the villages, fields, even the animals.” I took another swig of whiskey, the warmth spreading down my chest into my stomach and loosening my tongue. “Bands of Hmong are fighting again in the hills nearby.”

My cousin Chor, eighteen
years old, sat forward. “The resistance is strong in the camp. Support is coming from Hmong in America, and many fighters are going back and forth across the river.”

Shone shrugged.
“They fight small battles, but it does little good.”

“Sometimes i
n prison we heard explosions.” I took a long draw off the whiskey bottle. “Hundreds of farmers are dying from the bombs that did not explode. They try to rebuild their villages and plant fields only to find these small bombies, the size of a peach. A prisoner in my work crew threw his hoe into the ground one day. Boom! No arms. He died right there. After that I dug very carefully.” I closed my eyes against the image, my head beginning to spin.

“
We have heard this too,” Soua said.

Chor looked a
t me with an eager expression. “Tell me, older cousin, how did you escape prison?”

My mind tumbled into
memories of that terrible day. “Tong and I were pulling weeds in the fields. The guards sat down to smoke and talk at the opposite end. We ran for it, trying to reach the cover of trees at the edge of the clearing.” I pictured Tong sprinting across the rows of tall mustard greens, not five feet from me, when shots rang out.

“
Tong was killed,” I whispered. I closed my eyes, seeing him fall to the ground, his face frozen in place, his eyes wide. Not another breath, not a moment to say goodbye. How many times I thought that I should have stopped. I should have carried him with me. But the bullets flew around me, and there was no time. I kept running. For my wife and children, I had to keep running.

Shone cleared his throat and spoke softly, “Uncle Boua
, you are needed. There are many illnesses and unhappy spirits in the camp, and not enough shamans to help.”

Uncle Boua no
dded, but looked at me with an expression of discomfort. Before we left Nong Khai, he had performed a healing ceremony for a tiny baby, calling his familiar spirit, his
neng,
to guide him to the other world to negotiate with evil spirits for the baby’s souls. He told me after how he had struggled a very long time to find the way, as if his
neng
could not hear him. At last he slipped into a trance and rode his horse to the other side, but this time he sensed his powers had been too weak. The baby died the next day.

“
Pao, I know of a job translating for the French medical clinic that opened,” Soua said. “I told the doctors you were the best French student in our school. I’ll take you to talk with Dr. Renard tomorrow.”

“Not many Hmong go
to the clinic,” Shone said. “They only see a doctor when they are very sick and have to go to the hospital. We had an outbreak of cholera several months ago and tuberculosis is spreading. Too many deaths.”

Soua sighed. “There are few jobs, no money, no
thing to do. Sometimes we work in the local fields, but the Thai pay us almost nothing and the guards steal half of it before we can come back in.” He crossed his arms over his middle. “My wife earns more money than me with her sewing, or we would not survive.”

“The Thai used to be nice to us, but now there
are too many coming every day. They’re afraid,” Shone said. “Thai newspapers say we will ruin the country if they let us stay. They want the Americans and other countries to take more people. They threaten to send us back to Laos.”

“Have many left for other countries?” I asked.

Shone sucked on his teeth for a moment. “More all the time, mostly to the U.S. or Australia or France. No one wants to go. We keep hoping to go back home.”

“The resistance will send the Pathet Lao to their graves. Laos will be free,” Chor said
, puffing up like a strutting cock.

W
hat did Chor know of fighting? He had been a small child and then a student in Vientiane during the war. Only one who had not lived through the brutality could show such enthusiasm for more conflict. I would not fight again. I already had made too many sacrifices.

Shone shrugged his shoulders.
“Who knows how long before the communist government falls. I am ready to think about the chance for a new start.”

Uncle Boua frowned.
“You would go?”

“Yes.” The answer c
ame quickly and with assurance. “We’ve been in this camp over three years. What kind of life is this? I feel useless.” He lit another cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly. “Do you remember the pilot Danny?”

“Yes, of course,” I said.
Shone had worked at the air strip in Long Chieng during the war, fueling planes and loading and unloading supplies. He had become good friends with many American pilots.

“He gave me his address in the U.S. and said t
o write if I ever needed help. I wrote him. He’s willing to sponsor my family and Soua’s.” He paused a moment as if studying my reaction. “We may go when the papers come.”

The ne
ws sent a shiver down my back. I had only just found my family, and already they talked of leaving. I survived one day to the next in this temporary world of the camps. After all we had suffered would we have no other choice but to leave our homeland, everything familiar and dear to us, for good? I wondered how Shone had come to this point of desperation.

His face softened.
“Once we are settled, we will sponsor you.”

I could not think that far ahead.

YER

Mud. All I remembered from Nong Khai were layers of red, sticky mud. It weighed my feet down and splattered my legs. It caked the edge of my sarong. It oozed into my brain. I could not see. I could not say how I spent my time. If Pao spoke to me, the words drifted over and around, never touching me. I lived in a separate place. My heart leaped whenever a boy ran around a corner. My only thoughts were of Fong and Fue. I saw their faces in the clouds. I heard their footsteps in the pounding rain. Their voices called to me in the cries of the bulbul birds. And sometimes when the wind blew in a certain direction, I smelled the warm scent of their skin.

Uncle Boua and Pao performed the funeral ceremonies, attempting to guide our
loved ones to their ancestors. I could not listen. In that moment, I did not want Fong and Fue to leave me behind and travel to the other world. I wanted them close to my heart a little longer. Every day I called to them not to forget their mother who loved them more than the gods loved the heavens.

It did not surprise me
when they came to me in a dream. Whispered words as sweet as honey. Mother, we are safe. Do not cry. We will stay with you. We will wait to join our ancestors until you are happy. Come with us now. In the dream they were younger, maybe six and eight years old. We wandered together in the mountains near our last village in Laos. The forest was peaceful and quiet, filled with the sweetness of pine needles and tiny, pink orchids. The noisy chirps of golden weavers and kingfishers echoed through the trees. A light mist swirled and played among shafts of sunlight trickling through the branches. We sang as we searched beneath the ferns and vines for mushrooms and picked bamboo shoots and roots of wild ginger. Fue soon grew bored and began chasing after the bees that were sipping nectar from a patch of yellow yarrow. Fong and I laughed to see him bounding and leaping after the wily bees. We stopped to eat rice balls under an agar wood tree. Fue nestled against my side and begged me to tell the story of the orphan and the monkeys. But as I began the story, their forms faded away. I reached for their hands. Only the nothingness of clouds met my touch.

Many nights the dream repeat
ed. Sometimes they were older. Sometimes younger. Always we walked in the forest. Always I felt happy. In the last moments of sleep each morning, I savored the fragrance of mint leaves growing among the bushes. The crunch of dry leaves under my fingers. The sound of my boys’ laughing and chatting. If only we could have stayed like that forever. But the roosters crowed and dogs barked. Dawn seeped into our dank space. Pao and the others stirred on the mat and jostled me awake. Then the ache came, a heavy stone resting on my chest. The glaring truth poured over me. My precious boys. Taken by the river. I felt as if someone was smothering me under a pile of thick quilts. I could not breathe.

I did not want the tedious task
of living. It often surprised me to find Nou, her little face strained with worry, hovering over me, asking me questions, offering to help. I resented her presence, the way she pulled me back to reality. Pao tried to draw me to him, begging me to share my grief. I did not blame him for what had happened. All I wanted was for them to leave me alone. Let me slip into the other, happier place where my boys comforted me.

When Pao announced our move to Ban Vi
nai, I was terrified. What if the boys’ spirits remained behind? What if they could not find me in this new camp? But that night in a dream, they promised to follow wherever I traveled.
We will always be with you, Mother. Do not worry.
There were no bounds to our love.

By the time we left for Ban Vina
i, the dry season had arrived. The rains stopped. Mud turned to dirt, dissolving into thick and restless swirls of red dust. A fine film covered the camp. Grit filled the crevices in my face. Parched my throat.

Li
fe improved in small segments. The reunion with our family was a happy occasion. I found comfort in their easy companionship and our shared losses. I was not alone. We all suffered our grief. I realized that I had been blind to Uncle Boua’s pain as he mourned for Auntie Nhia, Lia, and Blong. Our first night in Ban Vinai we learned of Chor’s parents, who had been shot by the Pathet Lao as they tried to flee their village. My cousin Yer and Soua had lost their little Chia, only three years old. He had fallen ill with a fever and died during their escape out of Laos.

Nou, tentative and shy at first, gradually stopped clinging to me and eased into play
ing with her young cousins. Cousin Yer and I took the opportunity one afternoon to leave the children with Kia and slip away. We climbed up the dirt path to a hillside at the edge of camp. Great clouds of dust rose under our feet. Hot sun bore down. We sat on fallen leaves under a huge banyan tree, sheltered from the sun by the umbrella branches. Below, the barren camp stretched before us. It looked so ugly compared to our lush green mountains in Laos. Yellow and brown buildings dotted flat depressions and rolling hills, fading into the rust-red dirt. Only a few bushes and fruit trees sprouted among the barracks. Yer said more and more trees had been cut for firewood. Near the stream that meandered through the camp, small vegetable plots had been planted by the lucky few who claimed the land.

“Over there is the hospital,” my cousin said, pointing in the distance, drawing me back. “By the
front gate is the Thai market. Sometimes they let us go out in the morning and shop for food. Their prices are cheaper than the vendors who come into the camp.” She paused a moment and let out a deep sigh. “And there, by Center 5, is the Catholic Church. The priest is French. He spent time in Laos many years ago and speaks Hmong.” She played with the edge of her sarong. “I talked with him once about Chia.” Her voice wavered.

A cloud
washed over me once more. A small sob escaped my lips. Yer leaned against me as tears filled her eyes as well. We sat together in silence for a long time.

Yer and I had shared our lives, ev
en as we shared the same name. She had been born a month after me, the oldest daughter of my youngest uncle. Growing up, we were best friends and worst enemies, two opposite spirits, the white and yellow of an egg, separate yet occupying a common space. We spent our early days bickering and trying to out do one another with our sewing and cooking. If I picked four peaches from the tree in the yard, she picked six. And yet fate had kept us together. We married first cousins and moved together to our husbands’ village. The jealousies and competition continued in smaller, less obvious ways, as we worked in the fields and cared for our children. But we supported one another through the difficult years of war and hardships. At times she had been the thorn of a sucker vine stuck in my side, yet I could not imagine my existence without her.

Yer wiped her cheeks with her sleeve and patted my arm. “Our boys will live in our hearts, dear cousin, but you
have little Nou to care for.” She put a hand on her abdomen.

For the first time,
I noticed the small bump, a new life forming. We never spoke of our pregnancies out of shyness about something so personal and for fear that evil spirits might harm the baby. I wondered how she felt about having a child in this desolate place. I could not imagine caring for another child just then. A breeze drifted up from the valley outside the camp heavy with sweet frangipani blossoms and ripe papaya. The branches of the banyan softly swayed, and the leaves rattled a tune. Warm air caressed my cheeks. It passed through my body. I could not see my boys, but I sensed their presence. They wanted to assure me. They were near and well.

Each morning a line of vans entered the front gate and wound its way down the main road to deliver the foreign aid workers. The long-noses as we called them. I had met French missionaries in Xieng Khouang and Americans in Long Chieng. But still these people gave me a start with their light skin, bulging eyes, and giant, broad bodies. I shuddered at the thick hair crawling down the men’s arms and peeking out the necks of their shirts. Humanitarian agencies ran the camp schools, medical clinics, and hospital. They provided counseling and aid--so many things I could hardly keep track.

One morning, I left Nou with cousin Yer and followed Kia to the
donation center. We scrounged through bins of castoff clothes, looking for the best things.

Kia held up a blue blouse with a small red stain along the
bottom. “This is good for Nou.” I made a face, but she handed it to me. “You can wash the spot.” She plunged into another pile.

I picked up a faded, green t-shi
rt with a turtle on the front. Confused for a moment, I thought it would fit Fue perfectly. Then I shook my head, remembering, and put it down. I squeezed my eyes shut as last night’s dream came rushing back. The boys and I had been in a field picking ripe ears of corn off golden stalks. The sun was bright and warm on my back. The boys sang silly verses about a woodpecker banging on the trees. I smiled at their nonsense. Fue ran off and hid, calling out for us to find him. We reached the end of the row. He was crouching nearby behind a cardamom tree. He giggled and threw the pungent, sweet smelling pods from the tree at Fong. Fong laughed and chased after him. They disappeared from sight. Clouds crowded past and turned the sky gray. I called to the boys, but there was no answer. The sound of a rifle shot echoed through the trees.

I woke wi
th a start, my heart pounding. Pao, lying beside me, looked over, his expression pensive, uncertain. For the first time since we had come to Thailand, I turned into his open arms. I buried my head in his shoulder and cried. He held me tight and stroked my head, his breath warm on my neck.

Now Kia put her hand on my shoulder and guided me to an
other bin of men’s clothes. “Look at these pants for Pao. They will have to do. Soon you will have time to sew better things.”

I nodded
and picked through the clothes. Later, I thought, I would go to the banyan tree and wait for the breeze.

Kia and I browsed through the central market with its noodle stands and stalls selling drinks, candy
, eggs, vegetables, and fruits. Other vendors offered lanterns and flashlights, batteries, scissors, knives, tools, and cooking pots. Two Thai women called to us from a stand, holding out lengths of cotton fabric in shades of purple, green, and blue. At the markets in Xieng Khouang in Laos, I had traded our vegetables and eggs for the items we needed. Here everything was purchased with Thai baht. Kia haggled back and forth with a vendor for the soup pot I had selected. She walked away three times so the man had to chase after her. Finally, he shook his head and accepted her price.

We picked out long beans, peppers, ginger, and cilantro for the day’s meals.
Kia complained the whole time about the prices as she handed over coins. “We must hurry,” she said at last. “The food trucks will be here soon.”

We scurried up th
e hill to retrieve our baskets. Cousin Yer and the children joined us. By the time we reached the drop off point, a line of women and children was trailing down the road and around two buildings. The midday sun grew warm. I wiped sweat from my face and neck. Nou wanted me to hold her. But I couldn’t.

The trucks pulled up thirty minutes late, a
nd workers began the handouts. We crept along, waiting our turn. More people arrived, crowding past to get in the back of the line. The hum of women gossiping bounced between buildings. Nou and the other children chased around, shrieking as they snaked in and out of the line. I watched the little boys, so full of mischief and glee, picturing Fong and Fue when they had been small.

A mother passed by with a baby crying softly on her shoulder
who looked too weak to lift his neck. His body was nothing but bones covered with skin. Mucous ran from his nose and enormous eyes. Nou appeared at my side and startled me. I picked her up and held her tight.

At last we
reached the front of the line. The young Thai worker scowled and distributed the food without a word. He inspected my ration cards and measured out one large bowl of rice for each person in our household into my basket. Another worker gave me a handful of dried fish and a small container of fish sauce. The meager portions were meant to last two weeks. I stared at the small pile of rice in my basket with dirty and broken grains. They had obviously been scraped off the ground after threshing. We received what no one else would eat.

We headed back up the hill past an overflowing outhouse and a stream of
waste trickling down the path. I had to cover my mouth and nose from the stench.