Beware of Dogs

by Elizabeth Flann

  She had it all planned, of course. Two days in a hostel in Vientiane, then a slow, eccentric and, I realise now, highly dangerous road trip north to Luang Prabang. If we had been more open, less inhibited, it would have been a chance to really get to know each other, but since we weren’t, all we could manage were hints and gestures, usually unstated, always covered by embarrassment and reserve.

  In Vientiane we did the low-budget tourist things – temples, a trip across the Thai–Lao Friendship Bridge, a visit to the museum and culture hall, evenings eating stir-fry and drinking beer in rickety makeshift bars overhanging the Mekong – all ways to avoid actually having to talk. Our accommodation was in the Ministry of Information and Culture Guest House, where I found we were sharing a three-bed room with an elderly American woman who had already almost filled the space with her luggage by the time we arrived.

  My mother had made it clear that this was her treat, so I made no complaint, even though I would have been perfectly happy to book us a room at the Novotel to give her a rare taste of luxury. I wondered uneasily how we were going to get from Vientiane to Luang Prabang, but here she managed to surprise me.

  ‘Da-DAH!’ When we had checked out and dragged our small amount of luggage outside, Moe directed me triumphantly to a snappy late-model white Jeep. Grace, our American roommate, was standing next to it, surrounded by cases, bags and boxes.

  ‘You didn’t hire this?’ I knew enough about local prices to guess how much a vehicle like this would cost.

  Moe grinned broadly. ‘The owner had to fly back. I can have it for the price of the petrol. As long as we take Grace with us as far as Vang Vieng.’

  It turned out Grace was some kind of UN adviser looking into new small business ventures in Laos and Myanmar, and Moe had cunningly devised an itinerary that would accommodate both her requirements and our own special interests. The first stop was the Nam Ngum Lake, where Grace met a representative of several village groups who were engaged in making furniture from teak retrieved from the flooding of the artificial lake. After arranging a suitable meeting time and place, Moe proceeded to carry out her own plan.

  First we secured a table for lunch at one of the floating fish restaurants next to the boat jetty. Then we joined a tour boat, already booked for a package tour, but with two extra places just for us. ‘How did you manage this?’

  She touched the side of her nose. ‘One of our boys comes from round here. His uncle owns the boat.’ Of course.

  The lake, studded with heavily forested islands, was absolutely beautiful. Evidently there were still tigers in the forests beyond, and I was not surprised. Laos, although bombed almost to oblivion in parts, is one of the least populated areas in the world. Despite poachers and subsistence farming, most of the forest area is still wilderness.

  The fish restaurant was also owned by the uncle, and the meal was wonderful. I try to remember it now, but although the view from the open decks is clear and immediate, the food remains difficult to conjure. Probably just as well.

  Grace was looking quite narrow-mouthed and tense when she rejoined us, so perhaps her day had not gone quite so well as ours.

  The next destination was Vang Vieng, a world-famous area of limestone karst that Moe knew I wanted to visit. This time the accommodation was a little more comfortable and we didn’t have to share. Grace’s destination was an organic food-growing cooperative a little out of town, where we left her and her luggage looking somewhat out of place in a ten-bed bunk room.

  The limestone caves were beautiful, and I was surprised to find that Moe enjoyed them at least as much as I did, possibly more. We had both, of course, come equipped with tough waterproof footwear and flashlights, and I had brought a handy bag for valuables that I could sit on my head like a hat when swimming through caves, which meant we could go anywhere. It also meant that less wellprepared tourists tended to turn back when faced with rivers or rope bridges to cross, so we spent two days on our own private un-guided tour.

  On the last night, instead of eating at the street cafes where you crouched on tiny low wooden stools and watched your food being cooked in front of you, we decided to go a bit more upmarket and have the banquet at the tourist restaurant two doors away from our guesthouse.

  The food was disappointing – it tasted as if it had been sitting around for hours – and the service was slow and surly. But we didn’t mind because, oddly, this freed us to talk in a way we hadn’t been able to do on the rest of the trip.

  After a few bottles of Beerlao, Moe finally got down to the personal. ‘Alix, I don’t think your father and I have been fair to you and Abel. Picking you up and moving you around whenever we felt the need.’

  I was taken aback. ‘I’m all right, Moe.’

  ‘But living in Australia . . .’

  ‘I like Australia.’

  ‘You are happy there?’

  Was I? ‘Yes, Moe. I am.’

  Silence.

  ‘But what about you? Are you happy here?’

  And she laughed. Not exactly bitterly, more a kind of self-deprecation. ‘I would like to go back to Denmark,’ she said. Not Nederland, I noted, which was interesting. Then she brightened. ‘But there are so many things that need doing here. And I’ve joined the International Mission Committee, so I am busy on the internet.’

  ‘You should start taking photographs again.’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh Alix, you know your father wouldn’t like that. And the people here . . . It would be an intrusion.’

  I’m so glad to have the memory of this time with my mother, talking as woman to woman about our lives, our work, and our dreams. Even the two days spent recovering from the food poisoning that delayed our return to my father had their lighter moments as we battled primitive plumbing and the impossibility of finding Western medicines.

  Then we got to Luang Prabang, where I was to meet my father. Would he finally recognise that I had achieved a successful career, and forged a worthwhile path in life? I had such hopes.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Variegated Limpet (Cellana tramoserica)

  Found on intertidal rock surfaces on the shoreline, where they feed on algae. The large ribbed conical shell may grow to about four centimetres across. Limpets are firmly attached to rocks by a strong muscular foot, which is the edible part, and they will attach even more firmly if threatened. This means that you need to make your first strike with a knife or stone count if you want to collect sufficient limpets to make a meal. The easiest method is to grill them in the shell over a hot flame, then remove the guts after cooking and eat the fleshy foot. They can also be eaten raw, but are greatly improved by cooking in garlic and butter.

  Atkinson’s Guide

  FIELD DIARY – Tuesday 24 April

  * * *

  I slept late and again I woke up feeling weak and dehydrated. The sun was already high in the sky. The pelvic cramps were getting worse, so I dragged on jeans, boots and anorak and made straight for the coast banksias where I had bagged the leaves the night before, to be rewarded with the sight of small pools of pure water weighing down each of the bags. I drank about two-thirds of them straight down, ignoring the faintly leafy taste, then carefully decanted the rest into the water bottle, licking every drop from the bags before stowing them in the front pocket of my anorak.

  There was no point going down the stone steps because I had stripped the karkalla plants yesterday, so I stayed in my jeans and began to pack for the day’s exploration, enjoying the freedom to take sips of water whenever I felt like it. I had good reason to believe that the boat wouldn’t come back before Thursday. I’d heard the Duffy brothers describe their other work commitments, including ‘distribution’, which seems to be another job they do for Matt, and I’d formed a pretty good idea what it is they were distributing. I knew I could get water from the tank, even if I couldn’t get into the cabin. Then a new fear gripped me. What if they had emptied the tank as a parting gesture? I had to remind myself that I could continue to bag branch
es to get water. That won’t be my problem.

  I knew that unless I could get into the cabin, my problem would be to find food. The fruiting season appears to be just about over, and most other vegetation needs to be cooked to be edible. There must be shellfish on the rocks, but finding them could be difficult and again there may be no means of cooking them.

  The only way to find out was to go to the cabin and have a look. Even though I fully believed that Dave had gone, I delayed my departure, moving and re-moving my possessions, tidying and re-tidying, until hunger got the better of me and I knew it was time to go.

  I planned to travel light. Into my anorak, along with weapons, matches, field diary, specimen bags and water bottle, I stowed hat, socks, underpants and the Amnesty T-shirt, folded as small as I could make it, into the various pockets. If all went well, my priorities were clear. First, water. Second, food. Third, washday. I didn’t think I could risk moving in even if I found the cabin open, so I left all non-essentials in the cave, awaiting my return. I decided not to brush out my footprints on the way there, which should speed up my progress enormously, but to do it on the way back. Just in case.

  The journey felt different, once I knew I was alone on the island. Oddly, I no longer felt like whistling or singing. I enjoyed the quiet, with nothing to break it but the sound of birdsong and the faint distant background noise of the sea. If I had two weeks with plenty of food, some wine, and my climbing gear, I think I could get to like it here. That is, if there was no Dave, or Matt.

  It must have been late morning by the time I arrived at the viewing point above the cabin. As expected, there was no sign of life. I knew in my head that it was safe to go down and explore, but anxiety still gnawed at my stomach. I began to picture traps – snares, nets, even mines.

  I shouted words of encouragement to myself (Kop op, Alix. Get a grip!) but still I could not move. The pain in my pelvis had diminished as a result of a good flushing out, but now those lovely gulps of water began to make themselves felt in another way. I couldn’t remember if the dunny door had a lock on it, but the thought got me moving in a way that even hunger couldn’t do.

  Slowly, carefully, almost creeping in my effort not to be seen, I approached the cabin, and tiptoed right round it. I discovered something I hadn’t noticed before, a series of spyholes in the wall on the sandblow side, and filed them away for future speculation. I peered through the first holes and saw a bedroom, the one shared by Matt and Lana. It was stripped bare. The next one showed the bunk room, also stripped bare. No sign of my things. I wondered with a shiver where they were now. There was no spyhole for the other bedroom, Dave’s room, but through a natural gap in the boards I could see that all his things were gone too. So far so good.

  Gathering all my courage, I tried the door. Locked. Very locked. I’d been harbouring fantasies of picking the lock with my penknife, but of course there was no way I could do that without damage so I knew I couldn’t risk it. Peering through the cracks in the door, I could see the kitchen, so tantalisingly close yet so out of reach. The dunny, however, was not locked, and I enjoyed the luxury of sitting comfortably after all the balancing and squatting.

  Next, water. Heart in mouth, I turned the tap on the tank and water gushed out. I washed my hands, then drank what was left in my bottle and refilled it. I checked the tank’s level and looked to see if anyone had marked it, but could see no signs. After the heavy rainfall last Thursday, it was almost full. I searched the area around the cabin and the barbecue, looking for any sign of food, and some kind of vessel to cook things in. All I found were a few straggly herbs in rusted-out baked bean tins along the back wall.

  Priority one, water, was going to be OK. Priority two, food, has acquired a new extension. I desperately needed a cooking pot. If the herb pots hadn’t been so badly rusted, I could have scrubbed one out in the sea and used it to boil leaves and any shellfish I might find. But no amount of searching revealed anything remotely fire or waterproof. Perhaps part of the Dodgy brothers’ job is to remove the rubbish. I can’t imagine Matt or Dave leaving everything so perfectly clean. Of course it’s possible that Lana’s dainty little hands went round and collected cans, bottles and all the other refuse, but somehow I find that even more difficult to imagine.

  I peered through the door cracks and could see saucepans, a kettle and a frying pan sitting frustratingly out of reach. I tried the door again and then walked round and checked the windows, but they were all securely shuttered. I guess they need to keep the place as vandal-proof as possible. I found a thin strong stick and tried pushing on the catch of the door lock but it didn’t budge. Deadlocked.

  I knew I was wasting time. The hunger that was making me desperate was also making me weak. I had to give up any idea of breaking into the cabin and do a serious food search. It was becoming quite hot, and I was not used to being out in the open in the heat of the day, so I pulled out my hat, wet it under the tap and then, slightly refreshed, set off.

  I was hoping to find enough food at least for today on the beach area northwards of the cabin, so I worked through it systematically. I started at the vegetation line, where I was most likely to find fruit or seeds that I could eat on the spot, leaving the shoreline to cover on the way back. This way I could wipe out my footprints on the way out, and then hug the shoreline on the way back, so the tide would wipe out any prints my bare feet made on the return journey.

  I found a karkalla patch not far into the search and picked about ten fruits, which I ate as I walked. There seemed to be a few new fruits forming, so I took that as a hopeful sign and continued my search, the sweet/salt taste of the fruits improving my spirits enormously, and also giving my body a tiny spurt of energy. I noted several stands of grey saltbush. If I could find some kind of utensil, saltbush leaves could be cooked along with the karkalla leaves, but neither are edible in their raw state so I left them for the moment, taking careful note of their position.

  As I walked I also scanned the rising areas above leading to the headland and spied a copse of what looked like boobialla trees about halfway up one of the slopes. If necessary, I can go there tomorrow in search of fruit, but the access doesn’t look easy and I’m not tempted to try it until I’m sure there’s no other source of food.

  I found a few more karkalla fruits and again ate them straight away. I am now so malnourished that I must eat everything I find to try to build up some strength and energy, but fruit alone is not going to achieve much. It was time to check out the rock pools. They seemed a lot further away than they did when I walked to them on the first day, and when I got there I had to sit on a rock and catch my breath, which really frightened me. I had to keep searching for food and I needed to make the journey back to the cave to sleep. Where would I find the energy?

  I was almost dragging myself along as I reached the rocks, but immediately caught a small crab that tried to scuttle out of my way. This cheered me enough to start exploring more thoroughly and, to my relief, the pools were full of limpets, sea anemones and some kind of greenish small shellfish that I couldn’t identify. The anemones and green things I left until I was really desperate, but I started filling my bags with limpets, striking them quickly with my knife to knock them off the rocks, as Professor A advised. I had to force myself to stop because there were more there than I could eat.

  I wondered if you could eat them raw, like oysters, then realised I could probably cook them on the barbecue using the shells as tiny baking dishes. With this in mind, I made a detour to pick some saltbush branches on the way back to give some flavour and perhaps even add some vitamins. I felt so good that I laid out the fruits of my hunter-gathering carefully on some rocks, stripped off all my clothes and went for a short but thorough dip in the sea. My clothes were so disgusting by now I didn’t want to put them on again, so I gathered food, clothes and anorak into one big bundle and walked back through the shallows, every so often putting my burden down and immersing myself again.

  When I got back it was time for
priority three. I turned on the water tap and wastefully and recklessly washed first my hair then every inch of my body. No five-star mega-spa could have felt better. Then it was time for the clothes. I rinsed every garment, squeezed them out, and hung them from the posts of the water tank while I allowed the sun to dry me and my hair.

  Then I set about lighting the barbecue. I hadn’t taken much notice of it before, so was very pleased to discover it was a PortaGas one and the cylinder, while not full, was far from empty. I lifted the cover and was delighted to see a thin film of grease still on the surface. I arranged the limpets and crab carefully on the greasiest spots and laid a small branchlet of saltbush leaves and a crumble of herbs on each one. Then I got out my matches, lit the barbecue, and waited for the sizzle.

  Just when I thought it was not going to work I heard a faint sound, and in no time the limpets were bubbling away. I didn’t know how long they would take to cook, and had to guess when to turn the heat off, but they looked cooked and I gave them a minute to cool down to handling temperature since I had no plate. Then I got stuck into them.

  They were still too hot to handle, but I remembered my knife and used the point, with some difficulty, to prise the first limpet out of its shell. It was not delicious but it was food, and the remnant taste of fat from barbecues past was probably the best part. By the time I cracked the shell of the crab it was pretty dried out, but there was a memory of sweetness there, and I was glad I kept it until last. Then I scraped up all the little fatty bits of leaf and ate them too, following my repast with a draught of tank water. I felt better than I had for some days. Then it was time to cover my tracks.

  I used one of the leftover branches of saltbush to scrape the barbecue down, put the lid back on, then took the branch into the sea to wash it before dumping it in the scrub behind the tank. The limpet shells I tossed randomly into the sea. Then I checked my clothes. The Amnesty T-shirt was dry, so I put that on, not worrying about underwear but putting on my boots as well. I wanted to try to find some fruit for the evening meal. I think it must have been about two or three o’clock in the afternoon, and I had just eaten a whole pile of limpets, so a small evening snack would suffice.