by You Jin
We lingered on the mountaintop for the whole day, tramping through the snow, looking at it and playing in it, and appreciating its beauty. I was so happy I felt I held the whole world in my heart.
Usually when we travel, no matter where we go, we will always go out at night, just to have a feel for the nightlife. But in Kashmir, I did not feel like doing anything. I just wanted to sit in our houseboat and soak up the view of the landscape. It was life’s greatest pleasure. Too bad it did not last long, and that we had to leave that happy place and return to the real world after just three days.
At five in the morning, the snowy mountain was covered in dark clouds beneath the light of the rising sun. The shadows pressed down on it, just as they pressed down on my heart.
As we took the boat, drifting from one huge lake to the next, the sun slowly crept out from behind the mountain. The blue of the slopes was turned a dazzling white in the bright sunlight. It was a memorable sight.
Looking at the mountain that smiled in the distance, I heard a bird twitter nearby. I told myself firmly, I will come back. I most certainly will.
A Good Friend
WE TOOK AN overnight train, and arrived early morning at eight in Danang. We hailed a tuk-tuk to take us to our hostel in the city centre. A young man followed us on his electric bike. When we reached the hostel, he immediately approached Risheng and me and volunteered his services: “You can visit Hoi An for a day tour. It costs seven US dollars.”
Hoi An was a historic trading port about thirty kilometres from Danang. It was the earliest international commercial city in Southeast Asia.
In the seventeenth century, commercial ships from China, Japan, the Netherlands and Portugal all travelled to Danang to buy in bulk things such as silks, spices, ivory, tea, pearls and herbs. Trade flourished for a time. By the beginning of the nineteenth century, because the river was gradually drying up, the vessels had difficulty entering the port, so Danang’s status was taken over by Hoi An, which still remains Vietnam’s largest commercial port.
The beautiful, ancient Hoi An was an important destination on my tour of Vietnam. According to the travel guides, the most convenient mode of travel from Danang to Hoi An was by electric bicycles.
Feeling that this young fellow’s fee seemed suitable, we said, “OK, but we’ll need two electric bikes.”
“No problem,” he immediately agreed. “I have a good friend who lives nearby. If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll go and get him.”
After we had waited about half an hour, he arrived with his friend. The two looked the opposite of each other, a strange mismatch. The first one, called Thien, was pale-skinned, short and thin, looking a little malnourished. The other one, his good friend Trong, was tall and sturdy, seemingly much more robust. He wore a bright smile on his face, and his movements were quick and lively. When he shook our hands, his grip was strong. As soon as he opened his mouth, a stream of fluent English gushed out. “Hi! Welcome to Danang. The journey from Danang to Hoi An usually takes about an hour, but we are a very poor country, and the road is old and in poor condition, so we might have to take it slowly. This might add to the time. I hope you won’t mind.”
I sat on Trong’s bike, and Risheng took Thien’s. We followed one behind the other, heading swiftly towards Hoi An.
This was the first time I had ever ridden an electric bike, so I was a little nervous. And, as Trong had said, the road was very old and uneven, so the bike had to navigate its way around many potholes, sometimes having to snake around them in an S-curve. Trong was a very experienced driver, so as he wove here and there looking for level ground, he chatted amicably with me. When he talked about the history of Vietnam’s disastrous wars, he sighed with regret, but as he described the present Vietnam, so many areas of which were still undeveloped, he became quite passionate. When he talked about Vietnam’s charming natural scenery, he was proud. But he was most excited when he talked about the delicious fare available from Vietnam’s roadside snack stalls.
As we chatted, the vehicle sped along. We were halfway to our destination when it suddenly rained. It started out as a drizzle, but gradually grew heavier. Trong stopped the bike and took a raincoat from a net and handed it to me to wear, then he got back on the bike and continued to drive southward. Soon, the romantic mist became a shower, and then a downpour. Amid shivers, Trong and Thien both pulled the bikes over, in front of a row of shops. The three men were soaked, looking miserable. Only I had a raincoat, remaining fairly well-protected and dry.
In the row of shops, there was a vegetarian food stall. We decided to have lunch here whilst we waited for the rain to stop.
We ordered many vegetarian delicacies that looked like meat and were also named after meat dishes: roasted beef and onions, Chinese sausage, roasted chicken, mincemeat spring rolls, barbecued prawns, and steamed fish. When the food was served, it looked bland, as if it were reheated leftovers from the night before. When we ate it, it was hard to swallow—every dish was cold! Thien ate greedily and without complaint, as if he had not eaten in years. Trong looked around and, sensing the food did not suit our taste, tested the waters by asking, “Too cold for you?”
When I nodded, he turned to the stall owner and let out a stream of Vietnamese. The man obsequiously agreed, and asked the waiter to take every dish back to the kitchen and warm them up. The food had already looked like reheated leftovers, but after being re-reheated, the colour, form and taste changed drastically. When the stall owner brought the bill to us, it came to forty-five thousand dong (about four and a half US dollars). Just as we started to pay, Trong picked up the bill and started checking against the dishes on the table. He found that the stall owner had charged us an extra five thousand dong. He complained fiercely, and the stall owner, looking embarrassed, amended the bill. Trong continued to grumble, but Thien just kept eating, as if not noticing a thing. I thought, Good thing Trong is with us or we would have been cheated and never even known it.
The rain stopped and we continued on our way. The ever-meticulous Trong used a clean cloth to wipe the seat of the bike dry, then asked me to sit. Thien, on the other hand, hopped carefree onto his own vehicle and started it up, letting Risheng sit on the soaked seat.
When the bikes entered Hoi An, my heart started pounding with joy. This storied city had not seen the ravages of war. All of the buildings preserved their ancient look. The most moving thing about the scene was that each of the buildings on a single street was built in a different style from its neighbours. There were Chinese style, French style, Japanese style, and local style buildings, each different from the others.
We came to an old Japanese bridge. In high spirits, Trong followed me and explained: “This bridge was built by Japanese immigrants to Vietnam at the end of the sixteenth century. It is Hoi An’s oldest Japanese structure. If you look, the head of the bridge had a monkey statue and the foot had a dog statue. This is to show that the construction of the bridge was started in the monkey year and completed in the year of the dog.”
Trong had really done his homework! But Thien just stood quietly on the bridge, watching the flow of the water beneath us.
Then we went to see the Chinese associations, the Guangzhao Clan, the Chaozhou Clan, the Qiongzhou Clan, and the Fujian Clan, and got an idea of how Chinese culture had developed here. Trong and Thien knew Hoi An traffic very well, so within a single short day, we were able to tour the whole place.
Going to a local coffee shop, we sat down for a cup of tea. Out of the blue, Thien asked, “Where do you plan to go tomorrow?”
“Hue,” said Risheng.
“Shall I arrange the transportation for you?”
“Electric bikes?” Risheng and I both shook our heads. “It’s too far. No way!”
“No!” Thien said, anxiously. “I will get a car and take you there.”
“How much?”
“Thirty US dollars.”
Thinking it was a good price, we agreed.
When we left Hoi An, it was alre
ady dark. The wet and chilling wind made us shiver all the way. Trong was not his usual self, and was extremely silent. The bike sped along in the dark like a lost sheep struggling forward. The wind whipped like stinging needles against my face.
Suddenly, Trong said, “Tomorrow, is it OK if I drive you to Hue?”
“Eh, we just made arrangements with Thien.”
“He’s asking for thirty US dollars. How about if I only charge twenty-five?”
This was Thien’s “good friend”, and here he was stabbing him in the back. My initial shock left me speechless. Seeing that I had no answer, he said, “Look at Thien. He’s like a block of wood. He never thinks. His English is no good, and he’s not especially friendly. If you go to Hue with him, what you see on the way, he won’t know how to explain to you. English is no problem for me. And, I lived there for a few years, both inside and outside the city. I know it well. I think, things being like that, when we get back to Danang, you should tell Thien you’ve changed your plans, then I’ll take you to Hue. Tomorrow, I’ll be at your hotel at seven. How about it?”
The night was still as dark as a bottomless pit. The wind was still whipping carelessly around on every side. I felt a chill all over, and I knew for sure that this chill came from deep inside. The phrase Thien had used when we first met him kept playing over and over in my mind. I have a good friend…
The Poppy Flower, Soul of the Miao Village
THERE HAS NEVER been a flower like the poppy. At first sight, it lifts the spirit.
In a Miao village in northern Thailand, in a vegetable garden called Youth Garden, there were hundreds of poppies, both red and white. The red ones were an intense scarlet, almost blood red. The white flowers were exceptionally white, as if the spirit of the garden had risen from the ground. The red and white poppies lined the garden, each seeming to look around from the spot where it stood. When the breeze wafted from the forest, they gently bowed their heads, a tranquil scene.
A young Miao boy, Abi, stood next to me, saying in fluent Chinese, “You know, opium is made from these plants.”
I craned my neck for a better look. Amid the leaves, many egg-shaped bulbs had appeared, each standing at the end of a long green stem.
Ah, this evil fruit! How many people around the world had become addicted to it, and how many had it killed? Silently, it was born, it grew, and its bright flowers drew millions and millions of people into its trap.
Abi patiently explained, “You use a knife to gently cut its flesh, and a white liquid flows out, which you can harvest. You sun it, and after several hours, it will be dry, leaving the dark brown opium behind.”
“You mean it doesn’t have to undergo any special processing?” I asked, surprised.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “When making the heroin, if you need it to be formed into cakes, that requires some processing. Ten kilos of opium can make about a kilo of heroin.”
“Today, are there still people in the Miao village who use opium?”
“Yes, of course,” he answered quickly. “The older generations, including my grandfather and father, all do. After using it for decades, it’s not easy to quit.”
“What about you?” I asked, looking at him. “Do you use it?”
“Me?” He wrinkled his nose and said casually, “A little. I don’t use more than twenty grams a day.”
Abi was a sort of “sales representative” for the Miao village. The small backpack he carried was full of ivory, Burmese cornmeal and things such as that. He spent the whole morning running back and forth in the village, selling these things all day long to the tourists who came there. After I had bought a small ivory carving, I asked him about the poppy fields. He responded warmly, offering to take me to see them.
The Miao people had an inseparable connection to opium. Centuries earlier, the Miao people in China’s Yunnan province, Myanmar and Northern Thailand had all made their living growing poppies. Many Miao people had become addicted to opium this way, unable to break the habit in their lifetime. Much later, with the help of the Thai government, the Miaos were still trying to change this way of life.
Today there are about twenty thousand Miao people in northern Thailand. Some are involved in commerce, others in agriculture. The numbers of those dependent on opium are on the decline. The poppy field Abi had taken us to see was one that the Thai government had preserved as a tourist site. The village Abi lived in, called Tu’an, had a population of about thirty-five families, or roughly six hundred people.
“The Miao villagers don’t like farming or business,” Abi said brightly. “Most of the younger generation make a living driving delivery jeeps in and out of the villages. When they’ve saved a little money, they change and go into business.”
“What business?”
“Import and export,” he said with a sly smile. “They deliver products to Myanmar for sale.”
As we talked, we came to a very lively part of Tu’an. Both sides of the road were lined with shops. Each stall was filled with handicrafts, most of which had come from Myanmar. Myanmar’s standard of living was very low. Therefore the products that went from Northern Thailand into the country were all very cheap, and attracted many customers.
“It is my dream to open a shop here,” Abi said, his eyes twinkling.
At the head of the row of shops was a yellow dirt road, winding up into the mountains. Abi’s house, a large wooden hut, was at the base of the hill. Abi sighed and pushed the door open. We shielded our eyes and looked around until they adjusted to the dimness. The walls were wood, the floor dirt. Not far from the door was an earthen stove, with a fire inside and a pot of soup on top. Next to the stove was a round bamboo basket full of hot pork that smelled wonderful. Steam rose from the meat, filling the room with its aroma. An old woman stood beside the stove, smiling at us. There was also a very thin man, holding a bowl of watery rice in his hand as he sat at wooden table eating.
The woman was Abi’s first mother, the man his father. As was the Miao custom, they both stretched out their hands in a warm greeting. They asked us to sit and scooped bowls of rice and meat for us, placing them before me. The meat and rice were both plain and unseasoned. The meat was tender, but also very bland.
“I didn’t know this was the sort of food you eat every day,” I said, sucking on a bone.
“Oh no, you were lucky to get here, as we’re celebrating the New Year,” the old people said happily. “When we celebrate New Year, each family takes its turn to slaughter a pig and invite friends and family over. This pig was slaughtered last night. Today our neighbours will all come here to eat.”
Abi went on to say that most Miao people lived a very difficult life. They had three meals a day, but usually only vegetables and rice, with meat being served once in several months. It was only during the New Year that they really feasted. When I heard Abi say this, I immediately put my chopsticks down, unable to eat any more.
Abi’s father was very chatty. He was over seventy, and had two wives. I asked him why he could speak such fluent Chinese, when he had lived in this mountain village in Northern Thailand all his life. He said, “My father came here from Yunnan. I was born and raised in Northern Thailand. Because my father’s family all continued to speak Chinese at home, my generation was also used to speaking Chinese.”
Speaking Chinese like this made me feel closer to Tu’an village. I thought it was quite rare for a family to continue to speak Chinese after so many generations. But to Abi’s father, it was as natural as eating when you are hungry, and he thought it natural that it would continue.
The old man talked for a while, then yawned widely and said, “I’m going to smoke some opium. Do you mind?”
I was actually quite intrigued. I had always wanted to observe the process of smoking opium, and now I had the opportunity to see it right before my eyes. Before he would have the chance to change his mind, I nodded and urged him, “Go ahead! We don’t mind at all.”
His wife brought the pipe to him, a
nd he lit the wick in the bowl, then took a black object from his breast pocket. It was about the size of a quail egg, in a transparent cellophane pouch. So that was opium.
I watched him take out a needle and pick up some opium and place it on the fire in the pipe. A small wisp of smoke rose and he carefully inhaled. Then, he closed his eyes and exhaled forcefully, releasing a burst of smoke, which filled the room.
The old man saw me watching with deep interest. He could not keep from laughing. He held out the pipe and said, “Try it!”
And so I did.
Its thick, exotic flavour assaulted the senses. I drew on the pipe, then felt a tingling sensation all over my skin. To be honest, it gave me goosebumps straight away. There was nothing exactly unusual about the smoke. It just felt thick and dirty inside my mouth.
Then Abi came into the room with his pipe, lit a bit of opium, and sat down to smoke with his father. The smell of the opium intensified, like a spirit floating lost and forlorn in the air.
I watched the two faces before me. The old face was wrinkled, but those wrinkles all started to smooth out now. As he sat in a dazed state amid the smoke, he started to look intoxicated.
All at once, I began to tremble with fear. It was as if the angel of death stood before them but, through the smoke of their pipes, they mistook him for a fairy. I stood up and bade them farewell.
The next day, we took a taxi to visit another Miao village fifty kilometres away. This village was called Nong’an, with forty homes of about seven hundred Miao people. The biggest difference between this and Tu’an was that the people of Nong’an did not do business, making their living instead solely from agriculture.
To the residents of Nong’an, New Year held a very deep meaning. They had completed most of their work in the fields by November, so December was the time they set aside to celebrate the New Year. Everyone wore bright, colourful new clothing, ate very well, drank, sang, danced and celebrated. When we came to the village, the tribe had gathered in the square, dressed in their brightest.