by Roland Smith
“We will spend the night here,” Major Thakin said.
Six
I’m lying in my tent shrouded by mosquito netting, waiting for dawn with my headlamp lighting this sweat-proof journal. Outside, the snoring soldiers nearly drown out the sounds of the jungle. We will get a late start this morning. The porters will have to make breakfast for the soldiers, then we will have to pack, which means we’ll start cutting our way toward the mountain during the heat of the day. This doesn’t matter to me. I just want to get moving. I’m suffocating here. It’s like I’m underwater trying to reach the surface where I can breathe. I dream of the alpine slopes of Hkakabo Razi . . .
“Are you awake, Peak? I saw your light. I didn’t mean to—”
Alessia had put her head through the flap of my tent. “No, no, come on in. I nodded off, but I’m awake now.”
“Nodded?” Alessia doesn’t always understand American jargon.
“Dozed off. Fell asleep, briefly.”
“Oh.” She crawled in the rest of the way.
There wasn’t much headroom in our two-person alpine tents, so she lay down next to me beneath my mosquito netting, which was nice. This was the first time we’d been alone together in almost a week, except for when I was tending her during her fever, which didn’t count because she wasn’t exactly herself.
“You were writing in the journal,” she said quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping soldiers.
“Yes. But I only started it a few days ago.”
“Will you read some to me?”
I didn’t like reading aloud. And I didn’t like anyone reading my stuff until I’d had a chance to revise it. I’d already written things that I knew no one was ever going to see. My hesitation answered Alessia’s question.
“You do not have to read it to me,” she said.
“I’d rather not at this point. I’ll let you read it after I’ve fixed it.”
“Like the journal you kept about us in the Pamirs,” she said.
“Right.”
Alessia smiled. “I can wait. Do you believe that Lwin is a murderer and a thief ?”
“His girlfriend getting killed by a slingshot doesn’t look good. Stealing a timber elephant and running doesn’t look good either. I’d say he’s probably guilty.”
“I think the major will not stop until he apprehends him.”
I agreed. Major Thakin didn’t appear to be the kind of man who gave up on anything he began. Light started shining through the red tent fabric. We switched off our headlamps and watched the red brighten. Our peaceful sunrise was interrupted by an elephant trumpeting loud enough to shake the tent. I grabbed my ice ax and tumbled out of the tent, thinking that Nagathan had returned to crush us.
He hadn’t. He was standing at the edge of our camp surrounded by three oozies, one on his right, one on his left, and one sitting on his neck. Lwin was not among them. Nagathan’s trunk was raised to his forehead in what looked like a salute. He was no longer trumpeting.
The camp was in complete chaos with soldiers running around buttoning their tunics, grabbing their rifles. The porters were scampering up the tree trunks like monkeys. Nick was standing outside his tent watching the disorder with an amused expression. Ethan crawled out of his tent scratching his wild hair, blinking himself awake.
He looked over at Alessia and me. “Why are you carrying an ice ax?”
I nodded at Nagathan.
“Whoa! He’s back!” Ethan stared at the bull elephant for a moment, then asked, “You notice anything different about him?”
“He’s standing at attention, and he’s not throwing jungle ooze at me.”
“He is wearing a wooden bell,” Alessia said.
She was right. The iron bell had been replaced by a wooden bell. I took a closer look to make sure it was Nagathan and not some other timber elephant. There was a tear on the bottom of his left ear. His right tusk was shorter than his left, and there was a chip of ivory missing on the end. It was definitely Nagathan, but the wooden bell wasn’t the only difference. There was something about his behavior.
“He’s calm,” I said. “His eyes aren’t wild. He’s not rocking back and forth.”
“He’s surrounded by three oozies with elephant hooks,” Ethan pointed out.
“Yeah, but they aren’t using the hooks on him. They are as relaxed as he is. They look like they’re ready to go out into the forest and harvest teak.”
Nick walked over to us. “What a difference a few days makes,” he said. “Looks like Nagathan has finished his musth and is back to his sane self. Did you notice the blood on his right tusk?”
We were too far away to see in any detail, but it did look like there was a smear of red on the tusk. Nagathan lowered his trunk.
“That’s not good,” Nick said.
“What?” Ethan asked.
“The darkish area on his forehead and down the front of his trunk. I think it’s blood as well. Something bad has happened in the forest.”
Major Thakin shouted out several orders. His soldiers buttoned their shirts, formed a straight line, shouldered their guns, and stood at attention. It looked like there were twice as many soldiers as there had been the day before. Nagathan and the oozies had not arrived in camp alone. The soldiers from the previous day were not the only patrol Major Thakin had with him. He had probably spent the night in order to rest half his men.
He paced up and down the line, questioning the new arrivals one by one, then he walked over and started talking to the oozies.
We looked at Nick.
“It appears that our old friend Lwin is dead. They found him late last night. Nagathan pounded him into a pulp. According to the soldiers, he was unrecognizable as a human. The forest animals had been feeding on what was left of him for a couple of days. It was too dark to search for remains last night, so the soldiers camped near the crime scene. This morning they searched the area and found a foot, two fingers, and a bloody longyi up in a tree. Nagathan may have thrown it up into the branches after pulverizing him. The three oozies have been with the major since the pursuit began. They are from a different elephant camp than Lwin. I wondered how the soldiers were going to get Nagathan back where he belonged. He must have picked them up along the way. Drafted, so to speak. I’m sure they will be happy to get back to their camp and families.”
“So, Nagathan’s musth has passed?” I said.
“It appears so, but not soon enough for Lwin. Elephants in musth are very dangerous. It speaks well for Lwin’s skill to have gotten him this far without getting someone killed. The patrol found Nagathan tied up between two trees. He had eaten every leaf and branch within reach. If they hadn’t found him, he would have starved.”
“What about the iron bell?” Alessia asked.
“According to the soldiers, the oozies carved a wooden bell last night and put it on him this morning. They say he’s been a perfect gentleman since they untied him.”
Major Thakin came back with a bloody longyi and dropped it at our feet. Wrapped inside were the foot and two fingers.
Alessia looked away from the mess. I wanted to look away too, but I couldn’t.
“Is this him?” The major asked.
I didn’t know about the foot and the fingers, but the bloody longyi was definitely Lwin’s. Red with bright yellow squiggles. He had three longyis the exact same color and pattern. He offered to sell one to me when Ethan and Alessia started wearing the skirts.
“It must be,” Ethan said.
Major Thakin nodded to one of his men. The soldier picked up the parts and hauled them away.
“What will you do with the remains?” Alessia asked.
“Take them back to headquarters.”
I didn’t know how far headquarters was, but I doubted the foot and the fingers would be recognizable by the time they got there. One thing the tangle did not have was ice. I hadn’t seen a cube since we left Yangon.
“Perhaps you should take the longyi and leave the . . .” Ales
sia hesitated. “The parts here. We could take photographs. You could use the photograph to prove—”
“Yes, yes,” the major interrupted. “A good idea. You get the photographs and perhaps a plastic bag for the longyi, while I get my men organized. I want to start before the day heats up.”
So did we.
Ethan and I took the gruesome photos with the major’s digital camera, while Alessia packed our gear. Before the major gave us complete possession of the fingers, he took a close-up of the print in the morning light.
Part Two
Bridges
Seven
I’m leaning against a tree trunk as wide as my bedroom wall at home. We are camped at the entrance to a suspension bridge. Our first. Four donkeys. Eight people. I think the donkeys are calmer about the crossing than we are. Or maybe they are just happy to have been relieved of their burdens. The donkeys can’t cross the narrow bridge loaded down with our gear. We’re going to have to haul stuff across the bridge ourselves. It will take several trips back and forth, and we cannot possibly finish before dark.
We’ve taken our time through the tangle the past two days, stopping here and there to climb trees and collect samples for Nick. It turns out that Alessia is a better monkey than Ethan and me. She climbs faster, manages to come back to ground with fewer bites, stings, and scrapes, and Nick gets very excited with her finds.
Right now Alessia and Ethan are climbing down to the riverbed—a sheer green wall covered with vines, branches, and plants—about a thousand feet below the bridge. I decided not to go, telling them that I thought at least one of us should stay alive to get to the top of Hkakabo Razi. I was joking of course. The reason I stayed behind is to chill for a couple of hours, if chill is the right word in the heat of the jungle, which hasn’t been too bad the past two days. Or maybe I’m acclimatizing to it, and to the closeness of the rainforest. I’ve actually been enjoying myself, although I’m still pining for the alpine. A glass of glacial ice water would be nice right now.
Nick has set up a makeshift awning and is examining and cataloging our latest finds, using a magnifying glass and portable microscope with a mirror beneath the slide tray to catch the light. After he’s examined the plant or flower, he takes a photograph of it.
Three of the porters are sleeping near a smoky fire. The fourth is with the donkeys. They hobble them in the late afternoon and set them free for a few hours to poke around for food. The porters take turns guarding the donkeys from tigers. There aren’t many tigers in Burma anymore, because poachers kill them and sell their parts to the Chinese for more money than illegal drugs. I’m not sure what the porters, only armed with pangas, could do against a tiger anyway.
The tree I’m leaning against is next to the bridge on the edge of the ravine. If I lean forward, I can see Alessia and Ethan clambering down the wall. I’m betting that when they get to the bottom, they are going to cross the river, climb up the other side, and walk across the bridge to camp. That’s what I would do.
The bridge is four hundred feet long. According to Nick, it’s the shortest we are going to cross. “And the best of the bunch,” he told us. “We’ll be crossing several more before we reach Hkakabo Razi. One or two of them will be out. If we can’t repair them, we’ll have to go around. With the pack animals, that could take some time. More time than you probably want to spend getting to the mountain. You may want to push on in a more direct manner.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Ethan said.
Nick and I laughed, then had to explain the play on words to Alessia.
The bridge is made of rope woven from tree bark. It’s shaped like a V. On the bottom of the V are slippery rough-hewn planks a little over two feet wide. On the top of the V is a rope rail. There isn’t a hunk of metal on it. The rope anchors are wrapped around the trunks of ancient trees. The entire bridge is made out of repurposed forest.
Alessia and Ethan have made it down to the riverbed and are attempting to cross. Alessia is in the lead. I pull my binoculars out. She finds a tree that has fallen to the opposite bank. She’s halfway across before Ethan sees she’s found a route. She moves lithely, with perfect balance, over the slippery trunk as if she were on a paved path, reaching the other side thirty yards ahead of Ethan. He slips as he jumps off the tree and gets soaked in the shallows. Alessia laughs and points up to the wall of green in front of them. They study the wall for several minutes, then start their ascents, each using a different route. It’s a race. I would have picked a different route from either of theirs, but I have the advantage of seeing the entire wall. Alessia is moving quickly and smoothly, but Ethan has picked a better way to the top. He beats her by a minute.
“I’ll go first,” Nick said early the next morning. He was loaded down with enough gear to crush a donkey.
“Maybe we should lighten your load,” I suggested. “You don’t have to haul all of the gear in one load.”
He smiled. “Nonsense. It just looks bulky. Most of it is dried plants. I think we should go one at a time. Who’s next?”
“I’ll go,” I said.
“Good. We’ll take the animals last.”
We watched him cross.
“The boards are very slippery,” Alessia said. “The bridge, it wiggles. And the ropes give splinters in your hands. Do you have gloves?”
“Yeah, we all do,” Ethan said. “Peak brought his cold weather gear for when he catches up with his dad.”
“Mittens won’t work on those ropes,” I said. “But ridiculously, I do have a pair of light climbing gloves.” I pulled them out. Mom had stuffed them into my pack just before I left the apartment. Gloves are not something you need in sweltering Yangon, and she didn’t know I was going to try for Hkakabo Razi, or be crossing rope bridges. They were half-finger climbing gloves, which I never use. I prefer to climb with just chalk on my hands, because gloves make your hands sweat. I put them on and started across.
It didn’t just wiggle, as Alessia put it—the bridge swayed wildly and vibrated with every step I took. It was like walking a loose tightrope. But she was right about the boards being slippery. The long span across the ravine was shaped like a U. It was worse going down with my pack pushing me forward than it was going up with the pack dragging me back. But with all that, I still made pretty good time, as did everyone else, getting everything across except for the donkeys.
One porter stayed with the donkeys each trip with our supplies. When we had everything across, a second porter joined the lone porter to help lead the donkeys.
“We have to bring them over together,” Nick explained. “They won’t go alone—herd instinct—but they’ll do fine roped together. Strength in numbers and all that.”
The string started across, single file, tied together, a porter in the lead, a porter in the rear.
All went well until they were about fifty feet away from us. The lead donkey suddenly jumped and kicked the donkey behind, which caused a chain reaction. The donkeys lost their footing and started sliding backward on the slick planks. Their legs tangled. The bridge started swaying wildly. Ethan and I shot forward to help, but Nick stopped us.
“No! Let it settle!”
It was hard to do nothing with the porters clinging to the rope railings for dear life and the donkeys braying in terror.
“The anchors, they look good!” Alessia shouted from behind us.
She’d had the sense to check the only things stopping the bridge from plunging into the raging river. It took several minutes for the bridge to settle down and a couple more minutes for the first porter to stir. He slowly untangled his legs from the lead donkey and got to his feet. He said something to the other porter, who then also stood. The donkeys remained where they were, two of them on their knees, two on their sides. They were either too frightened to stand or knew to wait for the porters to get them up. The porters gently coaxed them, one by one, to a standing position. When they were all up, the string finished the crossing as if nothing te
rrible had happened, except for the two porters loading quids of betel nut into their mouths with trembling hands to calm their nerves.
Nick talked to them for a few moments about what had happened.
“They say that the lead donkey was stung or bitten,” he translated. “The best thing to get past this is to move.”
An hour later, we were back on the narrow trail. We didn’t stop to climb a tree or collect a single plant. Nick wanted to get over the second bridge before dark.
“There’s a village a few kilometers on the other side,” he said. “Or there was a couple of seasons ago when I was last here. They have a market. I’m getting low on essentials. Rice, tea, sugar, flour. If I don’t replenish soon, I might have to make myself a slingshot.”
We were getting a little low on food too, because we were trying to keep most of it in reserve for Hkakabo Razi, where there wouldn’t be any food. A slingshot wouldn’t help us. There was nothing to shoot above fifteen thousand feet.
The second bridge was shorter, more substantial, and twice as wide as the first bridge. Nick didn’t bother unpacking the donkeys, which saved us a couple hours. They trotted across so fast they nearly trampled the lead porter.
We reached the outskirts of the village at dusk, tired, sweaty, and filthy, but happy to have made such good time. A girl and a boy, maybe eight or nine years old, ran up to us smiling. The girl held her hand out and opened it. Lying on her palm was a tiny monkey foot.
“Good lord,” Nick said.
Eight
The village was not a village. It was a bustling town ten times bigger than when Nick had last seen it. There were hundreds of people selling everything from tiger eyes to roasted dogs. Alessia and I split off from Ethan and Nick to wander around the market on our own. Half the people buying and selling were Chinese wearing western-style clothes, carrying duffel bags of cash slung over their shoulders like supersized purses. They were buying animal parts, skins, rubies, and opium. They were selling, or trading, knockoff luxury watches, bags, western apparel, and electronics, which couldn’t be charged because there was no power.
