by Ann Kelley
Writing in my journal and reading Mom’s book are the only ways I know to make myself feel normal. For a short time I can forget what’s happening to us. The book is in a bad state—torn and battered, like the journal, with some pages stuck together and the cover bent and swollen. Mom doesn’t even break the spines of her books—it’s a point of pride with her. I grab the book and my journal, find a sheltered place behind a rock, try not to scratch my legs, and begin to read.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is a very unusual book. It’s not a novel. It’s the story of a journey a man and his young son make across America. The narrator, Phaedrus, is good at maintaining his motorbike, but his friends on another bike are not interested in anything technical. They want to float through life without knowing how things work. Phaedrus tries to get his friends interested, but they really don’t want to know. They get angry when things go wrong and they have to depend on professional mechanics’ help to get them out of trouble. Phaedrus doesn’t, though. He doesn’t let his bike’s condition deteriorate. He spends evenings oiling the parts and twiddling with spark plugs and brakes and stuff, adjusting the engine so it works well and doesn’t let him down.
But something else is happening in the story. He is revisiting his past—the college where he worked as a teacher and had some sort of breakdown. But somehow this means that he is in danger of breaking down again. He remembers how his thoughts took him to a point of no return, and he is getting dangerously close to the truth that drove him over the edge of sanity.
It seems to be about philosophy, too, about art against science, and how they could work together. But most artsy people can’t change a fuse, and most science people can’t appreciate poetry—that’s a simplification, but Mom says it’s more or less right.
I think I am a practical, science-y person. I like to know how things work. I like taking things apart and putting them together again—like radios and clocks and locks. But should I try to be an art person, too? I can see how lovely things are: I appreciate sunsets and rainbows and things like that. I particularly like finding different ways to describe colors.
But I also need to know why the colors are there—why a bird has bright tail feathers or why a butterfly has an eye painted on its wing. I don’t simply accept the world and say WOW! I need to know why it is wow-ish and wow-some. That’s just the way I am. Anyway, I do like drawing and writing poems, so I guess I am slightly artsy. Once—it seems like years ago—Mrs. Campbell asked to see some of my poems.
I don’t know how any of that is going to help me in this situation. I’m fit, and I can run and climb and swim quite well, so those skills might help. We’ll see.
It’s only a matter of time before they find us… isn’t it? I can’t bring myself to believe Mrs. Campbell’s theory about the explosions. The Vietcong can’t have attacked Thailand. Our forces are stronger than theirs—we’re always being told that on the news and in the newspapers. The Americans and their allies are going to win the war.
Maybe there were lightning strikes on the base and it’s taking a long time to sort things out. Everything is so laid back in Thailand; everything takes time here. Mom says it’s part of the country’s charm, but Dad gets annoyed when things don’t work and we have to wait forever to get them fixed. That’s where I come in. I often fix things at the house—like the plumbing. There was a blockage somewhere and they couldn’t get a plumber to come. It smelled so bad! A land crab had got stuck in the drain outlet for the bath and died. I found and removed it and saved them hundreds of baht. Even Dad was impressed.
Lots of people are like Dad and get fed up with the way the Thais take their time over everything. That’s why so many military families live on the base at Utapao—it’s like a little piece of America. I’m glad we don’t. I like being part of Thai life. For example, one of the charcoal burner’s daughters at Amnuythip is a really good dancer. We’ve watched her perform in the Lakhon dance-drama at the local wat. Her hands are like charmed snakes, writhing and twisting. She’s very supple. We’d miss out on that kind of thing if we lived on the base. And if we lived at the base I wouldn’t have met Lan Kua. Thinking about him or any of his family being hurt or killed by the Vietcong makes me feel ill.
Life should be sanuk—fun—the Thais say. People smile a lot. I have a sudden horrific image in my head of Lek’s children in flames, screaming and running naked, unable to escape the fire that consumes them.
I wonder if the Americans are making things worse for the Thais? Involving them in the war? Encouraging their daughters to be prostitutes—after all, they can earn far more working as bar girls than they could helping their mamas grow rice.
I see the point of the Peace Movement, I certainly do…. But as a USAF employee’s child, I have to toe the line. My fights with Dad are almost always about the war. He shouts at me. I don’t listen. I shout at him. He doesn’t listen. Mom says we are too much alike. I think we are opposites. And if a man and his daughter can’t keep the peace, why should the North and South Vietnamese? He took my CND badge and threw it in the garbage. I was singing along to Dylan….
Yes, and how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
I told him that if every soldier refused to fight there’d be no war. But Dad said there are some things we have to fight for, like freedom of speech. But why do we have to fight in a country far from home? So what if part of that country wants the other part to be communists? Dad said it isn’t as simple as that. And he got really mad and went out and slammed the door.
My mind is alive with ideas and questions. I open the journal and my pencil hovers above the paper. What can I write?
DAY 12?
Dear Mom and Dad,
If I don’t survive and you eventually find this journal, please know I love you both and I’m sorry if I’ve been a trouble to you. I’m sorry, Dad, that I always argue with you. I’m sorry. I wish I could be home with you. I wish you weren’t in the war, Daddy. I pray you are both safe. I love you both. x x x
Your loving daughter, Bonnie.
Please tell Grandma and Grandpa I love them, too.
It’s not much, but it says what I think is most important for them to know.
fourteen
DAY 12—LATER
It’s been raining for hours. The usual tropical downpour, except that it usually stops after half an hour or so.
All we do is try to keep dry, and not go hungry. We’re not successful at either.
I’ve decided to attempt to fix the outboard motor.
The first thing we do is dig a small freshwater pool downstream of where we gather our drinking water. It’s vital that we don’t contaminate our lifesaving water source.
That done, with Hope’s formidable strength we shift the outboard motor from the sand up to the pool. She thinks she’s fixed it by drying it out by the fire, but I’m hoping that by dunking it in freshwater we will rinse out all the corrosive salt water.
“Let’s s-s-see if there’s any f-f-fuel left first.” Hope angles a plastic water can underneath, then unscrews the fuel tank and tips up the machine. A trickle of gas slips out and into the empty water can. There’s about half a gallon.
“Good,” I tell her. “Now let’s lift it into the pool.” Exhausted from the effort, we leave it for a few hours before hoisting it out and placing it on a workbench made from three palm trunks shoved close together. That was another of Hope’s ideas.
“What would we do without you, Hope?” says Jas breathlessly.
“N-n-now what?” Hope looks at me.
“Now I take the motor apart and clean the components and put them together again.”
“What g-g-good will that d-do?”
“What do you mean?”
Jas sits on the sand looking exhausted.
“When I strip it down I’ll discover what’s wrong and put it right.”
Somewhere a gibbon laughs derisively, and his entire family joins in.
> My Swiss Army knife has thirteen features:
Large blade
Small blade
Can opener
Small screwdriver
Bottle opener
Large screwdriver
Wire stripper
Reamer/punch—I’ve no idea what it’s for.
Wood saw
Corkscrew
Tweezers
Toothpick
Key ring
I haven’t used any of the components before apart from the wood saw, can opener, toothpick, tweezers (I have a problem with my eyebrows—they nearly meet in the middle, or would if they had their own way), and large blade.
The big screwdriver is ideal for the main screws on the motor. Well, not ideal, but it’ll do. My fingers become sore very quickly.
“Hope, could you have a try?”
“Sure, let me at it.”
She has a good strong grip, and she definitely has more patience than I do. I note the parts in my journal in the order we dismantle them. I’m methodical. I write numbers on scraps of my notepaper and label each motor part, just the way Phaedrus would have done.
“This is a lot of effort—for what?” Jas asks.
“Jas, don’t be dense. For our survival. For our escape, for goodness’ sake.”
“Yes, but we’ll never build anything strong enough to take the weight of the motor.”
“If you don’t want to help, fine. Leave me to do it alone.” They watch me without comment as I struggle to undo one small screw. I have ruined the thread of it now; the notch is ragged and too big for the little screwdriver.
Hope suggests a nail file. May has one.
“Go and ask her for it, then.”
“N-n-no, I c-c-can’t, you go.”
“You go,” I insist. My voice is savage.
“I’ll go,” says Jas. She gives me a look. She does this, Jas. She never says anything, but you know when she disapproves of something you’ve said or done. Hope and I sit and look at the waves rolling in, the huge surf breaking on the reef, saying nothing. I’m so tired and hungry. I feel like crying.
“Madam isn’t happy,” Jas says as she hands me the metal file.
“Is she ever?”
It snaps as soon as I try to twist it in the groove of the screw.
“It’s useless. Shit, shit, shit!” I lose it completely, kicking the motor and throwing the nail file into the sand. I think I might have broken my stupid toe!
DAY 13
We made a decision in the night—Jas, Hope, and I. At first light Jas and I are going inland. We think that if we get to the highest peak in the west and can make a fire there, build a bonfire, the smoke will be seen from farther away. We’ll get rescued.
My toe still hurts, but it’s not broken, thank goodness. I’m determined to make this trip.
I feel so much better now that we’ve decided to take matters into our own hands. Hope will stay behind and keep watch over Carly and Jody. I don’t trust the others to look after themselves, let alone the juniors. So I am happy when she offers to stay. It makes sense, as she can’t see to climb very well. Also I think she is becoming fond of the juniors and enjoys the way they look up to her.
I wake Jody.
“We’re going to get help for us all,” I tell her. “Be good, now. Stay in the shade and drink lots of water. There’s plenty of coconut milk and nut, already cut up. Eat it.”
She looks at me sleepily.
“Is Jas going? Don’t go, don’t leave me.” She begins to whimper.
I hug her. “We won’t be long. Hope will look after you.” We leave at dawn, a cloudy cool dawn with storm clouds piling up, all angry orange-brown and purple. The sea is roiling from the incessant wind, even in the lagoon. On the reef, waves crash and tumble in a wide white frill. I would hate to be in a boat on that.
Maybe a helicopter will come for us, if they can spare a helicopter. Maybe they can’t spare military personnel to come looking for a group of overdue girl cadets.
It’s good to walk in the cool of the morning. We take my bag containing salt, coconut, Hope’s broken glasses, and a towel, as well as my journal and pencil, book and flashlight. The rolled-up sleeping bags are slung over our shoulders and the water bottles shared between us.
For kindling we have gathered some of the hairy stuff that grows at the top of the coconut palm. There are plenty of fallen palms. We’ll find twigs and fire material when we get there. We have my Swiss Army knife, and we each have spears.
Once we’re in the jungle it’s dark and damply sticky, and we keep tripping over tree roots. My toe still hurts but I am not admitting it. We strip off our sweatshirt sleeves and wrap the material over and around our exposed ankles.
We pass through a plantation of thick bamboos, clanking and clinking loudly in the wind.
“They’re like enormous wind chimes,” says Jas. Then we reach the evergreen forest, strewn with trees felled in the storm.
“Look, gibbon!” Jas points to the little face watching from a high branch. He leaps away, whooping and screeching. Branches bend and swoosh and wave. Other gibbons take up the call and we hear them screaming at one another. It must be the gibbons we’ve been hearing in the night. They’re renowned for their songs. Sometimes the loudest noise in the forest is the song of gibbons. Families usually sing together, Jas tells me, but then one will sing a solo and the others will listen. Or we’ll hear a duet—love songs, maybe. We stand and watch for a little while.
“They are amazingly agile even though they have no tails. And their arms are twice the length of their bodies,” Jas tells me.
We follow a narrow trail.
“Wild boar?” suggests Jas.
“I suppose so. It must be quite large.” I’d rather not think about it, remembering Dad’s experience. “Let’s hope we don’t meet one coming our way.”
The path is about two feet wide and although we have to bend and stoop to get under branches, it isn’t too difficult. Yet. Where we try to get off the track we find the forest impenetrable. I have unraveled part of the towel and made ribbons to tie on bushes every so often so we can find our way back. Like Hansel and Gretel and the crumbs.
Resting for a moment on a rock, I am suddenly covered in red ants.
“Help! I’m being bitten to death.”
Jas helps me brush them off. “Better the red ones than the black,” she says. “They really hurt.”
I get out the map I made on our first trip into the interior.
“Look, Jas, the highest point in the western mountain is about five miles away. We should do that in a day easily.”
“Five miles!”
We have a swig of water. Strange bird calls, high branches creaking in the wind, insects squeaking and tapping and scratching, monkeys hoo-hooing and coughing. It’s never quiet in the forest. In the distance the sea rolls past the island, a sea that breathes and is totally alien: It doesn’t care about anything, but exists, as we do.
“What’s that?” A scratching and swishing of branches behind us—a wild boar? My heart is in my mouth.
Then comes a sharp yelp.
“What are you doing? Jody! I told you to stay in camp.” She gets up from where she has tripped and emerges from the bushes, her thin legs scratched and bleeding, her T-shirt with its orange smiley face covered in mud.
She goes to Jas and hugs her.
“Mikey said we had to come with you.”
“Mikey is a damned nuisance,” I say, and she starts crying.
“Oh, come on, now. We’ll put up with Mikey and you,” Jas says gently and offers her a drink of water.
I’m outraged. “Be serious, Jas. We can’t take her with us. It might be dangerous.”
“She’s here now. We can’t send her back.”
Jody drinks greedily. “I’ve brought Teddy,” she says. “I couldn’t leave him behind.”
That’s all we need: a little kid, a teddy bear, and a bossy invisible friend.
Suddenly, out of
nowhere a king cobra appears, about ten feet long, its head raised to the height of Jody’s face, not six feet away from her. We freeze. Silently, the huge creature, its hood spread in a death threat, strikes. A smaller brown-black snake, which we hadn’t noticed on the leafy track before us, is paralyzed almost immediately and we watch, fascinated, as the huge snake slowly swallows it before slithering away and disappearing into the thick undergrowth.
“Did that really happen, or did I imagine it?” I am shaking.
“Mikey doesn’t like snakes,” Jody whispers, clinging to her teddy.
“I don’t blame him.” Jas hugs her and then goes into fascinating-fact mode. “They have neurotoxins in their venom; that’s what paralyzes the prey. A king cobra delivers more venom per bite than any other kind of cobra—enough to kill twenty people.”
“Yeah, thanks for the chemistry lesson, Jas. I feel much better now.” I’m still annoyed that we have Jody slowing us down. “Come on. We need to keep going.”
“Did you notice its eyes?” Jas asks.
“What?”
“Cobras have round pupils, not vertical.”
I set off, refusing to be drawn into a discussion about snake eyes.
We hack our way through the difficult bits, where whatever it was that made the path has tunneled under rather than through the bush.
“We can’t crawl across the island, for goodness’ sake,” I complain.
Jas gives Jody a piggyback ride where the path widens and clears, but then she has to manage on her own as we climb gradually. The limestone rocks are rounded, and it’s fairly easy to clamber over them. When Jody can’t make it I climb first and Jas pushes her up to me.
