by CW Ullman
The door to the girls’ compartment opened and the Vietnamese translator ordered the girls to follow him. My Ling turned to the girls and whispered, “Remember, no questions.” Binh’s daughters nodded while Ha’s daughter remained expressionless.
It was the first time in weeks that the girls had been on deck. The ship had set anchor in a bay and the girls were lead to a motorized rubber boat and driven to land. The leader ran the rubber raft aground in an isolated area where the foliage was separated from the ocean by fifty yards of sandy beach. They left the rubber boat and walked into the jungle until they came upon a road. Parked alongside the road was a small three-wheeled paneled van. The leader told them to wait while he walked to the van and talked with a man.
After a short while, the leader called the girls over and ordered them into the back of the van. My Ling was told to sit up front with the man. The man gave money to the captain who disappeared back into the foliage. My Ling would not see him again for ten years. The driver drove onto the road, turned, and spoke to My Ling in Khmer. My Ling had learned to say in Khmer that she only spoke Vietnamese. The driver asked in Vietnamese her name.
“My Ling.”
“Are you eleven?” the driver asked and My Ling nodded her head.
“Vietnam is very crazy right now. You can’t go back to your family until it calms down. The captain told me the girls in the back do not have family?” he asked. My Ling again nodded.
“The girls do not know their mothers are dead. I want to tell them later. It is very important for them to hear it from me. I told them their mothers would join us later,” she explained. “Where are we going?”
“I own a farm up north near the Dangrek Mountains. Do you know where that is?” he asked.
“Yes, in geography we learned the mountains are near the Tonle San River. It is not far from the boarders of Vietnam and Laos,” My Ling answered proudly. She was happy to show off her school knowledge. She thought this man seemed nice; nicer than the ship’s leader anyway. She continued, “That is where the mountain people live.”
The driver jerked swerving the vehicle. When he got the van under control, he hesitantly asked My Ling, “You’re not Degar, are you?”
“No, I’m Vietnamese. What’s Degar?” she asked.
“They are marauders, thugs, and killers. They’re almost as bad as the Khmer-,” he stopped short and looked at her, “You’re not Khmer Rouge are you?”
“No, I am Vietnamese,” My Ling said.
“Between Khmer Rouge and the Degars, it’s impossible for a man to make a living,” he grumbled.
“Who are they,” My Ling asked.
“The Degars are the mountain tribes. They fought with the Americans against the North Vietnamese. They’re pissed off at everybody. They’re pissed at the South Vietnamese for running them up into the mountains centuries ago, they’re pissed at the Americans for leaving, and they’re pissed at the North Vietnamese because – hell, everyone’s pissed at the North Vietnamese. They want to take your money away and then give you back part of it. They’re communist.
“We have a lot of problems in Cambodia right now. The Khmer Rouge are against anybody who makes money. They’re turning children against their parents, they’re killing off the educated and the wealthy, and they have an alliance with the North Vietnamese. They want to turn us into communists. And if somebody doesn’t agree with them or says they don’t like it -,” he finished with a hand gesture drawing his finger across his throat.
He continued, “They are killing a lot of people. The Americans should have come to Cambodia after they left Vietnam. The real war is here. You mark my words, before it’s over there are going to be a lot of people killed in Cambodia – a lot.”
“You said “Degar.” What about them?” My Ling asked.
“They’re bad, but not as bad as the Khmer Rouge. Before the Chinese came here centuries ago, the mountain people weren’t mountain people, they were beach people. They lived along the coast. They’re the native Vietnamese. Do you know any mountain people?” he asked.
“My aunt lives in Pleiku and when we’ve gone to visit her, I think I saw some along the road,” My Ling answered.
“What did you notice about them?” the driver inquired.
“They dressed differently… and their skin was darker?” She was not sure that was the correct response.
“And their eyes are shaped differently, rounder, and they speak a different language. Thousands of years ago they came here from the Polynesian Islands or India or Africa or the moon, take your pick. Doesn’t make any difference where they came from, after the Chinese showed up, they pushed the Degars around, took their land, and forced them into the mountains,” the driver finished.
“Why are they upset with Cambodians?” My Ling wondered.
“They’re not so pissed at us, but after the South Vietnamese army retreated from the Central Highlands, the NVA stormed in there to punish the mountain people for fighting on the side of the Americans. During the war, the mountain people inflicted a lot of damage on the North’s army. The Degar and other mountain tribes were different military units, because they were allowed to fight together as a family – as one unit. When you shot one of them you killed someone’s cousin, son, uncle, brother, father, you know a family member? The North hated fighting these guys, because once you hit one of their people, they would all jump up, and just run right at the NVA. They’re crazy.”
My Ling thought the Degar sounded brave and that the driver used the word “crazy” to describe a lot of things.
“There is a leader from the Degar roaming the mountains with a huge army. Every now and then it gets too hot in Vietnam, so he crosses the boarder into Cambodia. If he ever shows up, we’re running,” he warned.
“Colonel Cin (Black),” the driver said with a shiver. “Nobody’s ever seen him. He supposedly was one of the youngest colonels in South Vietnam’s army. He’s like twenty-five or something. They say he drinks the blood of enemy he’s killed; he’s got shrunken heads and rides a horse. A horse in these mountains, only someone who’s crazy would ride a horse in the mountains!”
“How long does it take to get to your farm?” My Ling questioned.
“It’s about four hundred and fifty miles, but we have to go through a lot of mountains and checkpoints. We want to avoid the checkpoints and road blocks,” the driver warned.
“Why?”
“Because, they are manned by kids with guns who are crazy. If they find out you’re Youn, they will probably rape, then kill you and then kill me. We have to be careful,” the driver continued. “I’m going to take back roads most of the way, which means it’s going to take us close to a week. Before the craziness broke out, the trip from the coast to the mountains used to take maybe two days.”
They were headed toward the small town of Kampot on Highway Three. As they came up over a rise in the road, they saw fifteen people walking toward them on either side of the road. Men, women and children carried all their belongings in blankets. The driver pulled over, startling the group. The driver waved, smiled broadly, got out of the van and talked to one of the men. The man pointed behind and shook his head. The children were crying and everyone looked exhausted. The driver came back to the van, took a cup and scooped out water from an urn, letting the people drink from it. My Ling saw the expressions of fear and weariness turn to gratitude. When the driver denied them more water, their faces became anxious and My Ling wished they had not stopped.
Two men started beating on the driver and knocked him to the ground, where they began to kick him. The girls in the van could hear the noise and started to cry. Before My Ling could see what was happening, a woman tried to get in the driver’s seat and push My Ling out. My Ling shoved the woman back and the women knocked My Ling to the floor boards. She tried to stomp on My Ling’s face, but My Ling jerked her head away from the woman’s foot. Then My Ling noticed the gun the driver had stashed under the dashboard.
As she reached i
nside the dashboard and grabbed the gun, the woman’s foot landed on her chest causing My Ling to accidentally fired the gun, scaring the woman out of the van. My Ling got to her feet and ran around the front of the van to see the men running. She shot a round over their heads. She used to shoot her father’s rifles and revolvers and was familiar with the gun in her hand. The men, women, and children scattered. She waved the revolver at them while she helped the driver up.
“Can you drive?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” was his dazed answer.
She put him in on the passenger side and got in on the driver side, turned on the ignition, put it in gear and drove off. Since she was nine she had been driving on her parent’s rice plantation where they owned similar vans.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“We have to get off the road,” he slurred. “The shots will bring the gangs down on us.”
“What gangs?” she asked.
“Those people escaped from Kaoh Toch, just up the road; we were going to stay there with my cousin. The Khmer Rouge are slaughtering people. They said everyone has run from the town and is hiding in the forests. The gangs are headed this way so we need to hide,” he urged..
“Why were they beating you?” My Ling asked.
“They wanted the truck. Pull over there,” he ordered, pointing to a spot fifty yards off the road near a grove of palm trees. She drove to the spot where there were many fallen palm fronds.
“Get the girls out of the back and cover the van. We’re staying here until early morning. The gangs will be drunk or passed out in the morning; that’s when we drive,” he said.
The van, a model prevalent throughout Southeast Asia, was the width of two motorcycles, and slightly longer. The pile of fronds they used to cover the van had sharp edges and thorns, so My Ling told the girls to wrap their hands with cloth. The sisters worked together while My Ling worked with Huyen.
“What is happening?” Huyen asked.
“There are bad men coming and we have to hide from them -,” My Ling was interrupted by distant gunfire.
The driver said, “That’s them coming down the road. They aren’t shooting at us…yet. Get under the van.”
He went around the van, positioning the palms at angles to create a more haphazard look. He was startled when he heard gunfire from a different direction. He crouched down and looked back to see two men who were two hundred yards away, but fifty yards off the road, headed in their direction. He pealed back a few fronds, crawled through the space under the truck and hoped the gunmen had not seen them hiding the van.
He whispered to the girls, “You cannot make a sound or they will kill us. Do you understand?”
The girls nodded and then huddled together near a rear wheel. The driver lay on his stomach and looked out through a small opening. He saw the two men seventy-five yards away moving toward the frond-covered truck when two more men joined them with a bottle from which they all took swigs. The men appeared as though they were going past the vehicle when suddenly they stopped next to it. All four sets of legs faced the van and did not move.
The youngest of Binh’s daughters, hugging My Ling so tightly she could barely draw a breath, started to shake. My Ling wanted to calm her, but realized the men would hear her. She tried to catch eyes with her to stop her shaking, but the girl kept her head buried under My Ling’s arm. A stream of urine hit the ground next to the van, followed by another. When the third man relieved himself, he caused a problem.
Wrapped around one of the fronds, and previously unnoticed by the girls, was a bamboo pit viper on which the man was urinating. In an attempt to get away from the urine, the viper slithered down the frond, onto the ground, and came toward the cowering girls. The other of Binh’s daughters tapped My Ling who saw the snake leave the branch. The girls were wide eyed as the snake came ever closer. My Ling tapped the driver with her foot, pointing at the snake, then all had their worst fears manifested.
“Who’s there?” one of the men challenged.
Everyone froze and the youngest of Binh’s girls shook harder and squeezed My Ling more tightly. The snake was closest to her and about to strike, when the driver caught the tail of it. The snake coiled back around to see what had grabbed its tail. It lunged for the driver who pinned it against the bottom of the truck. While it was pressed against the truck’s underside, the driver reached up and grabbed it behind its head. One of the men repeated louder, “Who’s there?”
The driver held the snake’s head on the ground and threw its tail through the fronds where another man saw it and alerted the rest. From under the truck, the driver stretched his arm toward the opening, and pushed the snake toward the men without them seeing what was forcing the snake’s tail to flop outside.
One of the men caught the tail and pulled the snake unknowingly from the driver’s hand. Once, they had dislodged the snake from the fronds, they hit it with the flat part of a machete, stunning it. One of the soldiers held the snake’s neck and slit open its belly to expose its beating heart. The men rapidly threw fingers in a contest to decide a winner. The apparent winner grabbed the head of the snake, and with his other hand stretched the tail out, buried his mouth in the cavity, bit the still beating heart loose, and ate it. Good luck and virility were believed to be granted to those who ate the beating heart of a bamboo pit viper. The others drank its blood and cast aside the carcass.
The inhabitants under the truck watched the men walk away. The driver dropped his head to the ground and exhaled.
“That was close. We’re going to stay here awhile, so go to sleep,” he said. Binh’s daughters wept, Huyen moaned and the entire night caught up with My Ling, sending her to sleep.
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Gunfire awakened them. Huyen wanted to run from the truck, but My Ling grabbed her. She did not know where the gunfire originated, but she knew if Huyen ran, their hideout would be exposed. The driver looked through the fronds and saw a pick-up truck passing on the road with men firing indiscriminately.
It was mid-morning. The driver had slept through the early morning hours he wanted to use as cover to leave their haven.
“We slept too long and I don’t want to go out now,” he said.
Huyen said, “I have to pee.”
“Let me look outside and see if it’s clear. Does anybody else need to pee?”
They all raised their hands. He pushed slightly out of the fronds and seeing no one, he motioned Huyen forward to relieve herself; each girl did the same.
One of Binh’s daughter whined, “I’m hungry.”
The driver looked annoyed. “We’re all hungry. Can’t you -.” He then cursed in Khmer and crawled under the fronds into the cabin of the truck and dropped down some noodles, crackers, a canteen of water, and a bowl.
“We can’t build a fire, so we’re going to mix the noodles with the water and you’re going to eat that cold,” the driver explained.
The girls looked as though they had just bitten into lemons.
“Look, if you’re hungry, you’ll eat it; if you’re not, you can wait until we go to the bakery and get what you want,” he offered.
One of Binh’s daughters asked, “How long until we get to the bakery.”
“Never. It’s a joke. Eat the noodles,” he ordered.
My Ling put noodles in the bowl and poured water over them and fed the girls by hand. As the girls ate, the driver asked them their names. Binh’s oldest daughter said she was seven and her name was Dao (Peach Blossom); her little sister Di.u (tender, mellow) was five. They all looked over at Huyen who would not speak. My Ling answered for her saying her name was Huyen and she was eight.
“My name is My Ling and I’m eleven,” My Ling said.
“I am Mr. Sovann (like gold) Pok. I am a businessman from the north. I am not going to tell my age (He was forty-five). I raise and sell animals. When we get to my farm, you will see,” he thought to himself ‘if we get there.’
“We are going to wait until early tomorrow morn
ing to leave and we will take back roads even though it will take longer,” Mr. Sovann Pok said.
Everyone was surprised when Huyen asked, “When will I see my mother?”
Mr. Sovann Pok was caught off guard when she asked the question and hemmed and hawed. My Ling quickly interjected, “It won’t be until we get to Mr. Pok’s home.
All three girls broke out crying. Di.u sobbed, “I miss my mommy. I miss my mommy.” My Ling tried to shush them.
“Shut up!” growled Mr. Pok. “Are you trying to get us killed? Then you’ll never see your mothers. There is a war going on right now in both Vietnam and Cambodia. The people who tried to steal the van, told me the Khmer Rouge wiped their city, Kampot, off the map. They take the children and either kill them or turn them into soldiers or rape them.” The girls again started crying.
“Shut up,” he ordered as he slapped them. “Your crying is going to get us killed.”
My Ling held her hand up. “Okay. You’re scaring them. We’ll be quiet.” She spoke to the girls in a whisper. “Do you know any prayers?” Binh’s daughters nodded. “Then, to yourself, I want you to say them.”
Huyen did not pray. She leaned up against one of the tires, and when My Ling tried to comfort her, Huyen pulled her shoulder away from My Ling’s hand.
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Mr. Pok woke the girls at three in the morning. They crawled out from under the car, stretched and yawned, then pulled the palm fronds off the van. The girls got in the back and My Ling and Mr. Pok got in the front. The engine sputtered to life and instead of driving down Highway Three, he turned the van down a dusty road that took them into the countryside. After driving a short distance he realized the only lights in the surrounding area were coming from fires and his van. He turned off the headlights and drove into the darkness and the smell of smoke.
