My parents had been missionaries, so I was used to adapting to different countries and cultures. Visitors to our home in Chattanooga, Tennessee, found themselves enveloped in a multi-cultural atmosphere, surrounded by engraved brass and silver plates, silk rugs, and ebony carvings, most of them farewell gifts my parents had received. This was reinforced by exotic background music, as well as foods and drinks my mother had learned to make, everything from Korean Gim Bap to Chinese Dim Sum, Middle Eastern homous, baklava, falafel, many Indian curries, and refreshing yoghurt and tamarind drinks. Foods commonly known now were virtually unknown in the US then, especially in Chattanooga. My parents would drive miles to New York to secure some ingredients that were not available in Tennessee. Often friends abroad would send care packages containing a special kind of seaweed, dried mushrooms or spices. My mother would treasure these and use them sparingly on special occasions.
It was natural for me then to be drawn to Vietnamese cuisine when I was stationed in the 12th Evacuation Hospital in Cu Chi, between Saigon and the Cambodian border. We worked 12- hour shifts, no days off. If I was off duty during the day, I would go to dilapidated restaurants (if one can call them that) or buy food from street vendors. I never asked what they were selling, and they couldn’t tell me. I knew it could be anything from beetles to rats, but I also knew it would be prepared in the same way beef or chicken would have been had food been more plentiful. Part of me also wanted to feel their pain and support their efforts to survive.
It was on one of these excursions that I met Ai An, gentle peace. She was selling something that smelled delicious, and I was surprised when she spoke to me in relatively fluent English. “I work in hotel before,” she said. “Answer telephone. Now no work.” When she learned I worked at the hospital, she begged, “You come village, help my baby. Please. Five years old girl. Cut leg. Grandmother medicine no help. She too hot. Maybe die. Please,” she begged. I said I wasn’t a doctor and was only allowed to use medical supplies when on duty. But I had once been an unwed teenage mother (much to my missionary parents’ shame) and had lost a baby girl born with a heart defect. If that had been punishment for my sins, what were these people’s sins? I saw an infant in a white and pink embroidered sweater lying in a white satin casket, her tiny hand arranged to clasp three pink sweetheart roses. I couldn’t refuse a mother in need. I agreed to go to her village that night.
Travelling at night and without permission was a huge risk, but regardless of my sins, I had also been brought up to help people in need. I certainly wasn’t a hero. I had signed up to go to Europe, or that’s what the recruiter told me, before the order came that sent me and several other girls to Viet Nam. Perhaps I was meant to do more penance for my sins, and if so, then I figured I might as well go all out. At midnight, I sneaked out of bed, took my medical kit and went to meet Ai An. She was waiting by the petroleum dump, an anxious look on her face. Instantly, she took charge. “I first. You behind. Ten steps. No walk together. They catch one, other run.” There’s a curfew, I thought. If we’re caught by our people, we are suspects. If caught by the enemy, it’s over.
First we passed the artillery battery then some open rice fields. Finally we came to the shelter of a forested area. We would be less visible. As we entered the jungle, the darkness thickened and the smells changed, became a little cleaner, more earthy, loam, rotten leaves. Better than petroleum. We had to stick to a narrow raised path with deep ditches on both sides; rubber plants, vines and mammoth trees towering overhead turned the path into a tunnel with scratchy walls brushing against my bare arms. Mosquitoes buzzed around us. At times the smell of decomposing foliage rising in damp heat seemed mixed with that of decomposing flesh, whether human or animal was hard to tell. The sounds of the odd eerie bird call and night animals moving about in the trees above, looking for food or a nesting place, blended with the occasional sound of twigs snapping above and stones rolling down the side of the ditches below. Ai An was sure footed. Used to this. I was clumsy. On foreign terrain. Easily distracted by the feel and sounds of the jungle.
There was a shriek. I stopped. Without turning, she sensed it. “Owl,” she said and kept moving.
“Traps, catch animals, food,” she had told me before we entered the jungle. “Careful. Walk path.” If only I could see the path, I thought.
Two hours passed. I hadn’t asked her how far it was to her village. In the dark, I couldn’t tell what direction she was taking. Had we crossed into Cambodia? I’ll never get back in time to report for duty at 6:00 AM.
It was hot, humid. Clammy. My shirt sticky. Sweat drenched. Was it the speed required to keep up with Ai An, the heat, my anxiety?
Soon it started pouring. As usual. I was soaked. At least the reason was clear. A moonlit night would have made the journey simpler. It would also have made us more visible.
I stepped on something soft, the size of a child’s arm or a snake. Either was possible. I didn’t want to find out. Suddenly thankful for the dark.
A shot. No child or animal makes a sound like that. Too loud. Too close. I can’t see her. Can’t call out. How do I know she’s not leading me to the enemy? I had been warned not to trust anyone. Here I was following a stranger in a jungle. At night.
I crouched down. Waited. Silence. Stood up again. Slipped on something slimy. A land shark with iron teeth bit my right foot. I curbed the instinct to scream. Cursed, despite my upbringing. Prayed.
I sank deeper into the mud. “That’s what sin is like”, I could hear my missionary father say. It grabs you and pulls you under. “No, that’s love, I thought.” Branches scratched my face as I sank. I grabbed one. Pulled myself up and bent over it to keep from sinking deeper. Grabbed another one and used it to lock myself in place and resigned myself to waiting for the first rays of light to slice through the jungle.
She must know I’m not following. Will she come back? She knows how these traps work. She can release me. Even in the dark. Maybe she set the trap. Will they eat me? Do they hate us that much? Did she run for help? Can I turn the other cheek? What will happen to the sick girl? Is there a sick girl? Did Ai An think I was shot and fled for her life? Was she shot?
I never saw Ai An again. Was she the enemy? Was she killed by the enemy? There are no simple answers. No gentle peace.
It was natural for me then to be drawn to Vietnamese cuisine when I was stationed in the 12th Evacuation Hospital in Cu Chi, between Saigon and the Cambodian border. We worked 12- hour shifts, no days off. If I was off duty during the day, I would go to dilapidated restaurants (if one can call them that) or buy food from street vendors. I never asked what they were selling, and they couldn’t tell me. I knew it could be anything from beetles to rats, but I also knew it would be prepared in the same way beef or chicken would have been had food been more plentiful. Part of me also wanted to feel their pain and support their efforts to survive.
It was on one of these excursions that I met Ai An, gentle peace. She was selling something that smelled delicious, and I was surprised when she spoke to me in relatively fluent English. “I work in hotel before,” she said. “Answer telephone. Now no work.” When she learned I worked at the hospital, she begged, “You come village, help my baby. Please. Five years old girl. Cut leg. Grandmother medicine no help. She too hot. Maybe die. Please,” she begged. I said I wasn’t a doctor and was only allowed to use medical supplies when on duty. But I had once been an unwed teenage mother (much to my missionary parents’ shame) and had lost a baby girl born with a heart defect. If that had been punishment for my sins, what were these people’s sins? I saw an infant in a white and pink embroidered sweater lying in a white satin casket, her tiny hand arranged to clasp three pink sweetheart roses. I couldn’t refuse a mother in need. I agreed to go to her village that night.
Travelling at night and without permission was a huge risk, but regardless of my sins, I had also been brought up to help people in need. I certainly wasn’t a hero. I had signed up to go to Europe, or that’s what the recruiter told me, before the order came that sent me and several other girls to Viet Nam. Perhaps I was meant to do more penance for my sins, and if so, then I figured I might as well go all out. At midnight, I sneaked out of bed, took my medical kit and went to meet Ai An. She was waiting by the petroleum dump, an anxious look on her face. Instantly, she took charge. “I first. You behind. Ten steps. No walk together. They catch one, other run.” There’s a curfew, I thought. If we’re caught by our people, we are suspects. If caught by the enemy, it’s over.
First we passed the artillery battery then some open rice fields. Finally we came to the shelter of a forested area. We would be less visible. As we entered the jungle, the darkness thickened and the smells changed, became a little cleaner, more earthy, loam, rotten leaves. Better than petroleum. We had to stick to a narrow raised path with deep ditches on both sides; rubber plants, vines and mammoth trees towering overhead turned the path into a tunnel with scratchy walls brushing against my bare arms. Mosquitoes buzzed around us. At times the smell of decomposing foliage rising in damp heat seemed mixed with that of decomposing flesh, whether human or animal was hard to tell. The sounds of the odd eerie bird call and night animals moving about in the trees above, looking for food or a nesting place, blended with the occasional sound of twigs snapping above and stones rolling down the side of the ditches below. Ai An was sure footed. Used to this. I was clumsy. On foreign terrain. Easily distracted by the feel and sounds of the jungle.
There was a shriek. I stopped. Without turning, she sensed it. “Owl,” she said and kept moving.
“Traps, catch animals, food,” she had told me before we entered the jungle. “Careful. Walk path.” If only I could see the path, I thought.
Two hours passed. I hadn’t asked her how far it was to her village. In the dark, I couldn’t tell what direction she was taking. Had we crossed into Cambodia? I’ll never get back in time to report for duty at 6:00 AM.
It was hot, humid. Clammy. My shirt sticky. Sweat drenched. Was it the speed required to keep up with Ai An, the heat, my anxiety?
Soon it started pouring. As usual. I was soaked. At least the reason was clear. A moonlit night would have made the journey simpler. It would also have made us more visible.
I stepped on something soft, the size of a child’s arm or a snake. Either was possible. I didn’t want to find out. Suddenly thankful for the dark.
A shot. No child or animal makes a sound like that. Too loud. Too close. I can’t see her. Can’t call out. How do I know she’s not leading me to the enemy? I had been warned not to trust anyone. Here I was following a stranger in a jungle. At night.
I crouched down. Waited. Silence. Stood up again. Slipped on something slimy. A land shark with iron teeth bit my right foot. I curbed the instinct to scream. Cursed, despite my upbringing. Prayed.
I sank deeper into the mud. “That’s what sin is like”, I could hear my missionary father say. It grabs you and pulls you under. “No, that’s love, I thought.” Branches scratched my face as I sank. I grabbed one. Pulled myself up and bent over it to keep from sinking deeper. Grabbed another one and used it to lock myself in place and resigned myself to waiting for the first rays of light to slice through the jungle.
She must know I’m not following. Will she come back? She knows how these traps work. She can release me. Even in the dark. Maybe she set the trap. Will they eat me? Do they hate us that much? Did she run for help? Can I turn the other cheek? What will happen to the sick girl? Is there a sick girl? Did Ai An think I was shot and fled for her life? Was she shot?
I never saw Ai An again. Was she the enemy? Was she killed by the enemy? There are no simple answers. No gentle peace.