Memories of a River

(Baonghean) - My native people call the Lam River Nam Pao and the lands along the river are called "pao". In the region, there are only two big rivers, Nam Pao and Nam Khang (Giang River), so Nam Pao became the common name for the rivers. Back then, in the village, someone who had traveled far away told me: "Their Nam Pao is bigger and wider than the one in my hometown". Later, when I traveled more, I learned that besides Nam Pao, there are also big rivers such as Nam Mo, Nam Non, Nam Rom, Hong Ha, Cuu Long...

Since I was 5 or 6, my friends and I went to the stream to learn how to swim. Then the small stream was no longer big enough for us to splash around, so we found the river. The first time we were right in front of the river, everyone was overwhelmed. The river still flowed calmly, like a respectable old man making the children feel at ease. Just a moment later, we rushed down to the river and laughed and joked. The river water was clear, on both banks were fields with different crops each season, sometimes corn, sometimes beans, peanuts. Boats were idly dropping their nets. In those days, there were only fishermen going out on boats to fish. I don't know why, but at that time I thought their lives were really leisurely.

Giang River Waterfall (Mon Son - Con Cuong). Photo: Phung Van Mui

On hot days, we often found an excuse to go to school early to go swimming in the river. Adults were busy all day in the fields and in the forest, but they also knew about their children sneaking out to bathe in the river because the women and girls in the village went to the river to collect moss and fish and then came back to tell on them. Adults were afraid that children would drown if they went swimming in the river. Some were beaten but still refused to change. My grandmother only threatened: "There is a water dragon outside Nam Pao!". With such a threat, I would never be afraid. But then I also heard the story about the Chong Cua water basin on the Lam River next to Pu Cua mountain, where the water dragon lived. In the past, on bright moonlit nights, it transformed into a handsome young man to "woo" the village girls. It is said that the water dragon did not sit on a mat like a human but only sat on a drying tray. Later, when its identity was exposed, the water dragon ran away and never returned.

The story of the man-catching water dragon had no impact on the children as did the heartbreaking events they witnessed. Every now and then, someone in the village, even a fisherman, would drown. Some were adults who could swim well, but most were children. Every time someone drowned, the fear of the river would rise again. The river would be empty of the laughter of children. However, after a short time, the children would return to the river. The fear would pass quickly, and the attraction of the cool, clear water would remain forever.

When I grew up a little, I learned to collect moss, the girls in the village learned to follow their mother to the river to catch fish. My thoughts about the river also grew day by day. It turned out that what I knew about Nam Pao was only limited to the area where I lived, just a section of the river. But that was not a big deal. To me, the important thing was the joys and sorrows that the river brought that helped me grow up every day. I remember, in the past, every time I cycled through Eo Vuc Bong next to the river, I immediately thought of what my grandfather told me about the road workers during the French colonial period. At that time, this section of the road was a deep abyss, people had to make bridge pillars from iron baskets filled with boulders and then put up wooden planks for the vehicles to pass through. Many people lost their lives serving the French. My father taught me how to look at the river water to know "the belly of the sky". If the river water was reddish brown, it would rain at the upper reaches of the Nam Mo River, if the river water was dark brown, it would rain at the upper reaches of the Nam Non River. Those are two large tributaries that make up the Lam River, which our villagers still call Nam Pao.

Over the past ten years, my Nam Pao has changed a lot. People no longer hear the laughter of children playing on the river. Gold mining boats have made the river turbid. Then people blocked the river to build hydroelectric power plants, making deep sections of the river that used to be a nightmare for many people now easy to wade across. Sometimes, floodwaters from upstream rush in and the river suddenly becomes fierce, sweeping everything away. The flow changes, the river water is turbid, making the moss no longer green. The locals have had to give up a traditional dish from many generations, steamed moss. Once, passing through the Chong Cua abyss, I saw that it was only as deep as a small pond. I wondered how the water dragon that had transformed into a human in the village was living now?

My grandfather is over 90 years old, and every month or two he still cycles over ten kilometers to the district market to get groceries to sell. He said he often looks down at the river and sighs. He said the river has aged like him. It may be old, but the river is still very strong. People don't know how to revive, but rivers can. Just yesterday afternoon, I walked through Eo Vuc Bong in the rain, looking down at the river and saw the water from the source still rushing in. Suddenly I remembered my grandfather's words. The river is indeed still very strong. But it is only strong in its rage, in its anger, in the face of human indifference!

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