The River

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I sweat. I sweat and the drone continues. I look up and the river surrounds us. I check and I’m on the boat still, or is it a different one? The sun beats down.

I’m not sure, but the people are the same. They sweat as I sweat. The drone of the engine continues. It is deafening. I look up and the river is there. It rushes past, carrying its debris. I look up and the river is there, and the people use it. They clean their clothes in it, whilst I sweat into mine.

I close my eyes, open them again and the river is taking away that which it gave so freely. Life itself. A corpse of a water buffalo floats by, its back protruding from the surface of the brown water.

And still I look and sweat and see that which is still the same but so subtly different.

I remember being on a different boat but was that today, or yesterday? Was it here? Where is here? Is it Cambodia? Is it Vietnam?

It is either, it is both, it is neither. It is the Mekong.

Life continues, the people that line the sides of this water use the water, they swim. They are there and they are gone as fast as we move along the water.

They are washing themselves in it. They are cleaning their teeth in it. We float on by.

The engines steady throb continues, as does the river. The noise remains the same, as does the river.

A temple goes by on the banks of the river. A corpse, stiff in riga-mortis goes by, its hands reaching for the sky as if in prayer . If so to what? The river to give back to it the life that it took? When it no doubt gave it its life whilst it moved? It has only taken that which it gave so freely before. It is balance, it is the river.

I remember the life the river has given: The fish farms supplying a living, a living the river gives. The coconut farms that supply a living, a living the river gives. The houses that gives shelter, that float on the river, a home the river gives. The buffalo corpses that float by, a life the river took. A life that it re-took, a life it had all ready given and still gives to the buffalo farmers, a living the river gives. The paddy fields that grow from the nutrient rich soil, covered in water, soil and water the river gives, a life the river gives.

I remember a time on land by the river, a queue, a passport, a boat, the river. Always it is the river.

I remember the lady that rowed me on the river. I remember the boats that moved me on the river. How many were there? 3, 4, 5? I lose count, they are merely another part of the river.

Like the trade, the industry, the huge ships, the boats so loaded with cargo they are almost submerged. The one person coracles moved with a single paddle. The small boats paddled by one person with two paddles from the back. The small motor boats manoeuvred simply by moving the prop on the end of a long pole whilst the engine sits on the boat. The bigger boats which have both engine and tiller. Those that have two engines and a tiller. The boats that may be ships they are of such a size. The ships that may be tankers. The tourist boats. The cruise boats. The boats so large they carry smaller boats to get to and from the bank. The fishing boats, with their nets. The boats that provide life on the river. The river that provides life on the river. The nets across inlets that catch fish to provide life on the river.

I remember the markets where the people traded from boats on the river, I remember the variety on the river, but mostly I remember the river.

I remember the eddies, the swirls, the currents, the patterns, the chaos, the colour, the monotony, the differences, the river.

Always the river.

It is the Mekong. It is life. It is death. It is huge. It is small. It is powerful. It is delicate. It is changing. It is static. It is moving. It is stationary. It is the river.

It is Vietnam. It is Cambodia. It is the river.

It is not just the river…. It was once the river, and nothing more, now it is more than that. It is the river and more. It is the rubbish that floats by on the river. It is the plastic bags. It is the empty bottles. It is the waste. It is the toilet. It is the little boy taking a shit off the jetty into the river. It is the garbage dump on the side of the river. It is the runoff from the buffalo washing. It is the spit from the teeth cleaning. It is the soap bubbles from the shampooing. It is the drain. It is the river.

It is the waste of the nation. It is the river.

It is history. It is the present. It is the river. Is it the future?

If you stop that which is killing it, do you stop that which makes it what it is?

Will it always be? It seems hard to imagine it not being. It is there, and I will remember it.

I will always remember the river.

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