Sunken Fish - Chapter 59
Water gave the boatmen directions in Lanna: “Go around the market.”
But they didn't know that Blackie could actually speak some English, but he always pretended not to understand it and eavesdropped on other people's conversations. "Don't draw your weapon unless absolutely necessary," his father had taught him. He thought of his father, a painful memory, because his father had no weapon when needed.
Blackie was clever and curious from a young age. He learned English from tourists who spoke the same things, did the same things, asked the same questions and made the same requests, expressed the same disappointments and complaints, took photos, haggled over prices, ate and got sick, said thank you and goodbye. They only spoke to the tour guides; no one expected a child to understand.
He grew up among tourists, unlike the Nanyi tribes living in the mountains. His family is the Pwo Nanyi tribe, and he grew up on the plains in a town seventy miles away. Life was not wealthy, but comfortable.
His father and uncle ran a transportation business, transporting tourists by boat and also repairing tour buses. The women sold shawls and shoulder bags. They found dealing with tourists much easier than dealing with the rainy season.
Before the war broke out between the Southern Yi tribes and the Lanna Kingdom government, their lives were peaceful. But the war forced them to flee into the dense jungle. Black Spot, along with his friends and cousin, arrived at Lake Bodhi. No one recognized them, so they bought identity cards from the black market belonging to the dead. From then on, they lived two lives: a public life under the names of the dead and a secluded life as living people.
The bow turned left onto a small river channel, where a group of buildings stood on the water, their roofs made of rusty, corrugated tinplate.
“We’re heading to a small village, one of more than two hundred along the Bodhi River,” Water explained. “We won’t stop there, but I want you to see what you’ll find here. These villages hidden in the waterways are easy to get lost in unless you live here your whole life, like our boatmen. The river is shallow, and hyacinths grow acres every week and then drift around like land. This is a real problem for farmers and fishermen because it cuts off their livelihoods, so they’re becoming increasingly reliant on tourism.”
As the boats approached the village, the boatmen slowed down. The two boats squeezed into the water park, where tomatoes glistened under the wooden walkways. They arrived at a mobile market, where many small boats sold food and souvenirs to tourists.
These small boats are generally ten to twelve feet long and are handmade from very light wood. The seller squats at one end, looking at their textile bundles, cheap jade necklaces, clothing buttons, and rough wooden Buddhas.
Each vendor pleaded with my friends to look in his direction. On the shore were vendors selling other, more practical items to the locals: yellow melons, long-stemmed vegetables, tomatoes, golden and red spices, earthenware jars filled with pickles and shrimp paste, and women's skirts in cheerful colors—pink, turquoise, and orange. Men squatted in their dark waistcoats, cigarettes dangling from their mouths.
Benny buys a lot of things so as not to disappoint the locals.
What are they carrying?
Mo Fei suddenly asked. He saw a dozen soldiers carrying guns walking on the shore.
Heidi immediately felt nervous, and of course, she wasn't the only one. But the locals ignored the soldiers, as if they were invisible to them, just like I was.
Water quickly reassured everyone: "Don't worry, I can guarantee that the war is over. The Kingdom's government forces and the Southern Yi tribes fought here in the past, and tourists were not allowed to enter then. Now this area has been downgraded to a normal area, which means it is very safe. The rebels have all fled to the mountains to hide, so you don't need to be afraid."
"Then why are they all carrying guns?" Mo Fei asked.
Walter chuckled softly: "Reminding people to pay taxes is what people are afraid of now."
"What is a rebel?"
Esme, on the boat next to her, asked her mother.
At that moment, I noticed that the black dot was listening intently to their conversation, its eyes fixed on the mother and daughter.
Zhu Malin explained to her daughter, "It means rebellion."
Is it good or bad?
She hesitated. She knew the cruelty of war and how innocent people would inevitably be harmed; if military discipline deteriorated, things would be even worse. But how could she say it without frightening her daughter?
Esme glanced at her mother's expression: "Oh, I see. It depends. Everything depends on the situation."