Down The Ho Chi Minh Trail

Feeling the wind rattle my rain-jacket, I pulled up my helmet visor and shut my eyes. Every so often, I needed that glorious rush of nature against my eyelids- to hide from the history that lived and breathed in Vietnam’s emerald-grey hills.
The wind-blast abruptly weakened as Chan pulled over. I snapped my eyes open to the sight of five wary pairs of eyes on me.
“The Pako people,” Chan said.“Very friendly.”
I wrenched off my helmet with a grunt, and beamed at the children. One girl in a jungle-green dress slowly pulled her trailing canary cardigan back onto her shoulder, locking me in an unwavering stare. Another boy, dressed in a red elf-hat and bulky bomber jacket, chewed on grubby fingertips while swaying from side to side. None of the children were smiling.
“Give them candy.”
I nodded at Chan’s whispered advice, and stepped forward. Only the pupils of the children's glazed eyes moved as I reached into my pocket and offered treats. The girl in the canary cardigan held out a dusty palm; one second later, the whole thing was in her mouth, wrapper and all. Alarmed, I hurriedly took the sweet back and unveiled it for her, winning me the flash of her lemon-drop grin.
Fingers as flaky cinnamon-sticks squeezed the little girl’s shoulders; I looked up into a replica of the girl’s face, just twelve years into the future.
“Sister?” I asked Chan.
“No, mother.”
I quickly swallowed my shock. Other mothers, sisters, daughters, all one head shorter than me, emerged like timid deer from straw huts with hap-hazard wooden slates. Within minutes, we were shouting at each other with grand gestures, laughing as we understood each other.
Suddenly, I heard two heated shouts behind me. The laughter stopped. Whispers erupted around me as I took in the sharp-green uniform of two Vietnamese men, standing pole-straight at the roadside. I reluctantly left the warm company of the Pako people, to confront the officers’ chilled stares.
Chan looked at me with grave eyes. “We have to leave.”
Looking behind me, I saw the villagers grip their children more tightly- a perfect stock frame.
“They have come from the border.” The guards kept barking at Chan. “They think you are missionary, trying to convert these people away from Communism.”
I pressed my lips tightly together. As Chan and I walked to the motorcycle, I turned and waved at the group with one giant arm swoop.
“Very adventure!” Chan shouted, revving his motorcycle.
I closed my eyes, trying to belong to the landscape once more.