DAY 12—I THINK
I have given up all hope of anyone coming for us. They have no idea where we are, and they probably think we died the first night. But they would surely be looking for our bodies? If they are still alive.
I wish I had made notches in a palm trunk every morning, to help keep count of the days. I feel a real need for order in my life. Civilization seems to have broken down for us very quickly. No rituals like cereal for breakfast, no school, no homework, no lemonade time. No tea and biscuits. No cleaning of teeth or soap and showers. No clean clothes. We are simply existing—surviving. We are like a drifting, rudderless boat.
Writing in my journal and reading Mom’s book are the only ways I know to make myself feel normal. For a short time I can forget what’s happening to us. The book is in a bad state—torn and battered, like the journal, with some pages stuck together and the cover bent and swollen. Mom doesn’t even break the spines of her books—it’s a point of pride with her. I grab the book and my journal, find a sheltered place behind a rock, try not to scratch my legs, and begin to read.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is a very unusual book. It’s not a novel. It’s the story of a journey a man and his young son make across America. The narrator, Phaedrus, is good at maintaining his motorbike, but his friends on another bike are not interested in anything technical. They want to float through life without knowing how things work. Phaedrus tries to get his friends interested, but they really don’t want to know. They get angry when things go wrong and they have to depend on professional mechanics’ help to get them out of trouble. Phaedrus doesn’t, though. He doesn’t let his bike’s condition deteriorate. He spends evenings oiling the parts and twiddling with spark plugs and brakes and stuff, adjusting the engine so it works well and doesn’t let him down.
But something else is happening in the story. He is revisiting his past—the college where he worked as a teacher and had some sort of breakdown. But somehow this means that he is in danger of breaking down again. He remembers how his thoughts took him to a point of no return, and he is getting dangerously close to the truth that drove him over the edge of sanity.
It seems to be about philosophy, too, about art against science, and how they could work together. But most artsy people can’t change a fuse, and most science people can’t appreciate poetry—that’s a simplification, but Mom says it’s more or less right.
I think I am a practical, science-y person. I like to know how things work. I like taking things apart and putting them together again—like radios and clocks and locks. But should I try to be an art person, too? I can see how lovely things are: I appreciate sunsets and rainbows and things like that. I particularly like finding different ways to describe colors.
But I also need to know why the colors are there—why a bird has bright tail feathers or why a butterfly has an eye painted on its wing. I don’t simply accept the world and say WOW! I need to know why it is wow-ish and wow-some. That’s just the way I am. Anyway, I do like drawing and writing poems, so I guess I am slightly artsy. Once—it seems like years ago—Mrs. Campbell asked to see some of my poems.
I don’t know how any of that is going to help me in this situation. I’m fit, and I can run and climb and swim quite well, so those skills might help. We’ll see.
It’s only a matter of time before they find us… isn’t it? I can’t bring myself to believe Mrs. Campbell’s theory about the explosions. The Vietcong can’t have attacked Thailand. Our forces are stronger than theirs—we’re always being told that on the news and in the newspapers. The Americans and their allies are going to win the war.
Maybe there were lightning strikes on the base and it’s taking a long time to sort things out. Everything is so laid back in Thailand; everything takes time here. Mom says it’s part of the country’s charm, but Dad gets annoyed when things don’t work and we have to wait forever to get them fixed. That’s where I come in. I often fix things at the house—like the plumbing. There was a blockage somewhere and they couldn’t get a plumber to come. It smelled so bad! A land crab had got stuck in the drain outlet for the bath and died. I found and removed it and saved them hundreds of baht. Even Dad was impressed.
Lots of people are like Dad and get fed up with the way the Thais take their time over everything. That’s why so many military families live on the base at Utapao—it’s like a little piece of America. I’m glad we don’t. I like being part of Thai life. For example, one of the charcoal burner’s daughters at Amnuythip is a really good dancer. We’ve watched her perform in the Lakhon dance-drama at the local wat. Her hands are like charmed snakes, writhing and twisting. She’s very supple. We’d miss out on that kind of thing if we lived on the base. And if we lived at the base I wouldn’t have met Lan Kua. Thinking about him or any of his family being hurt or killed by the Vietcong makes me feel ill.
Life should be sanuk—fun—the Thais say. People smile a lot. I have a sudden horrific image in my head of Lek’s children in flames, screaming and running naked, unable to escape the fire that consumes them.
I wonder if the Americans are making things worse for the Thais? Involving them in the war? Encouraging their daughters to be prostitutes—after all, they can earn far more working as bar girls than they could helping their mamas grow rice.
I see the point of the Peace Movement, I certainly do…. But as a USAF employee’s child, I have to toe the line. My fights with Dad are almost always about the war. He shouts at me. I don’t listen. I shout at him. He doesn’t listen. Mom says we are too much alike. I think we are opposites. And if a man and his daughter can’t keep the peace, why should the North and South Vietnamese? He took my CND badge and threw it in the garbage. I was singing along to Dylan….
Yes, and how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
I told him that if every soldier refused to fight there’d be no war. But Dad said there are some things we have to fight for, like freedom of speech. But why do we have to fight in a country far from home? So what if part of that country wants the other part to be communists? Dad said it isn’t as simple as that. And he got really mad and went out and slammed the door.
My mind is alive with ideas and questions. I open the journal and my pencil hovers above the paper. What can I write?
DAY 12?
Dear Mom and Dad,
If I don’t survive and you eventually find this journal, please know I love you both and I’m sorry if I’ve been a trouble to you. I’m sorry, Dad, that I always argue with you. I’m sorry. I wish I could be home with you. I wish you weren’t in the war, Daddy. I pray you are both safe. I love you both. x x x
Your loving daughter, Bonnie.
Please tell Grandma and Grandpa I love them, too.
It’s not much, but it says what I think is most important for them to know.