Ma Jian - Red Dust

My skin was lacerated with sunburn and insect bites, but I gritted my teeth and washed with soap and water. I had to sleep on my side that night. Instructor Chen came to me the next evening and said, ‘How’s your back?’ I had taken a horse out that morning and when it cantered into the hills, I got caught in the branches and fell to the ground. I said, ‘Better, thanks,’ so he invited me for a stroll. Two kilometres beyond the camp, he took a gun from his pocket. ‘You wanted to try your hand at shooting, didn’t you? Here, have a go.’ He pulled out a sheet of writing paper and stuck it to a branch twenty metres away. My first shot missed, but the next two went straight through the middle. The bangs echoed through the forest.

On the way back he told me he wanted to leave the army and return to his wife in Chongqing. He said she had visited him one Spring Festival, but had gone home after three days, vowing never to return to the mountains for as long as she lived. He was worried that after eight years in the army it would be difficult to find a job in the city, as employers demanded skills and qualifications now. We spent a lot of time together over the next two days, drinking tea and smoking. I told him about my friends in Chongqing, and the ballroom where I hugged a girl and danced the chachacha. He told me that in the Cultural Revolution he was political instructor to a group of city youths from Kunming. His wife was one of his students at the time. She was the prettiest girl in the group.

My cuts and bruises were beginning to heal. At noon on the fifth day, I said goodbye to Instructor Chen, folded up the map I had copied from his, and set off for the main road.

Just before dusk the long-distance bus stops again in the shade of a high mountain. There is a traffic jam ahead, apparently. We all stream off to take a look. A boulder as large as an oil barrel has fallen from a cliff and landed in the middle of the road. I push and it moves a little. I call the men crouched under the tree to come and help, but they just smirk, so I give up and walk away. Trucks loaded with produce are parked on either side. The evening sun sinks towards a distant mountain, then birds swirl in the sky and disappear. I wish I too had a nest to go to.

I remember that it was this time of day, two weeks ago, that I reached the Nu River and gazed upon its flooded expanse. The roadworkers I had passed the day before had said there was a ferry here, but it obviously did not operate during the rainy season. There was not a soul about. The nearest bridge was a fortnight’s trek upstream. My heart sank as the rain poured down my face. The misty cliff on the opposite bank blotted out half the darkening sky. After the Nu leaves its source high in the Tibetan plateau it thunders south through steep, inaccessible ravines, and is of no use to man whatsoever. When it reaches the Burmese border though it slows down and becomes the mighty Salween — Burma’s Yangzi. I waded down to the muddy bank and discovered the ferry boat tethered to a tree. It was a long flat raft consisting of eight bamboo rods, bound together with rope.

I examined the river. The water was grey with sediment. From the branches floating on the surface I could tell it was moving quite fast, but reckoned that with the aid of a pole I should be able to make it to the other side. I hacked off a stick of bamboo, tied my pack to the raft, pushed off from the tree and punted into the river. The water was calm at first, but halfway across it deepened suddenly and a fierce current swept us up. The raft started hurtling downstream, straight towards a line of boulders. I rushed to the front and just as we were about to collide managed to jam my pole against the rocks. The raft turned in a circle and careered downstream backwards. I fell over, dropped the pole and grabbed onto the raft’s rope.

The Burmese border was just thirty kilometres away. I knew that if the river swept me across the frontier I would be a rifle target for both the Chinese and Burmese armies.

A few minutes later we entered a whirlpool behind another line of rocks. Branches jutting from the boulders thrashed me as we swirled. I tore off my jacket, jumped into the river and tried to push the raft free. If I hadn’t been holding the rope the whirlpool would have pulled me to the bottom. I held my breath and kicked to the surface. My eyes were filled with water, I couldn’t see a thing. Another twirl and the raft swept free at last and continued downstream.

I saw a bend in the river ahead and knew it might be my last chance to make it to the other bank. I kicked my legs desperately trying to steer the boat to the right. As the raft slowed I grabbed hold of a branch and locked my legs around a boulder. At last my feet touched the riverbed. I pushed the raft onto the rocks, staggered to the beach, fell to the ground and retched. I lay on my back, limbs splayed, too weak even to move my face from the vomit.

It was still light when I woke. The rain had eased and the raft was still perched on the rocks. I felt as helpless as the fallen leaves drifting down the river. On both sides I was enclosed by high boulders, and behind me a sheer cliff towered to the clouds. Small clumps of weed jutted from its damp cracks. I was trapped, but I knew that somehow I would have to climb out of here before dark. I splashed my face in the river, took a swig of water and wrung out my jacket and plimsolls. Then I tied the bag to my back, stuck my knife in my belt and started up the cliff, carving footholds as I went. My legs tensed with fear. Occasionally, when I grabbed hold of a firm clump of weed, I could pause for a moment and take a deep breath.

What was going through my mind? I knew if one stone slipped underfoot, if one clump of weed came loose in my hand I would drop to a certain death. I heard the torrents crash below and felt a damp wind wipe across my face. I wondered what to shout if I was to fall. I wanted to shout an obscenity, but could not think of one strong enough. I wanted to shout the name of a women I had loved, but no name came to mind. So instead, I focused my thoughts on the cliff and talked myself up. Don’t touch that stone, it’s loose. Put your foot here. Careful, that branch might pull your bag off. Those roots are firm. Grab them — that’s right. Now, pull your right leg up. That hole should be deeper. Dig your nails in. The knife snapped suddenly and sand flew into my face. Don’t touch your eyes, your fingers are covered in mud. I cursed, and with one eye closed, stared into the face of death. Two hours of climbing and I was still only halfway up. My bones were numb with fear. At one point I was so tired I almost gave up, but something inside drove me on.

The sky was nearly black when I reached the top. I lay down and stroked the firm, flat ground. After the hours of terror and torment, a strange calm swept over me. I knew now that I wanted to live. I wanted to walk into a warm house and speak to people. I wanted to go back to my home in Beijing and make a cup of tea. I found a path and, without thinking, followed it downhill. Before long it brought me to a small village.

As I walked through the gates two militiamen shone torches on my face. They pulled me inside a bamboo house, woke the policeman and announced they had caught a Burmese spy. The policeman sat on the edge of his bed and lit a candle. He then emptied my bag onto the table and told me to step back. A few children wandered in to stare. He shooed them all away apart from a girl with a runny nose who was probably the village head’s daughter. When he realised he was still in his Y-fronts he took a uniform from under his pillow and hurriedly got dressed. My camera, cigarette pack, penknife, compass, rope and water bottle were arranged neatly on the table. I told him to check my documents first but he paid no attention. The elation I had felt at escaping death vanished at a stroke. My wet clothes stuck to me like a second skin. I was too numb to speak.