This one's a short version of a longer piece already on the Homeward Bound site here. The first night in the village I set up my hammock between a longan and a jackfruit tree in the garden of the ranger station. Why not? No lights and no music; the trees are dark and I dream. I dream that a colleague from the saola conservation world hands me a wooden box. It’s about 20cm square, with a removable lid; not fancy but neatly made. I’m told that what’s inside might just possibly be a new species, or something as remarkable as that. The chance is small but it’s there. When I open it, I find I have been given a slice from the snout of a young wild pig. It’s a typical piece of Vietnamese butchery, made by two strokes of the cleaver, transverse to internal structure. The skin, the bone, the lining of the buccal cavity form rings, but the hair has not been burnt off the outside. In fact the little brown eye is open (it only has one eye because the slice was diagonal) and it still looks alive. And then, with no throat, it starts squealing, constant and pitiful: “mẹ, mẹ, mẹ,” which is ‘mother’ in Vietnamese.
I’m not sure why I am enjoying this so much. Your observations bring me so much frustration and tension because I’m living in a place far from my cultural upbringing and I’ve gone through so many of these things but I’m not sure I’ve seen it written down so well.
I’m not sure why I am enjoying this so much. Your observations bring me so much frustration and tension because I’m living in a place far from my cultural upbringing and I’ve gone through so many of these things but I’m not sure I’ve seen it written down so well.