Dragon Apparent, page 17
The schoolmaster was petrified by the importance of the occasion. When the inspector told him to let us see the physical culture class in action, the only thing he could think of getting them to demonstrate for our benefit was breathing exercises. We stood there watching the small chests inflating and deflating hundreds of times, as it seemed, before realising that the schoolmaster intended the repertoire to go no further than this. Finally the inspector, whose eyes were beginning to bulge, could stand it no longer, ‘Surely that’s not all they’ve been taught?’ The schoolmaster explained that he had thought best to perfect one thing at a time and that they had tended to concentrate, until now, on rhythmical breathing. His scared voice could hardly be heard above the busy intake and expulsion of breath. The inspector went over to tell them to stop but although the children showed the whites of their eyes at the approach of the fierce, pale face, they could not be made to understand. ‘Well, for God’s sake get them to do something,’ the inspector said. ‘Don’t have them stand about like this. Get them on the move. They have got legs, haven’t they?’ Prak looked on, wiping the palms of his hands together and leering ferociously at the schoolmaster who, in desperation, managed another order, and the boys formed a line and began to run round in a circle. When asked by the inspector what they called that, the schoolmaster said, correct running. The inspector swore and we walked away, leaving the pupils and future citizens of Ču-Ty to their correct running, which they continued until we were out of sight.
In spite of the informality of Prak’s reception his conduct of the ensuing ceremony was exemplary, and it was an interesting one, preserving possibly more of its ancient character than any I had previously seen. The Resident was seated before the jars with his right foot placed on the customary copper bracelet, which itself rested on an axe head and contained some cotton and pieces of pork cut from the recently slain pig. A bowl containing the pig’s heart and its four feet was placed on the ground so that the Resident faced it while the sorcerer went through the familiar manipulations with a white cock. Prak’s wealth was, of course, displayed in an impressive battery of gongs, and when these struck up they raised a din which brought the domestic animals scurrying from far and near for their share in the libations. Prak’s alcohol, too, was stronger than I had tasted, the principal jar being hardly weaker than proof whisky. None of the members of the harem appeared, but it was soon evident that they were conducting a ceremony of their own, for a strange sound was heard from the interior apartments. It was a gramophone, playing sambas and rumbas; the favourite, Maria de Bahia, being played some half-dozen times while we were there. The interpreter who had been sitting apart, his face graven with a smile of resolute tolerance, told me that such Latin-American popular recording was the only type of Western music popular with the Moïs.
The afternoon’s entertainment was concluded when Ču-Ty’s leading elephant hunter gave a demonstration of his skill with the crossbow. Having heard much of Moï aptitude with this weapon (for example, they kill even elephants with an enormous bow loaded by two men), I was ready to be shown marvels. With suitable reverence we stood by while the great man was handed his bow, selected from a quiver a two-foot length of untipped bamboo, and slipped it, with professional unconcern, into the notch. One half expected a cruel piece of eccentricity of the William Tell order, which would have to be sternly discountenanced by the Resident, or, failing that, the splitting of a wand at thirty paces after the manner of Sherwood forest. Our marksman, however, requested from Prak, and was granted, permission to aim at a fairly stout sacrificial mast from about half this distance. The bolt was discharged with such terrific force that I did not see it in the air. However, to the great satisfaction of the onlooking villagers, it missed the mast. The second bolt went home and it took two men to pull it out again.
The Resident now asked Prak for information about the road to Stung Treng and Prak told him that there were bandits in and around Bo-Kheo itself, and that shooting had been heard in this village on the previous day. Further conversation followed in private; it probably had to do with the demand for three hundred more men for the plantations. When this subject happened to come up I asked one of the Resident’s staff what would happen to a man who ran away from the plantation and went back to his village. The answer was that the chief, who had received a premium for him, would undoubtedly send him back again. If, on the other hand, the man left his village to avoid labour or military conscription, he would be breaking customary law, since it was an offence for a man to leave his village without the chief’s sanction. One could imagine the fate of any fugitive who threw himself on Prak’s mercy.
When we left Prak escorted us part of our way in his jeep. With great difficulty he was levered into the seat next to the driver, half-tipsy and humming through his nose, ‘The Lady in Red’. Behind him sat the elephant hunter, having substituted a Sten-gun for his bow. Thus the cortège set out for Pleiku. As we passed the school the pupils were lined up at the roadside waving tricolours and chanting, ‘Bonjour Monsieur, merci Monsieur’, which, as it sounded extremely like something by Ketelby, seems to suggest that this composer’s inspiration was sometimes more truly oriental in feeling than most of us have supposed.
* * *
Back at Pleiku we discussed over a dinner of roast peacock – which was rather like tough veal – the possibility of my getting through to Stung Treng. Once again the Resident told me that he would willingly take me to Bo-Kheo, but thought that it would be extremely ill-advised to make the journey. I formed the opinion that he was secretly worried at the idea of my going so far, even as Bo-Kheo, because, as he later confessed, apart from any responsibility he felt over me, he frankly didn’t want to lose an almost irreplaceable car. This being a very reasonable and understandable attitude, I felt that I could not trespass any further on the Resident’s kindness. The original intention, as suggested by Monsieur de la Fournière at Saigon, had been to take advantage of any lifts I could get with people who in the ordinary course of their duties were travelling across country. But the people didn’t exist, and it had never been any part of my intention to inveigle administrators, hard pushed as they were, into making special journeys, involving risk to their personnel and vehicles, on my behalf. I therefore told Monsieur Préau that I had decided against attempting to make the cross-country journey to Laos and would return, as soon as an opportunity offered, to Saigon.
The Resident then suggested as an alternative that I might go further north to Kontum, the ultimate town in French occupation. Kontum is the centre of the Bahnar country, where Bahnar villages are still to be seen, not as I had seen them in wretched degeneration at Mang-Yang, but unspoilt, with their amazing communal houses with steepled roofs and their primitive communism which is carried to such lengths that a single chicken will, if necessary, be divided into fifty parts. It was an attractive idea, but I felt that this delay might endanger the visit to Laos, which might be cut off by the rains before I could get there. When opportunities of this kind turned up one always had to think, not so much about the time expended in the actual journey, as the time one might have to waste, stranded somewhere, awaiting some means of getting back. The Resident then made another suggestion. He was obliged to make a routine visit to the village of Plei-Kli, which was one hundred miles on the road to Ban Méthuot. If I wanted to take this opportunity to get back to Ban Méthuot, he would come with me, as it would provide him with a good excuse to get away for a couple of days. This suggestion I naturally fell in with, only too relieved to find that I should not have to lose a week or two in Pleiku before an opportunity arose of getting away.
* * *
Our arrival at Ban Méthuot coincided with the first day of the feast of Têt. All activity in the town was paralysed. The shops were shut and there was nobody about. For the Vietnamese this was the combination of all the religious feasts of the Western world, and, since there is no Sabbath in the East, it was the only holiday of the year. Just before midnight a ceremony had been staged in each Vietnamese house to take leave of the household spirit of the expiring lunar year, which is believed to return at this time to the Jade Emperor with a detailed report of the family’s actions, for good or for evil. The departing spirit had been provided, in addition to a lavish send-off meal, with money for the voyage, mandarins’ shoes, a winged bonnet of the kind that only spirits and mandarins are entitled to wear, and the legendary carp on which the spirit would ride to heaven. The feast would serve also to welcome the incoming spirit and to invite the ancestral spirits to participate in the ensuing New Year’s festivities. The day of our arrival would be dedicated to visits exchanged by families and friends, the Scottish custom of ‘first footing’ in reverse, as there is some competition to avoid being the first to cross a threshold at the New Year, since to do so is to carry the responsibility for any misfortunes which may fall on the family during that year.
Monsieur Doustin was, of course, not at all surprised to see me again, but did not know how he was going to get me back to Saigon. The whole country would be in the catalepsy of the Têt for a full week, and, even after that, he had no idea when a convoy would be formed. The recent attacks had thrown the merchants into a panic. Ban Méthuot, it seemed, was effectively sealed off by solemn feasting and by war. Back in my old room at the Residence I resigned myself to a prolonged appreciation of the view from my window, which looked out over a gracious garden with a peach tree in bloom. It seemed that one or two young couples had succeeded in evading the festive confinement and had made a pilgrimage to admire the classic distortions of the branches and to have themselves photographed against a background of blossom.
Perhaps twenty minutes of reflection were allowed to me before Doustin reappeared. The Emperor Bao-Dai’s plane was arriving in half an hour, and if it were to be returning to Dalat or Saigon he saw no reason why he shouldn’t ask for a lift for me. We therefore jumped into his car and shot out to the airport, arriving there just as the plane had touched down. It was a Dakota, and I was truly delighted to see that a dragon had been painted on the fuselage.
The Emperor was the first to alight, followed by a young lady in black velvet robes, whom from her carriage, which was even more regal than that of most Vietnamese girls, I stupidly presumed to be the Empress. I was later informed that she had been Miss Hanoi 1949, and had accepted the position of air-hostess on the Emperor’s plane. Several French officers and civilians followed but there were no Vietnamese in the Imperial entourage. I was presented to the Emperor who shook hands with reasonable vigour, while I recalled that up to the reign of his grandfather an even accidental physical contact with the Son of Heaven would have involved strangulation, although if the offender had committed the breach of taboo with the intention of protecting the Divine Emperor from some danger, he would have been posthumously promoted to a high rank in the mandarinate and furnished with an expensive tomb.
Although thick-set for a Vietnamese, Bao-Dai was not, as American newspapers have described him, ‘pudgy’. In contrast to the experience of some newspaper correspondents who told me that he always seemed bored when interviewed, I found him cheerful enough, possibly at the prospect of a hunting trip. He asked me if I hunted and I said that I did not. (I had been warned that it was not a good thing to be invited to join a Bao-Dai hunting party.) The reply surprised the Emperor and the wellarched Imperial eyebrows were raised slightly higher. I explained that I lived in England where game was neither plentiful, varied nor spectacular. The Emperor said that I should try elephant shooting and that there was no better place to make a start than Ban Méthuot. Doustin then asked the Emperor if he would be returning to Dalat or Saigon, as if so I would like a lift, and the Emperor told him that he was going hunting for a few days, but that I was welcome to fly back with him after that. In fact he might decide to send the plane back the next day, in which case the pilot could take me.
But not two hours later I was disturbed once again in the contemplation of my peach tree and the strolling Vietnamese beauties. Doustin came to report that two officials from Dalat who had been staying in the town had just been given permission by Bao-Dai to return by way of the Emperor’s private hunting road, and I could go with them if I liked. They were leaving immediately and would stay at the Poste du Lac in readiness to make the usual small-hours start in the morning.
We were received with the exuberant melancholy of the true existentialist. While the two hunters got out their various weapons, fussed happily with them and deluded themselves with a mirage of false hopes for the morrow, I retired to the veranda and thumbed over the latest selection to arrive from Le Club Français du Livre. Whenever I raised my eyes it was over an impeccable landscape. Eagles were shattering the ice-blue mirror of the lake and a flight of white birds, far off against the dim mountains, were no more than particles of glittering metallic dust.
Thus night descended. At dusk we heard the motor of the electric generator start up and my host smiled with cautious satisfaction. Light pulsated in the filaments of the electric bulbs for perhaps thirty seconds before failing. As on every previous evening the engine had immediately broken down. We lit the lamps and settled down to an evening’s reading. But there was a sudden alarm. Somewhere below us in the forest, we heard a car accelerating uphill, and peering through the window we could see headlights shining through the trees. The car was coming in our direction. There could be only one explanation of this extraordinary event – the approach of the Imperial hunting party. It seems that taken thus by surprise, our host felt himself ill-prepared to receive a visit from the most august personage in the land. At all events the lights were quickly extinguished – a cautionary measure which was quite successful, for we heard the car stop and depart.
Those who follow the mystery of the hunter know not the lassitudes affecting ordinary mortals. The Emperor’s hunting trips, which last all night, are said by those who have taken part in them to involve the most appalling risks and exertions. Fortunately the Vice-Mayor and the Chief Justice’s wish to make a start before dawn was frustrated by our host’s civilised horror of such excesses. As a compromise, breakfast was served to the howling of monkeys at daybreak. Ten minutes later we were out on Bao-Dai’s hunting track. On all occasions when the Emperor travels by road between Dalat and Ban Méthuot, this is the way he comes and I think that there may be some significance in the strange fact that no escort is required, although the track is far nearer the territory continuously occupied by the Viet-Minh than the main road where attacks are so frequent. This ties up perhaps with the fact that there had never been an attempt on the Viet-Minh’s part to assassinate the Emperor, and it is not an original hypothesis that the Emperor’s role in relation to the French may be similar to that now claimed for Marshal Pétain, vis-à-vis the Germans. Some secret understanding may in fact exist between the Emperor and the extreme nationalists.
The road, narrow and winding, affords many a sickening glimpse of a fern-clad precipice through the screen of lianas and bamboos. On this morning it was bitterly cold and only the heights were free from a thick, clammy mist. Suddenly, without warning, we would emerge from this, while climbing, into the brilliant sunshine, so that the mist lay spread out below us like the surface of a steaming lake, with islands of rock and vegetation. Once a silver pheasant came winging up through the surface like a gorgeous flying-fish, and flew on to settle in one of the tree-top islands. The Vice-Mayor and the Judge shot several wild-cocks that, however maimed, clung to their lives with the frightful tenacity of their kind. Five peacocks, surprised in the deserted Moï rice-field, flew vertically to the topmost branches of a tree, and there were slaughtered – perfect targets sitting silhouetted against the sky. But this was the total bag, and a mighty wild boar absorbed at close range a charge of ball-shot and departed with no sign of inconvenience.
We stopped to collect some orchids for the Vice-Mayor’s wife. They were white and orange like tiny jonquil flowers and hung in clusters on waxen stems. While the Vice-Mayor was up the tree, I took an interest in some of the insects. There were huge dragonflies that came darting up and remained stationary at a distance of a foot or so, accompanying me as if inquisitive. Their wings, which were without the usual sheen, moved with such rapidity that their bodies seemed to be unsupported in the air. Another large winged insect was equally happy in at least two of the elements. On alighting, its wings were folded away with great deliberation into a protective case, after which, streamlined, and without impeding projections, it scampered off to forage among the fallen leaves and grassroots.
At midday we stopped to cook a meal of tiny eggs. This part of the forest was intersected by many small streams and the damp earth sprouted an endless variety of ferns, from all the small recognisable ones of Europe to some as large as palms and others that looked like bracken but were the colour of the brightest beech-leaves in autumn. After the early morning, for some reason or other, one did not expect to see game, but there were plenty of large inedible birds about, and the frequent appearance of a coq de pagode which looked like jungle-fowl but had a long tail and could have only been eaten, said my friends, by a starving man, sent them several times scrambling vainly for their guns.
It was near here that we saw, in the distance, the last of the Moï villages, and decided that it would do our digestions good to walk to it. We crossed over a bridge of twisted lianas and walked perhaps half a mile along a path through rice-fields. The village was a M’nong Gar one, with the houses built on the earth itself. In the distance it was a pleasant enough sight, with its yellow, thatched roofs, the sacrificial masts with their streamers, and the children playing in the clean, open spaces. We passed the mounds of several abandoned graves and others which were still open, with miniature houses built over them containing the personal possessions of the defunct; his clothing, blankets, necklaces, jars, drum, the rice bowls that are replenished daily, and the horns of the buffalo sacrificed at the funeral.
