Oanh Ngo Usadi - Of Monkey Bridges and Bánh Mì Sandwiches

Of Monkey Bridges and

Bnh M Sandwiches

from Sai Gon to Texas

Oanh Ngo Usadi

O&O Press - New Jersey

C OPYRIGHT 2018 BY Oanh Ngo Usadi

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

O&O Press

www.OandOPress.com

ISBN-13 978-0-9998828-2-5

Book design by Adam Usadi

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to the Vietnamese boat people who lost and endured so much at sea and whose stories were left untold

In loving memory of my parents, mother and father in law

Authors Note

This book is based on my personal recollections, interviews with family and friends, and researched facts. While subject to the vagaries of memory, the events and characters recounted on these pages are what I believe to be true.

Prologue

E veryone needs to shut up and calm down! a mans voice thunders in the predawn on a wooden fishing boat filled with human cargo. I will not turn this boat around! Tossed wildly against the hull by heaving seas, the wet, fetid mass of us swallow our terrified cries as he shouts above us.

I will get us to where I promised! His words are amplified by the sudden quiet. In my eleven-year-old mind, I think the voice belongs to the captain, but as I find out later, he is more like a navigator. Our boat is leaderless. For a moment, everyone remains silent. Then someone yells, You dont know what youre doing! You dont know how to handle a storm in the open sea! The dispute roars back to life. One side demands that we turn around while the other insists that we keep going.

This near-mutiny takes place amid the raging waters of the South China Sea. It is the beginning of 1983, eight years after the collapse of Sai Gon, and this boat is our means of escape from Vit Nam. Packed with 155 people and designed for near-shore fishing, our escape vessel is little more than a single open deck; the only enclosure is a small pilothouse at the aft. As the storm intensifies, my escalating panic has me agreeing with those who want to turn back.

The Night Before: January 7, 1983

The six of usme, my parents, my brother two years older than I, and my eldest sister and her husbandarrive at dusk to board the boat for our escape down the Mekong River, into the sea, out of Vit Nam. Helping me to board are two men I have never seen before. I grab my mothers hand and edge forward into the throngs of people. Suddenly, someone wedges between us, severing our handhold. As more people pour into the gap, we are separated farther. Chanh, find a spot anywhere and sit down for now, my mother, using my nickname, calls over the crowd to me. I look for a space, but the tide of people continues to pile up behind me, pitching me forward until I fall and land on top of a woman. Certain that I have upset her, I push myself off her while mumbling apologies.

Dont be scared, she says, helping me up. Her unexpected kindness chips away at my faade of bravery. My throat tightens, and I nod. The woman returns my nods and shifts to make room for me to squat next to her as people pack into the space around us in a seemingly endless stream.

Before the trip, my father prepared our family for what to do once aboard. We are to hide by crouching below the sides of the boat until we reach a certain point in the sea. But getting there will require an all-night trip along the tributaries of the river. At any point we can be stopped by police patrolling the river or identified by opportunistic villagers. Some of them will demand bribes not to report us and then will alert the authorities anyway to curry favor. Others, banking on a free ride, might follow us, drawing unwanted attention until we relent and take them aboard the already jam-packed boat.

After everyone has settled in, our boat begins to make its way down the river. A few passengers remain standing on the deck, posing as fishermen getting ready for a fishing trip along the coast. They go through the motions of sorting, untangling, and mending nets. From the outside, our boat must look ordinary enoughjust another fishing vessel setting out to sea. But in the space just out of sight, the teeming horde jostles for room and air.

The last slivers of daylight filter through the web of fishing nets, masts, and beams hanging above me. Our escape plan would have been frightening enough on its own, but I know how terrifying a similar voyage was for my other two elder sisters and eldest brother two years before. After my siblings escaped Vit Nam in 1981, I heard my parents, in fragments of subdued conversation, talk about the horrors that had been visited upon that boatthe hunger and thirst, the storms and pirates. These stories haunt me even as I am unsure of the details. Now my mind rushes to fill the gaps in my knowledge with an awful vividness.

Since long before dawn, my family has been on the move from our remote rural village. Consumed by the singular goal of getting onto the boat, we have eaten little. On board, an all-consuming thirst displaces my hunger. In the distance, I hear the clanging of metal. Someone says canteens of water are making their way around. I strain to follow the sequence of sounds: the handle of the metal canteen hitting the body, a fleeting silence, then the glorious sound of someone gulping water. I hope they leave some for me I pray as the sounds make their way closer. When I think the canteen is near, I stand up, grabbing blindly into the dim light. Hey, Im not finished, someone yells. Others join in. Wait your turn! Sit down! But when I try to sit, I find that I have lost my spot. The mass of sweaty flesh has fused completely around my legs.

I search for familiar faces in the semidarkness and spy my family, a gauntlet of strangers between us. I know someone will come for me soon, but I cant wait. All I want is to be near my mother. I yank up one foot and plunge it forward, then do the same with the other. I am walking on a pile of peoplehard shinbones, a soft stomach, even the rough side of a mans stubbled face. Get off me! I hear with each step.

Nc rc, mi bit co thui (In putrid water, the rottenness of weeds is revealed) my mother, the dispenser of proverbs, often says. Earlier, when I fell on the woman, I automatically apologized, and she, in turn, offered me kindness. Since then, as the minutes stretch and the discomforts intensify, I sense my own social graces and those of others quickly peeling away. Around me, flailing hands reach up, grabbing at my thighs and legs to shove me off. Undeterred, I push forward toward my family. My sister excitedly calls out to me. She stands up and reaches over the crowd to pull me in. I am startled to find my mother looking almost lifeless, her face drained of color. She manages a weak smile and takes me in to hold between her knees.