High Tide Run [Beyond 1988—Reflections]

By Aung Naing Oo
The Irrawaddy News
www.irrawaddy.org
January 26, 2008

We left the island about 5:30 p.m., before the evening tide, quietly walking past the house we had visited that morning. I saw the woman of the house and her family watching us sympathetically. Without looking back, I felt their collective gaze, as we descended into the deep ravine of the river.

There was only a small stream of water now flowing through the deep channel—perhaps just enough for a long-tailed boat. We waded through the water, sinking in the soft mud, and struggling with the supplies in our bags. There were many birds—mostly herons and seagulls —feeding on crabs and mudfish on the muddy sediment on the other side. The sun was setting slowly on the horizon.

To this day, I do not know what the river was called, but it was one of the many tributaries that flowed into the gulf. I could clearly see its estuary opening towards the gulf a few hundred meters to our left. With the tide out, it was like dry land—a strange spectacle for newcomers like me. The riverbed was so deep that from the middle we couldn’t even see on the opposite bank the small house that was our intended destination.

As we reached the other side, I heard the faint sound of an engine from around the river bend. I assumed it was a boat and turned around, expecting to see it appear, but there was nothing— just the sound of an engine seemingly louder by the second. I ignored the engine sound and followed my friends into the house a short distance from the riverbank. We said hello to our hosts, put down our heavy bags and washed our muddy sandals and feet.

Two shots suddenly rang out. They were very close and very loud. “They are shooting at us,” someone shouted in a panic. All of us looked around wildly, stunned and terrified. “The army!” Then, two more shots were fired—louder and even closer. “Run!” someone shouted urgently.

Run we did, without looking. I ran past the trees and into the open field away from the river. I saw my friends fleeing in all directions, away from the river, as fast as they could. More shots ran out. “They have found us,” I thought furiously, mentally cursing whoever had informed the army of our whereabouts.

After five minutes or so, I realized I was running along the bank of the gulf, and I could see the tide coming in fast. I also saw that I was not alone; there were several of us running in the same direction, including the two newcomers. They were right behind me. I didn’t know in which direction the rest of our group had fled.

Soon we came to a small creek that was filling up fast with the tidewater. It was only about 70 feet wide and right at the edge of the gulf. I jumped in and without thinking, started swimming. Just then I heard my name called. I turned around and saw one of the Pegu students shouting, “I can’t swim! I can’t swim!”

I wanted to keep swimming ahead, but saw all my friends standing agitatedly on the creek’s muddy bank. I swam back but didn’t know what to do. “Longi! Longi!,” someone shouted and I realized what we had to do do. We took our sarongs off and tied them into a rope. One friend swam to the other side of creek. I also jumped in the water; the idea was to pull the guy who could not swim to the other side.

Tense and afraid, he clung to the longyi rope so hard that at one point he pulled me beneath the water. I swallowed a large gulp of salt water, mud and sand, and was still coughing it up days later. Finally, though, we were able to pull the student to the other side.

With the Pegu student safely on the bank, I took off running again along the shore, which I knew would be submerged by the tide within a few minutes. I grew increasingly agitated about my prospects for escape. I saw a small boat, carrying two men and sailing in with the tide. They looked at me, puzzled. I waved at them, hoping that they could help me. But they couldn’t stop and soon the boat had gone.

I looked around for my friends but couldn’t see any of them. I was now alone, afraid of being engulfed by the rising water. I suddenly saw a small fishing hut on stilts and ran for it as fast as I could, as the water rose ever higher.

When I reached the hut, the water already reached above my knees. I saw a thin man in his mid-40s peeling green bamboo with his curved knife to make “Hnee,” thin slices of bamboo used for tying poles. I told him I was a student and quickly explained what had happened. He had heard the shots and realized why I was standing there in the middle of the flood water.

“Get in quickly!” he shouted. He held his knife if ready to defend himself or repel an intruder, and he handed me another. We hid from view, knives in our hands. When I finally looked out there was no soldier to be seen, just the submerged island and the trees in the distance.

As night came on, the fisherman offered to go and look for my friends, instructing me to stay put. He left on his small boat. For the next two hours, I waited alone, listening to the sounds of the water splashing and the wind howling.

When the fisherman returned at about 8 p.m., he had good news. All my friends were safe, and I was taken to a house inland to rejoin them.

The story end with an anticlimax, I’m afraid. It later transpired that the shots that had so alarmed us had not been fired by soldiers but by police—and they weren’t shooting at us, but at the mud flats where the birds were feeding on crabs and mudfish.

Also:
The Catapult Threat [Beyond 1988—Reflections]