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by Kathy Fish |
We are now deep in the Cardamom Mountains of Cambodia. Every day, for three days, Ming Sen has argued with me to return to the village. His sharp voice cuts through the blue mist that sits on our shoulders the way his machete cuts through the branches and vines of the monsoon forest. Ming Sen should save his energy for other things. I have no intention of turning back. This evening he has prepared a supper of rice, onions and wild mushrooms. The long daily hikes have increased my appetite. I clean my plate as Ming Sen sits cross-legged on the ground, chewing tobacco. "Tomorrow I want you to take me to where the tigers are." Ming Sen leans over and spits. "No tigers." "I need to document as many species as I can. You agreed to help me." "Tigers like to eat eco-tourists," he says, twisting the English word into something like a curse. "Scientists, on the other hand, they find most unsavory," I reply. Ming Sen does not return my smile. His worried frown is already familiar to me. I had arrived at the village of Thmar Baing a week ago and immediately began asking around for a guide to take me through the mountains. An older villager had taken me to see his grandson. Ming Sen was tall and lithe, but strong looking. I learned that he was a fourth generation hunter and knew the mountains as intimately as his own shadow. I can feel him watching me now as I load fresh film into my camera. I am quick to capture a cluster of clouds that the sunset has turned to huge wild orchids. The moment passes, the sun goes down completely and they are only clouds again. Every day at dusk, a thousand unnamed scents are released into the valley, carried along on the soft, warm breeze. My muscles relax; I am suddenly quite weary. Ming Sen stands up and glances around at the surrounding peaks. Our first day out, I had spotted a pair of pileated gibbons high in the forest canopy. They were vocalizing, duetting. I had fumbled with my tape recorder, trying to get as close to the tree as possible without disturbing them, but Ming took my arm and held two fingers to his lips. Ming Sen believes the forest is filled with spirits. "We must behave ourselves here," he told me. "We are in their place." "I will take you to the tigers tomorrow," he says. He brushes his dark hair away from his eyes. "But you must stay close to me." We retire to our tents. I take my journal out of my pack and write six pages. During the day I dutifully record everything I see and hear, animal tracks and leavings, claw marks on trees, bird song. Every species I encounter. In my journal I record other things. I write about the moment Ming Sen and I hiked our way around the base of a slope and came upon a hundred or so blue winged butterflies, the size of birds, dancing over a field of wildflowers. I turned to him to say something and had caught him smiling. The tip of my pen hovers in little circles over the page. I press it down to the page. I decide in the end not to write about Ming Sen?s lips curved in a gentle smile. I turn down the kerosene lamp and lie naked on my cot. Though I am excited at the prospect of seeing a tiger tomorrow sleep comes almost immediately. Hours later, an unfamiliar noise invades my subconscious and I wake up. I lie very still, my eyes wide to the darkness, and wait. I hear it again. An unmistakable low roar. My throat goes completely dry. I reach over and pull my flashlight out of my pack. Ming Sen?s tent is only a few meters away. I push back the flaps of my tent and flick on the flashlight. My breath, coming out in short gasps, sounds very noisy to me. I sweep the darkness outside my tent with the light and then I see them. Two glowing eyes perhaps ten meters away. Gradually I make out the animal?s silhouette among the shades of gray and black. It is a tiger, a rather large one. He is staring at me. Somehow Ming Sen is at my side. He takes the flashlight from my hand and places it on the ground. "Shoot it," I whisper in a voice strange to me. Ming Sen holds his rifle loosely at his side. He stares back at the tiger. The tiger moves and I gasp, but Ming Sen takes my arm. "He is only sitting down, see?" "Shoot it!" Another low growl. Ming Sen lays down his rifle. Long, tapered fingers of cloud shift gently away from the moon and I realize that he is also naked. I find myself drawn into the energy of his calm smile. A few meters away, the tiger stretches out his front paws and lowers his head. His stripes are bold in the bright moon. His gaze reflects the spirit of the mountain slopes blanketed with spice, the wild orchids, the gecko and the gibbon and all the animals of the monsoon forest. Ming Sen had told me I must behave myself in the presence of these spirits. I reach out to Ming Sen and run my small hands down his chest. I feel the pulsing of his blood on my tongue. His taste is wild and delicious. He is a fourth generation hunter from the village of Thmar Baing. And he has laid down his rifle. I have nothing to fear. |
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