Mekong River Quotes

Tan Chau lies on the Thanh Hoa canal, which sings with freedom as it flows into the Mekong River on its way to the sea. Only the wind and the water, which you cannot imprison, are truly free.

Very little trade has moved between China and India over the centuries, and that is unlikely to change soon. Of course the border is really the Tibetan–Indian border – and that is precisely why China has always wanted to control it. This is the geopolitics of fear. If China did not control Tibet, it would always be possible that India might attempt to do so. This would give India the commanding heights of the Tibetan Plateau and a base from which to push into the Chinese heartland, as well as control of the Tibetan sources of three of China’s great rivers, the Yellow, Yangtze and Mekong, which is why Tibet is known as ‘China’s Water Tower’. China, a country with approximately the same volume of water usage as the USA, but with a population five times as large, will clearly not allow that. It matters not whether India wants to cut off China’s river supply, only that it would have the power to do so. For centuries China has tried to ensure that it could never happen.

No matter the border, the Mekong has been an indiscriminate giver and taker of life in Southeast Asia for thousands of years. It’s a paradox like civilization’s other great rivers—be it the Nile, Indus, Euphrates, Ganges or China’s Sorrow the Huang He—for without its waters life is a daily struggle for survival; yet with its waters life is a daily bet that natural disasters and diseases will visit someone else’s village, because it’s not if, but when it’s going to happen that’s the relevant question.

This would give India the commanding heights of the Tibetan Plateau and a base from which to push into the Chinese heartland, as well as control of the Tibetan sources of three of China’s great rivers, the Yellow, Yangtze and Mekong, which is why Tibet is known as ‘China’s Water Tower’. China, a country with approximately the same volume of water usage as the USA, but with a population five times as large, will clearly not allow that.

I recall canoeing with veterans along tranquil meanders of the Saco River in Maine, when one of them, who had served on riverboats in the Mekong Delta, pointed out the tan mudbank on the outside of a curve. He said that such an innocent riverbank would be riddled with tunnels and invisible machine-gun and rock-propelled-grenade positions. The cumulative effect of prolonged attacks on mental function is to undermine the soldier's trust in his own perceptions. Another veteran said: Nothing is what it seems. That mountain there--maybe it wasn't there yesterday, and won't be there tomorrow. You get to the point where you're not even sure it is a mountain.

It is seventeen years since she sailed slowly up the Mekong, in a slow boat with canvas awning, to Savannakhet, a large clearing in the virgin forest-land, surrounded by grey rice fields. At night, clusters of mosquitoes on mosquito nets. He cannot, by any stretch of the imagination, picture her at twenty-two, sailing up the Mekong. He cannot picture that face as a young face. He cannot imagine the eyes of an innocent girl seeing what she can see now. He is walking more slowly now. It is already too hot. Gardens everywhere on this side of the town. The funeral scent of oleanders. The land of oleanders. He never wants to see those flowers again. Never. Not anywhere. He had too much to drink last night. He drinks too much. There is a dull ache in the back of his neck. His stomach is queasy. The pink oleanders melt into the pink sky at dawn. The piled-up heaps of lepers scatter and spread. He thinks of her. He tries to think of her, nothing but her: a girlish figure seated on a couch, overlooking a river. She is gazing in front of her, no, he cannot see her, she is lost in the shadows. He can only see her surroundings: the forest, the Mekong river. A crowd of about twenty people has gathered in the metalled road. She is ill. At night she weeps, and it is thought that the best thing would be to send her back to France. Her family are alarmed. They never stop talking. They talk too much, too loudly. Wrought-iron gates in the distance, sentries in khaki uniform. Already they are guarding her, as she will be guarded for the rest of her life. It would be a relief to everyone if she would give vent to her boredom in an angry outburst. It would not surprise them if she were to collapse before their eyes, but no, she is still sitting silently on her couch when Monsieur Stretter arrives, and carries her away in his official launch. He told her: 'I shall leave you in peace. You are free to return to France whenever you wish. You have nothing to fear.' And all this, when he, he, Charles Rossett–he stops in his tracks–oh! he, at this period of Anne-Marie Stretter's life, was no more than a child.

Survival, though, means more than going on. It means understanding the past and finding a way to subdue it, to reconcile it, to overcome it.

Mothering, I learned on the banks of the Mekong River, was a gift given and accepted.

My mother and father speak of how little we had when I was born. They had already been in the camp for a year and five months. Each person had only a few pieces of donated clothing. This was much more than they had when they crossed the Mekong River, but they still say that I was born when they were poor because they had stopped wishing for things other than their lives. I was their gift in a time when they could not dare to dream of presents.

The river passes through our mountains, changing its name to Mekong where China, Laos, and Burma meet, before flowing through Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam, and eventually to the South China Sea. “Yes! It is called the Danube of the East.

and province at the mouth of the Mekong River), the plan had

If my family had crossed the river two months later, they would have been massacred. Thailand was no longer taking Hmong refugees from Laos; there were too many coming in because of the continued influx of North Vietnamese soldiers to help the Pathet Lao kill the remaining Hmong. Jane Hamilton-Merritt, a journalist from America, recorded the deaths of two hundred Hmong people, families with small children, on the Mekong on July 27, 1979. The group was on a sandbar gathering vines to weave a bridge to Thailand. They built fires and boiled water in old U.S. Army canteens. The women took off their shirts to put over sticks to shelter their babies and the old women. They fed their hungry children. Many of them were little more than skeletons. The adults didn’t eat. They saved their rice for the children. Thai soldiers appeared on the Thai bank in jeeps with a machine gun bolted to the front hood. In two Thai patrol boats, the soldiers traveled to the island. The Thai soldiers slashed the vines that tried to connect the people to Thailand. Thailand had had enough Hmong refugees. On August 2, 1979, Hamilton-Merritt learned that a group of thirty to forty Pathet Lao soldiers had landed on the river island and the Hmong were massacred.*

We were in America at last. The world was dark, but the lights on the high poles showed the way. The cars had lights too, red and white ones that blinked in front and back. The world was big and I was small and there were lights everywhere, and for the first time since we left Ban Vinai Refugee Camp and lived the six months that had felt like years in Phanat Nikhom Transition Camp to America, the dark was no longer full of the dead woman waiting for my soul. That night, I believed that if I followed the lights, I would never get lost in America, just as my mother and father had believed in the lights of Thailand, just as that night in the Mekong River would live forever inside of them—the night we got to America would live forever inside of me. The wind and the night and the lights. I had the feeling that my family had arrived at a place that was more perfect than we knew how to imagine. America was before me, my mother and father were close by me, and the world was open.

France divided Vietnam into three parts: the French colony of Cochinchina, which encompassed the sprawling, sparsely peopled Mekong Delta in the South; and two “protectorates”—Annam, the poorest and most mountainous part of the country, just thirty miles wide at its narrowest point, and Tonkin, the densely populated Red River Delta. These protectorates were nominally overseen by a compliant descendant of the Nguyen emperors, but actually ruled—along with Laos and Cambodia—as part of the Indochinese Union by a French governor-general from his palace in Hanoi.

Phía Đông của cao nguyên Tây Tạng là chỗ xuất phát của nhiều con sông lớn nữa, trong đó có Hoàng Hà, Trường Giang và Cửu Long. Hoàng Hà và Trường Giang là hai con sông trọng yếu nhất của Trung Quốc, dòng chảy của chúng là quê hương của một nền văn hóa thâm hậu nhất của loài người mà về sau tôi sẽ đi thăm. Còn Cửu Long là nguồn sống của nhiều nước Đông Nam Á, trong đó có Việt Nam. Nếu lấy cao nguyên Tây Tạng làm tâm điểm, vẽ một vòng tròn bán kính chưa đến ngàn cây số thì vòng tròn đó bao gồm tất cả nguồn cội của những con sông nói ở trên. Chỉ điều đó thôi đã gây cho tôi một lòng kính sợ đối với cao nguyên Tây Tạng, "nóc nhà của thế giới". Đúng, không phải là sự ngẫu nhiên khi ánh sáng của minh triết loài người xuất phát từ vùng đất lạ lùng này. Tôi đã đến Cửu Long giang miền Tây Nam Bộ và từng thấy con nước mãnh liệt của nó. Nguồn của nó không phải tầm thường, dòng sông đó là anh em với Hằng hà, Trường Giang, nó mang khí lạnh của Hy Mã, sức sáng của tuyết trắng, sự uy nghi của non cao, cái bí ẩn của các Man-đa-la vô hình. Nếu nó có bị ô nhiễm thì cũng vì con người bạc nghĩa, thế nhưng dù thế nó vẫn nhân hậu sống theo người. Nó vẫn không hế mất tính thiêng liêng của nguồn cội và vì tâm người ô nhiễm nên cảm nhận chúng nhiễm ô. Về sau, tôi còn đến Hằng hà nhiều lần trên bước lữ hành tại Ấn Độ cũng như sẽ có dịp đi dọc Trường Giang qua những vùng linh địa của Trung Quốc. Rồi lại có ngày tôi đã tôi đã đến cao nguyên Tây Tạng, đi dọc sông Tsangpo chảy từ hàm ngựa và thở hít không khí loãng trên miền đất cao 4000m trong Man-đa-la vĩ đại của địa cầu. Một ngày nào đó hy vọng tôi sẽ có dịp đến thượng nguồn Cửu Long, sẽ thấy một màu nước xanh lục như màu nước Hằng hà và sẽ nhớ về miền Tây Nam Bộ của mình.

Romeo Costa: Fight for her, bro. She’s worth it. Zach Sun: I am. And I know. Ollie vB: Guess I’ll have to drag it home myself after your mother throws you into the Mekong River, sans floatie. Romeo Costa: Good to know something managed to get its way into your heart. Zach Sun: She’s not just in my heart. She’s in my fucking veins.

It now seems probable that the Krishna statue was erected at the place which was revered as the site of the founding Khmer myth: the place where the newly arrived Indian Brahmin Kaundinya was believed to have met and married local Mera the naga princess (we will hear more of this myth shortly). By erecting a major temple there to Lord Krishna, ‘Phnom Da becomes a new Mount Govardhan, and probably, by extension, the Mekong River becomes the holy river Yamuna,’ thereby ritually extending the sacred geography of India to South-east Asia.

We want you to run the Mekong River all the way to the Chinese border. We think they’re floating stuff down the river and possibly running trucks along remote roadways, using them as supply routes from China. That’s over three hundred miles each way, a good deal farther following the river and roads. You’ll have to watch your fuel carefully.

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