I examined the river. The water was grey with sediment. From the branches floating on the surface I could tell it was moving quite fast, but reckoned that with the aid of a pole I should be able to make it to the other side. I hacked off a stick of bamboo, tied my pack to the raft, pushed off from the tree and punted into the river. The water was calm at first, but halfway across it deepened suddenly and a fierce current swept us up. The raft started hurtling downstream, straight towards a line of boulders. I rushed to the front and just as we were about to collide managed to jam my pole against the rocks. The raft turned in a circle and careered downstream backwards. I fell over, dropped the pole and grabbed onto the raft’s rope.
The Burmese border was just thirty kilometres away. I knew that if the river swept me across the frontier I would be a rifle target for both the Chinese and Burmese armies.
A few minutes later we entered a whirlpool behind another line of rocks. Branches jutting from the boulders thrashed me as we swirled. I tore off my jacket, jumped into the river and tried to push the raft free. If I hadn’t been holding the rope the whirlpool would have pulled me to the bottom. I held my breath and kicked to the surface. My eyes were filled with water, I couldn’t see a thing. Another twirl and the raft swept free at last and continued downstream.
I saw a bend in the river ahead and knew it might be my last chance to make it to the other bank. I kicked my legs desperately trying to steer the boat to the right. As the raft slowed I grabbed hold of a branch and locked my legs around a boulder. At last my feet touched the riverbed. I pushed the raft onto the rocks, staggered to the beach, fell to the ground and retched. I lay on my back, limbs splayed, too weak even to move my face from the vomit.
It was still light when I woke. The rain had eased and the raft was still perched on the rocks. I felt as helpless as the fallen leaves drifting down the river. On both sides I was enclosed by high boulders, and behind me a sheer cliff towered to the clouds. Small clumps of weed jutted from its damp cracks. I was trapped, but I knew that somehow I would have to climb out of here before dark. I splashed my face in the river, took a swig of water and wrung out my jacket and plimsolls. Then I tied the bag to my back, stuck my knife in my belt and started up the cliff, carving footholds as I went. My legs tensed with fear. Occasionally, when I grabbed hold of a firm clump of weed, I could pause for a moment and take a deep breath.
What was going through my mind? I knew if one stone slipped underfoot, if one clump of weed came loose in my hand I would drop to a certain death. I heard the torrents crash below and felt a damp wind wipe across my face. I wondered what to shout if I was to fall. I wanted to shout an obscenity, but could not think of one strong enough. I wanted to shout the name of a women I had loved, but no name came to mind. So instead, I focused my thoughts on the cliff and talked myself up. Don’t touch that stone, it’s loose. Put your foot here. Careful, that branch might pull your bag off. Those roots are firm. Grab them — that’s right. Now, pull your right leg up. That hole should be deeper. Dig your nails in. The knife snapped suddenly and sand flew into my face. Don’t touch your eyes, your fingers are covered in mud. I cursed, and with one eye closed, stared into the face of death. Two hours of climbing and I was still only halfway up. My bones were numb with fear. At one point I was so tired I almost gave up, but something inside drove me on.
The sky was nearly black when I reached the top. I lay down and stroked the firm, flat ground. After the hours of terror and torment, a strange calm swept over me. I knew now that I wanted to live. I wanted to walk into a warm house and speak to people. I wanted to go back to my home in Beijing and make a cup of tea. I found a path and, without thinking, followed it downhill. Before long it brought me to a small village.
As I walked through the gates two militiamen shone torches on my face. They pulled me inside a bamboo house, woke the policeman and announced they had caught a Burmese spy. The policeman sat on the edge of his bed and lit a candle. He then emptied my bag onto the table and told me to step back. A few children wandered in to stare. He shooed them all away apart from a girl with a runny nose who was probably the village head’s daughter. When he realised he was still in his Y-fronts he took a uniform from under his pillow and hurriedly got dressed. My camera, cigarette pack, penknife, compass, rope and water bottle were arranged neatly on the table. I told him to check my documents first but he paid no attention. The elation I had felt at escaping death vanished at a stroke. My wet clothes stuck to me like a second skin. I was too numb to speak.
Man’s greatest enemy is his fellow man, because only men take pleasure in inflicting pain. It is easier to battle against the forces of nature than to live among people. ‘When did you cross the border? How many were there of you? What is your assignment?’ The policeman launched into an interrogation. I asked to sit down. ‘You have seen my documents. The introduction letter got wet in the rain, it’s not my fault you can’t read it. Give me some food and water, or I will not say another word.’ The militiamen were still examining the photographs and tickets that had fallen from the pages of my notebook. The policeman ordered them to fetch ‘Old Beijing’, the village teacher.
After the teacher had deciphered the blurred characters of the introduction letter and exchanged a few words with me, he could tell I was not a spy. ‘I saw a lot of his type when I was at the county school,’ he told the policeman. ‘Long-haired artists. The larger the town, the longer the hair. This gentleman has had lunch with a Party secretary and the camera you found in his bag is worth three tractors.’ The militiamen looked startled at this news. The teacher told them to fry me some potatoes, while the policeman continued to thumb through my papers, trying to hide his embarrassment. I gobbled a bowl of rice and chatted with ‘Old Beijing’. He told me he had visited the capital once during the Cultural Revolution and had shaken the hand of a Red Guard soldier who had shaken hands with Chairman Mao. He said the militia head attended a meeting in the county town recently and came back with the policeman’s uniform, and that I should feel flattered, because he only wears it on special occasions.
The policeman tried to plot my route from the pile of wet bus tickets but found too many gaps. ‘My director warned us that spies carry used bus tickets to trick people into thinking they live here,’ he told the teacher. ‘None of the tickets add up. Look, there is a ticket to Menglong, but no ticket out.’
‘I trekked through the jungle to Menghai.’
‘Trekked? A real Beijing journalist would get a chauffeur-driven car from the county government.’ The policeman showed the teacher a plastic bag printed with the characters MADE IN HONG KONG. ‘Look, where do you suppose he got this from?’
The teacher was stumped. I told them it was a bag that had wrapped a pair of socks I had bought in Guangzhou, but they did not believe me. In the end, the policeman decided I should be taken to the county town’s Pubic Security Bureau.
They gave me a bed upstairs and told me not to leave the room. They said if I needed to piss I could do so out of the window.
The floors of the bamboo house creaked loudly. The only way to escape undetected was to jump out of the window. From the splash of my urine I could tell it was about a four-metre drop. I walked around the room trying to remember which floorboards creaked the most, then put my pack on, sat on the bed and closed my eyes.
I knew if they took me to the county town my life would be over. The police there would have been informed about my lecture in Kunming and my criminal record in Beijing. I would have been sent straight back to the capital and locked up for vagrancy and sedition.