When I was a child, we lived in the province of Pursat (Po-sat), in the city of Pursat, which straddles the Pursat river. The brown water flowed along, low in the dry season and running over into the streets in the rainy season. Men would pile white sacks of sand along the roadside and in doorways to try and keep the water out. I had a friend who lived on the riverbank, and every year his yard would be appropriated by the river. His house, which was on stilts, was safe, and I envied him. He was having entirely too much fun sitting in a big tin bowl, paddling about with a stick.
There were three bridges over the river, and a dam. The dam is gone now, but I made a sketch of it in a book. It was narrow and grey, with a sort of watch house in the middle. People who lived around there used it as a foot-bridge, and there was good fishing near it. Boys and men would come out and cast, the weights spinning the nets out into a great sweep in the air.
The first real bridge was the one before the island. It was, I think, the newest of all the bridges. We crossed that one often to meet with the church. As one crossed one could look downriver and see the island right there, about the size of a park. The island was called the Golden Sailing Ship, because of its shape, but why they called it golden I never knew. They kept a shrine there, though the island was not particularly nice in those early days. I remember walking on the far end—it was mostly dirt and clay, with trees and brush growing on it. My foot slipped deep into the sucking clay, and I lost my sandal.
Today the Golden Sailing Ship is one the most beautiful locations in the city. They sculpted it with cement until it looked even more like a great ship, painted its sides, and planted it with trees and flowers. The shrine is still there, along with a monument and a spired stage for public events. The tiled walks and oval shape make it an ideal place to walk for exercise and see the sunrise. The bridge to it is painted gold and guarded by naga, the many-headed snakes.
The second bridge was what we called the Rickety Bridge, which is self-explanatory. It was narrow, made of wood, and was so old and poorly maintained that one crossed at one’s peril. It had great gaps in the rails, and underfoot too, and it made a great noise when wheels went over it. My father didn’t mind crossing when he had a mind to, but my mother hated it. I think I secretly liked the danger, but I closed my eyes and held on tight till we were over. They tore that one down years ago, and put heavy cement barriers in the way so no one would accidentally drive into the river in the dark. A part of me misses how it used to look, with its old wooden trestles coming up out of the brown water, and the rackety clatter as a lone moto passed over the gaping slats.
The third bridge was the biggest and busiest of all. Golden guardian lions flanked its mouth. It was part of National Road Five. Road Five was the only road worth mentioning if one wanted to travel south or north to other cities and provinces. This thoroughfare ran up from the capital city through all the western side of the country, and the Pursat River was in its way. Along this artery flowed all the inter-provincial travelers and business. I was always intimidated by the Road Five Bridge. The narrowing of the heavy traffic and the noise of it all was just too much. The only time I didn’t mind was when we were in a car, and the smaller traffic had to get out of our way.
There used to be a nice park along the riverbank before it. It had great, spreading tamarind trees and red tiled walks. There were statues, too: a many-headed elephant, a man sculpting a Buddha. I remember standing there watching buffalo swim in the river, their dark faces and curving horns poking out of the water, and the dark heads of the buffalo herders bobbing alongside them.
Such was the Pursat River! The markets always had fish, fresh and flopping about, and there would be lotus flowers growing in the water. Our church held baptisms in the river. I myself was dipped under the brown water one morning. I came up spluttering. Everyone laughed, and the mud felt squishy under my toes—but we sang “I Have Decided to Follow Jesus” afterwards, before all the curious onlookers, and it was glad and sacred.
Though none go with me,
Still I will follow.
No turning back,
no turning back.