In Phuong’s garden there are fish, cassava, grapefruit, longan and lychee trees with shivering leaves, tea bushes, lemon and lime trees, banana trees, pineapple palms, crimson aubretia and many chickens. I am sitting in a shady part of the porch, resting in the heat and planning my lessons. Through layer upon layer of foliage I see water buffalo ploughing the rice fields. On the bank beyond, another farm. I see more shades of green than usual; different kinds of green. Something is moving differently. A helmeted soldier emerges from the shade of the giant bamboo bearing a red flag.

‘Phuong, who are they?

‘The government

‘What are they doing?

‘Searching for landmines from the war.

‘Are there mines here?

‘Yes, we believe. And  government is building a highway.

 through our garden. A big roa’

‘That is sad. It is so peaceful and beautiful here.

“Yes, but i’ will bring us trade, it is progress.

 

We are generously encouraged by the family to help ourselves to produce from the garden.

‘Would you like chicken tonight?

His step mother slices off its head and holds it upsidedown to bleed, then submerges it in water before the plucking. I feel guilty, then I feel guilty that I feel guilty given that I eat chicken all the time. It’s bright blood spatters the concrete of the outside food area.