The man assured me it would be OK. It would only take a few moments, maybe 10 minutes, he said, as he sensed my fear. They were only taking one person down at a time. I slid down the small opening in the ground after the man. I couldn’t see a thing.
The tunnel was pitch black, its walls tight and one could only crawl along. We turned on our head lamps but seeing how narrow the space was offered little relief. The man led the way. I could only rely on his breath as assurance he was still there. I kept reminding him, hey, not too fast, wait for me!
I hardly knew him, and I didn’t even know his name, I realized. We only just met, but he had been taking people along these historic tunnels for years. I found some comfort in that. I have been claustrophobic most of my life, but I kept the focus on being acutely present. The dark tunnel smelled damp and my mind kept wandering to images of weird insects or snakes, hiding in the crevices.
His voice would quieten as he went around corners, and I kept shouting anxiously, wait, and he did. As we went further along, I noticed the silence, the stillness. I gasped just thinking that my family did not know where I was, underground, somewhere in Vietnam along the Viet Cong tunnels.
No comments:
Post a Comment