The year was 1978. It was a sweltering August night in Vietnam. The sun has just dusted across the curved horizon of war-torn terrain as a growing hum of crickets began to serenade louder to a deafening steady buzz. Across the vast barren fields, rice patties gives silhouette of shadows with triangular heads merges making their way off the muddy fields; bare footed looking for a stable ground to stand on. The long grain barley was freshly stone beated and packed really to be sold for the next shipments of rickshaws and people drawn carriages. Afar murmurs of high pitched women hooting for their sons and husbands to come in for an unsatisfying bowl of rice and fish that has been fermented in hearths for god knows how long.A young Cambodian man with tathered garments and childhood acne scars somewhere in his early 20's gracefully rides the wetback of a water buffalo gingerly paving the patties for the next harvest. His barefoot glued to the animals hide like flip flops. He uses only the clear light of the moon and his strapping forearms to steer the massive beast and from afar he sees his bride balancing herself upon a make-shift bridge made from bamboo and twine. He hollered out something which sounds more like clicks and beeps to her. She reacted. Her equilibrium is only compared to a squirrel upon a power line. It was the way that her hips swayed like corn husks in the morning air that made his loins ache for something alien. They finally embrace, closing the gap between man and women. Upon the broad shoulders of that buffalo they consummated and conceived in 9 months a son; and he is called Nhieu Van Dang. Meaning “he who was born on a water cow"The end
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