Free I Am Pilgrim by Terry Hayes Page B

avehementlydeniedbutrealAmericangulag:remotefacilitiesusedtohouseprisonerswhocouldn’t
    belegallytorturedbackhome.
    Oneoftheguardshaddiedin-houseand,whiletheTokyoofficenormallywouldhavehandledit,
    theyweresooverwhelmedbyyetanotherChinesespyscandalthatIfoundmyselfleavingEuropeand
    flyingintoaplacecalledMaeHongSon–theCityofThreeMists–onanoldturbo-prop.
    MostofthetimeitwasashortchopperrideouttotheGPSstation,butthiswasthemonsoonseason andtheydidn’tcallittheCityofThreeMistsfornothing.IrentedaToyotafour-wheeldrivefroma guywhoIguessedwasalocalopiumbaronandheadedforKhunYuamanditsCIAprison.
    Passing through spectacular mountains, I came to an ancient cable ferry. It was the only way to crossaroaringriver–swollenbythemonsoon–atributaryofthemightyMekong,thesceneofso
    manysecretoperationsandsomuchUSmiseryduringtheVietnamWar.
    I got out of the car, gaunt and hollow-eyed; I had been travelling non-stop for thirty-two hours, fuelledbynothingmorethanambitionandanxietyaboutthemission.AsIwaitedamongaclutchof
    foodvendorsandvillagers,watchingarustycabledragtheflat-bottomedferrytowardsusinplumes ofspray,aBuddhistmonkinsaffronrobesaskedifIwantedacupofMasala-chai,thelocaltea.He
    spokegoodEnglishand,withnothingelseonofferexceptthedeadlyThaielephantbeer,Igratefully accepted.
    Themonkwasheadingupcountrytooand–givenIwassupposedtobeaWHOexpertsurveying
    endemic diseases – it was pretty hard to refuse his request for a ride. We crossed the river in the Toyota, the barge plunging and barely afloat, water blasting over the gunwales and two inches of rusted cable the only thing between us and one of the country’s highest waterfalls, half a click downstream.Theworstwhite-knucklerideofmylife.
    Aswedroveoutofthegorge,thejungleformingacanopyoverourheads,themonklookedatme
    alittletoolongandaskedaboutmywork.Thankstomymedicaltraining,Igaveanexcellentaccount ofbreakbonefever,butitsoonbecameclearhedidn’tbelieveawordofwhatIwassaying.Maybehe knewaboutthecinder-blockcampatKhunYuam.
    He had lived at an ashram not far from New York, so he had more knowledge than you would expectaboutAmericanlifeandhespokeintelligentlyaboutrecreationaldrugsandthepressuresof
    modern life. I started to get the feeling it wasn’t a casual conversation. ‘You look hunted,’ he said finally,inthatBuddhistway,moreinsorrowthaninjudgement.
    Hunted?IlaughedandtoldhimitwasthefirsttimeIhadeverheardthat:peopleusuallyputmeon theothersideofthefoodchain.
    ‘There is no other side of the food chain,’ he said quietly. ‘Only the West believes that. Without grace,everyoneisrunningfromsomething.’
    Oureyesmet.Smiling,Iaskedifhe’deverconsideredpursuingareligiouslife.Helaughedright
    backandwantedtoknowifIhadheardhowvillagerscaughtmonkeys.
    ItoldhimIknewafewthingsaboutlife,butthatwasn’toneofthem.‘Wedidn’teatmuchmonkey
    atHarvard–generallyonlyatThanksgivingandChristmas,’Isaid.
    Sohetoldmehowthevillagerschainaewer–avasewithanarrowneckandabulbousbottom–
    tothebaseofatree.
    ‘Theyfillthebottomwithnutsandwhateverelsemonkeysliketoeat.Inthenight,amonkeyclimbs outofthetreesandslipshishanddownthelongneck.Hegrabsthesweetsandhishandmakesafist.
    Thatmeansit’stoobigtogetbackupthenarrowneck,andhe’strapped.Inthemorningthevillagers comeroundandhithimonthehead.’
    Helookedatmeforamoment.‘It’saZenstoryofcourse,’hesaid,smilingagain.‘Thepointis:if youwanttobefree,allyouhavetodoisletgo.’
    Yes,Iunderstoodthatmuch,Itoldhim.Itwasagoodstory,butitdidn’tmeananythingtome,not