Saving Fish from Drowning - Heal Burma

AMY TAN
Dwight shouted at the top of his lungs. “Christ! Walter, you fuck!
Why aren’t you here to deal with this?”
Vera noticed that the men from the tribe looked ashamed that
their guests were unhappy, so she tried to calm the group. She was
skilled at dealing with crises. “If the Lajamee people can’t get us out
soon, I’m sure Walter will send for help once he gets here. Maybe
that’s what he’s already done. He came and saw the bridge was gone
and went back down. The best thing we can do is stay put.”
There were sounds of agreement, acknowledgment that this was
reasonable logic, the probable truth. Help was on its way, they now
believed. And so, with the exception of Dwight, they agreed to re­
treat to No Name Place and bide their time there. As they walked
back into the camp, the people of the Lord’s Army greeted them with
hands clasped in prayer. Thanks be to the Great God. Black Spot told
them to give their guests the best of everything.
Dusk came, Walter did not. Another hour rolled by, then another.
Except for firelight, the camp was pitch black. The inhabitants of No
Name Place slashed bamboo and sharp palm leaves to weave stools
for their honored guests. Black Spot had told them that foreigners
did not like to sit on mats. Grease and Fishbones brought a pile of
clothes and set them down. They pointed to them: “Take, take.”
“Hey, that’s my polar fleece,” Rupert said, and he pulled out an
orange jacket. The others dug through the pile and found the clothing
they had brought to wear during the chilly morning ride that now
seemed so long ago.
“I thought we left these in the truck,” Marlena said.
“Those porters must have brought everything along with them,”
Vera replied.
“Thank goodness they did,” Marlena said. “It’s a lot cooler up
here than down there.” She tossed Esmé a purple parka and shim­
mied into her own black one.
“I wish we were in a hotel with a real bathroom,” Esmé said. Ear­
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