White Painted Lines on Acacia Trees / Badai | 巴代

Translated by Shin Su

Originally published in print in Ora Nui 4

Umaf turned his head and pushed his nostrils against the soft flesh of a raised and folded elbow. Like two gears moving in opposite directions, he pulled his arm to the left while twisting his head back to the right. He had to repeat this action every so often because of a nose that wouldn’t stop running, and with each repetition he looked—deliberately or not—at the peach garden next to the stream, at the three acacia trees with their painted white lines. 

It had been raining heavily for three days, and in that time the river had risen and become increasingly muddy, but still the rain had not stopped. This morning, Umaf had walked through the rain to get to school. Not only had he arrived with his clothes sodden, but on the way there he had slipped and fallen three times. There was mud all over his clothes and bags and shoes, and an especially large stain smeared his trousers. He was laughed at by everybody in class.

‘Three times! I actually slipped three times.’ He relived the morning’s embarrassment and felt another pang of humiliation.

Umaf was in the fourth grade. His home was over an hour’s walk from the village elementary school. To help with the transportation of crops, the township office had, at the end of last year, opened an industrial road for the tribe. However, improper allocation of funds meant that the suppliers got caught up in a lawsuit, and—of course—the road’s surface remained uncemented. Moreover, in an effort to reduce its length (and therefore its cost), the average angle of inclination exceeded 30 degrees. The days without rain were alright; however, it was a single-lane pathway, and, when wet, the road became a slick and muddy track. 

In order to grow their temperate-climate vegetables, Umaf’s parents needed to stay near their home, which was on the hillside above the upper reaches of the river far away from the village. They had not been able to afford a truck or a motorbike, so Umaf walked to school every day by himself. Still, his parents promised that once they had sold this season’s cabbages they would, if they combined that money with savings from the previous two years, have enough to buy some kind of vehicle. As well as being able to transport the harvest to the village collection point without help (thereby eliminating additional labour costs), this could mean them driving Umaf to school every day. Umaf had been excited at this prospect; however, after those falls this morning, his enthusiasm diminished. Honestly, what he hoped for most was to avoid school tomorrow. 

He looked again at the white lines on the three acacia trees, and his knife, which had for some time been chopping mechanically, fell still. Since returning home from school he had been sitting in front of the door hacking cabbages, preparing feed for the ducks that his mother had purchased last month, pausing only to straighten his lower back and wipe his nose.

‘The water is still rising,’ from a place beyond Umar’s despondency, his father's deep voice echoed.

Umaf turned his head and saw his parents. They registered to him as bronze statues: two pairs of shining eyes looking at the riverbed, bamboo slat basket strips pulling tightly on their foreheads, rain beading from the top of their heads down cheeks, necks, backs.

The white painted lines on the acacia trees were still vaguely visible through the grey and rain-hazy air, but the rolling, sediment-heavy river approached their level.

His parents were removing large baskets filled with freshly harvested cabbages from the tops of their heads; despite the rain, they had been picking the vegetables and bringing them back to the house—making trip after trip after trip—since before Umaf left for school in the morning. When he had arrived back in the afternoon, a cabbage hill was already stacked in front of his home.

Umaf’s home was located one hundred metres from the banks of an unnamed river, which passed through the village further downstream. His parents grew their vegetables on these alluvial slopes; the soil, moisture, and temperature were perfect for cabbages. A market from a town over ten kilometres away often bought Umaf’s parent’s produce as their first choice. However, given its location, there was a danger that this gravel-sloped patch would collapse and wash away after several days of heavy rain. 

Near to Umaf’s house was a small wooden bridge, which was the only way to cross the river and get to the industrial road. Weather in the mountains did not conform to the conventional rainy season timings; heavy rain could fall during any month, and the bridge was often blocked by the flooded river. Because of this unpredictability, Umaf’s parents would plant and transport cabbages between periods of rain. Over time, they grew accustomed to the flooding and had painted the white lines on the acacia trees to track the rising water level and to determine things like whether Umaf should go to school, or whether they should travel to the village to buy groceries. 

The acacia trees were evenly spaced and growing roughly thirty metres from the river. The white lines had been painted at twice an adult’s standing height. From where Umaf currently sat, at the front edge of the family courtyard looking down at the trees and the river’s opposite shore, the white lines appeared around one metre above the water level. If the water rose above the white markings, the nearby wooden bridge would be washed away, and Umaf and his parents would be trapped at home for more than half a month. A few times every year the bridge would be damaged, and a few times every year the family would repair it; it was always like this. 

‘If the rainfall continues, I’m afraid this will be all we can harvest,’ Umaf's father murmured, worrying about the cabbages still on the slope. Then he and Umaf’s mother disappeared once more into the rain, fighting to bring back as much as possible in the remaining time. 

Umaf resumed his chopping. He was secretly happy; judging from the strength of this rain, the water would continue to rise past the white lines and destroy the bridge before dark. If that happened, he could skip school for many days. He whistled, imagining this possibility. 

The sha-sha clamor of the rain masked the sound of his whistling, and it also masked the roar of something far away. Although Umaf hadn’t noticed the noise, his attention was soon drawn to changes in the river. His heart jumped, and he stopped what he was doing and stared.

Branches, leaves, and weeds emerged from the muddy water. Intermittently, tree trunks and rocks floated by. And then the cabbages appeared—few at first, but before long there were many—stirring violently within the sludge. The river was rising, but it had not yet reached the white lines. On this side of the shore, the river was advancing inch by inch towards the acacias. Eventually it swallowed the entire base of the trees, and then the expansion stopped. But just a few minutes later, the water on the opposite side began ascending to the white lines.   

By the time Umaf’s parents appeared—empty-handed, bodies soaked, clothes torn—the river contained large amounts of stone and soil, and it was slicing at the embankment which protected their house. In the middle of the river, the acacia trees struggled to stay upright; their white lines were lapped at by the rising waves. 

Three days later, the rain stopped.

The family’s entire cabbage field was, as usual, completely washed away. The river, originally a little more than ten metres across, was multiplied in width by the rain’s sweep; peach orchard and riverbank became part of the waterway.

Three more days, and the river began finally to return to its usual path, but still the water flowed ferociously. The riverbed was raised by a few metres until it covered half the height of the acacia trees; only the tree crowns, with their thin branches and leaves, remained visible. The bridge and the newly opened industrial road had both disappeared without a trace.   

Father and son stood where the wooden bridge used to be, staring at the roiling yellow river, saying nothing. Umaf broke the silence. ‘Will they build a big bridge here?’ He had been thinking about a nearby town with its bridge made from concrete and metal (a construction disproportionate to the small river it spanned). 

‘No! We have only two indigenous votes,’ Umaf’s father said without turning his head. 

‘What about a bank?’ Umaf persisted, remembering the school trip when he had seen a sewer protected by a tall levee; next to it had been an access road full of traffic.

‘No. There’re no hot springs here, and no gemstones,’ Umaf’s father said, before sinking again into thought. 

‘Dad! Should we repaint the trees?’ Umaf remembered the painted white lines buried in the mud and was overcome by a sudden wish to be at school. 

‘Yes. On the branches of those acacia trees,’ Umaf’s father replied without thinking. His speech remained assured. ’Okay,’ he continued, ‘let’s go gather wood for the bridge. We’ll wait until the water recedes to rebuild it and plant the cabbages.’ 

But although Umaf’s father’s voice contained nothing of what had happened, stones and tree trunks floated yet in the turbid flood, and a rumbling reverberated endlessly throughout the valley.

Badai was born in 1962 in the south of Taitung in the Puyuma community. He was a professional soldier prior to his writing career. In recent years, he has been dedicated to creative writing and has won numerous literary awards. Badai combines historical references with Puyuma perspectives that provide new ways of thinking about historical narratives.