The Bridge of Life and Death

There, in one of the most beautiful spots in the whole of Thailand, a young woman, no more than twenty-five stood in the middle of a bridge. A heavy rope entwined her together as one with the steel structure. One frayed end looped through the railway sleepers and the other end hung around her neck. She was wavering, visibly shaking, moving backwards and forwards all at once as she questioned her own commitment. Beneath her feet was a river. If the rope was to break she would drown, she had reasoned. She climbed onto the railings and heaved her legs over one at a time. This is it, she thought. She closed her eyes, tilted her face to the hot midday sun, took a breath, and readied herself for the leap. 

***

I scrunched my nose, teeth bared, blinking, shaking my head. Trying to snap my god damn head out of it. Fuck. The base of my skull ached with tension, as I tried to focus on the road ahead. I wound down the truck’s windows, hoping the hot Thai air, thick with noise and bustle would distract me. I slowed for an old man crossing the road pushing a cart full to the brim and beyond of sweeping brushes which fanned out like posturing peacocks. As I paused in the road, hot tears began to roll down my cheeks. How had this happened? I knew by now, to sit with it, to let the pain swarm me like termites after the rains. Grief was the funniest thing. Days would go by where I felt renewed, able, functional. Then the wave came. Debilitating me once again. I took a deep breath and focused again on the journey.

I had needed some space, got leave from work, and began a 150-kilometer road trip east from Bangkok. Kanchanaburi was a town no stranger to misery. One hundred thousand prisoners of war and local people had died at the hands of the Japanese in World War II, building the Thailand Burma Railway. Today, the province commemorated them well. Set among beautiful jungle, tiered waterfalls and hot springs lay a horrific piece of history. A cathartic blend of the wonder of nature and the horror of humans.

I exhaled as I realised the wave had passed. 

My phone pinged as I drew near to the hotel, I turned into the drive and parked up. I had lived in Thailand for four years, but each day I was still amazed. Amazed at the kindness of Thai people, the resourcefulness of people who had nothing but had thought of everything, astounded at the natural beauty of the country. Although, I was lonely too, I knew too well I was only trespassing in this magical country. My roots here not yet deep. A few failed relationships, a casual circle of friends.

This will do I thought. I looked out at the floating bungalows, made of simple wood, lapping and lulling with the gentle flow of the River Kwai, and felt a sense of calm. 

I had opened my own bakery in Bangkok, a lifelong dream after a hedonistic summer backpacking in my late teens. It was quite a successful little business and allowed me to live a simple but comfortable life. As I lay back on the hut's balcony, watching out at the ripples on the water, my thoughts drifted to my mum and dad. I missed them. My stomach ached for them in fact. I wanted to hold them, to tell them how sorry I was and take away some of the hurt. Covid had ripped the world apart, no one person unaffected in some way. But for me, it meant sitting in my grief alone. Unable to return to England to embrace my family after my brother's suicide. Unable to toast his life with a red wine in a dimly lit pub, or reminisce with old friends, laughing at stories of his wild ways. Like the time he was called in to cover a shift at the bar he worked at, high on LSD. Typical Rob. Robbed of the long and strong hugs reserved especially for the moments when your world has stopped turning. Robbed of the intimacy of sharing tears with people you love. Robbed of sitting in silence with people you have no need for words with, deep in it, comforted by the void of words when only your shared experience and raw emotions are needed.

I ordered a whisky sour on room service, the sharp, tanginess took me back to playing card games late into the night with John. Belly laughing and boozing in our parent's cluttered living room on Birthdays and Christmas. I lit a cigarette and watched a kingfisher dance on the water. Draining the glass, the ice clinked as I set it down harder than I should have. I had read about the stages of grief of course. Five or seven, depending on who you ask. I knew that anger was coming.

The sun was high, and my t-shirt was already slightly damp from sweat but I needed a walk to clear my head. The whisky hadn’t helped. 

***

I had always been drawn to the stories of others. The Prisoners of War here were made up of Australians, English men, Americans. Their bodies wasted and their bones broke under the oppression and brutality of Japanese Officers. The men, boys even were tasked with building the now colloquially named ‘Death Railway’, a 250-mile passage connecting the so-named Burma and Siam. To move men, food, and medicine through a neutral Thailand to fuel the Japanese on the Burmese front. Although they say it was one of the better camps, broken men already malnourished and exhausted were tailed by a deadly roulette of dysentery, malaria, cholera, and tropical diseases. Only the most critical were allowed to rest, and so they worked and they worked. The Bridge over the River Kwai, erected from blood and pain and now notorious the world over, stood tall and iconic in the distance. A life for every sleeper they say. I wandered slowly along the riverbank path, once bustling with backpackers, Chinese tour groups and Thai’s peddling fried goods and putrid fish snacks, but now quiet and serene. Another covid casualty I thought, but perhaps one with silver linings. The air was cleaner these days, the roads safer, the Thai’s themselves reclaiming their own country with weekend trips and tourism, it will be them now taking grotesque selfies on the bridge. 

I squinted as I approached the bridge, the sun was bright and the rays strong. A shape up high on the middle of the bridge, caught me off guard. It wasn't right. My throat dried up, and my stomach twisted. It was a person clinging to the guardrail in the shadows of the black steel arches. A woman. Frantic, I began to run towards the bridge.

‘Hey! Hey! Stop, what the fuck are you doing?’ I screamed, my voice thick with shock.

She looked back at me over her shoulder, her hands clinging to the rail, her bare feet curled into the gaps between the sleepers. No words came out as she opened and closed her mouth, her eyes wide, her head shaking from left to right and back, over and over. 

In a few seconds, I was on the bridge. I slowed as I approached her, catching my breath, trying quickly to calm myself, to think straight. She must have been mid 20’s, western, I couldn’t place where and she was yet to speak. I approached her cautiously. I felt self-conscious, inadequate, I was out of my depth. I'm a bloody baker.

I stopped a couple of metres away, careful not to infringe on her need to be alone. 

‘I’m Dan’ I said, ‘What’s your name?’ The words came out calmly and slowly despite the adrenaline rushing through my blood. I can’t call the police, I thought, that’s not how things work here. She remained quiet, her face petrified. 

‘What’s your name?’ 

‘Jas’ she whispered. 

‘Ok Jas, nice to meet you. Do you live here? I am from Bangkok, here for a break’. I rambled, desperately trying to sound casual, while feeling the rhythmical beat of my heart in my throat. 

I tried to think of something to connect us, to empathise, to show her she’s not alone. 

‘Ím hurting too Jas. I came here for a break from it all, to sit in my thoughts. What brought you here Jas?’ 

She looked up, her eyes were a beautiful deep blue, the kind that probably always look sad. 

‘I just want it to end, to stop’ her voice wavering. 

Her words cut through me. I choked back tears. The irony was not lost on me. I had romanticised this trip, as a chance to feel what I need to feel in the quiet non-judgemental presence of a town well versed in death. To just be, in my quiet melancholy. 

And so I clenched back my own raw emotions and I told her the story of John. Of how he had lived a full and happy life, how vibrant and unpredictable and wild he was, but sensitive and gentle too. About his throat cancer, the chemo toll and how he just didn’t want to live anymore. Jas nodded in understanding. I told her of my anger that he had robbed me of my chance to say goodbye and to be quite honest to redeem myself from guilt. Guilt that I will now carry for life instead. I held back that I now suffix his name with prick, when I think of him. John, wonderful broken John. Prick.

‘Did you leave any letters Jas? Send any messages or emails?’ I didn't get a letter.

Jas shook her head, her honey blonde hair sweeping her shoulders as she twitched.

‘I think you should do that Jas. It will mean so much to the people in your life, Jas.’ I spoke her name purposefully, repeatedly. I edged closer, holding eye contact and reading her body language for the smallest of signs of fear, tensed muscles, or the slightest shift in position. 

‘I’m going to offer you my hand Jas. Will you take it? We can go somewhere and I will buy you a coffee, or something stronger and you can write those letters. There are people that need those letters Jas. Will you take my hand, Jas?’

She nodded slowly. Her trembles softened and her shoulders slumped a little. The whites of her eyes less prominent and a little more colour in her cheeks. Jas accepted my outstretched hand and we exchanged nods to mark our readiness. I heaved her over the railing with the kind of strength we only possess in these moments of terror.

There on the iconic bridge of pain and struggle, I held her tight. My arms wrapped around her vice-like, our bodies heaving as we sobbed together under the oppressive Thai sun. Two strangers, forever connected by life and death on a bridge.