Silently depositing alluvial soil

The vast Ma River holds countless stories, too many to tell. Each time I stand by its banks, I feel like I'm turning the pages of a book. Each page meanders through the seasons, through the layers of alluvial soil deposited over the years, amidst villages that steadfastly preserve their traditions. The river flows silently, its source patiently ebb and flow, a quality even humans sometimes lack...

The alluvial plains of Vinh Loc commune are fertile and covered with lush vegetation. (Kieu Huyen)

The waters from the Vietnam-Laos border flow downstream, passing through the lands of Ba Thuoc, Cam Thuy, Vinh Loc, Yen Dinh, Thieu Hoa, and the old Thanh Hoa City, before emptying into the sea, carrying with them the scent of alluvial soil, rain, and sunshine. These layers of alluvial soil silently nurtured vast, open sandbanks. The sandbanks of Vinh Loc commune are fertile like honey cakes, easily planted and thriving. The wind blowing along the banks adds to the diligent sediment, creating a perpetually tranquil atmosphere. Yen Truong, on the other hand, has the playful charm of buffalo herding children and early-blooming corn stalks. The soil isn't too thick, but it's loose and porous, perfect for growing melons. The Dinh Tan sandbank is gentle like smoke, its shape changing with the seasons and tides. In the early morning, the sandbank is covered in mist, looking like a silver silk ribbon from afar. Sometimes, villagers say the sandbank is "growing a couple of inches," while at other times, the current bends and "cuts" away at other times. But it is precisely this transformation that possesses a fragile, vibrant beauty.

The alluvial plains along the Len River – a tributary of the Ma River – are small and gentle, embracing the rustic charm of the riverside villages. The slopes of yellow mustard fields stretch out like silk scarves, and children run barefoot there in every season. The plains are small, but the soil is remarkably resilient; whatever is planted grows slowly but vigorously. If you travel along the tributaries of the Ma River, from the Chu River flowing into the Thieu Hoa region, to the Buoi River winding through the old Vinh Loc area, you'll notice that the alluvial plains always take on different characteristics: some are rugged like the shoulders of a hardworking person, with soil mixed with pebbles and stones, requiring deep cultivation to assess their strength. Others are soft like a mother's palm, with loose, fertile soil that carries the faint scent of alluvial soil from bountiful harvests.

Perhaps, ultimately, what makes the alluvial plains of Thanh Hoa unique is the way they preserve and accumulate memories for the river. Where many flood seasons have passed, the soil is heavy and thick. Where the flow is gentle, the land is flat like a bronze plate. Where people have lived together for generations, the alluvial plain seems to breathe the atmosphere of houses, the sounds of washing clothes, and the sight of buffaloes splashing in the water at midday. The alluvial plain is where the silt writes in brown ink, and where people sketch with their laboring hands and the belief that the land, no matter how many times it is tested by the water, will continue to be tolerant and nurture abundant harvests. If we consider the alluvial plains as heritage, then surely we preserve life in our own way. The Dong Son culture, from the rhythm of the bronze drums to the first footsteps of the ancient Vietnamese people, all needed the comforting embrace of the flowing water, the fervent accumulation of the river. The alluvial plains became mooring places for boats, places to build houses, places to light fires, and places where customs were formed and imprinted. There are villages that still tell stories from long ago, about their ancestors fleeing from war, the alluvial plain saving their lives, and after the storms passed, the alluvial plain surrounded them, adding to their prosperity and vastness.

I once strolled along a sandbar in Thieu Hoa at dawn. The wind carried the scent of fresh earth, warm and soft like a breath. In springtime, farmers bent over, pulling out weeds and tending to their cornfields, which were a vibrant green. Their simple yet respectful demeanor before the river was evident, for everyone understood that the success of the harvest largely depended on the alluvial deposits the river had left behind over countless years.

During our journey, we encountered a group of young shepherds emerging from a small village near Yen Dinh. Greeting us and running around excitedly, the children excitedly shared their plans to fly kites on the newly formed alluvial plain after spring and into summer. Their laughter was as if nothing had ever happened. This carefree spirit made the adults realize even more deeply that alluvial plains are not just places for cultivation, but also spaces where childhood memories take root and blossom.

At the end of the year, I returned to my village's riverside. The water was as still as a mirror. A few small boats were moored, their bows still clinging to the silt of the previous year. The old woman selling drinks under the ancient kapok tree said to me, as if talking to herself, "Every Tet holiday, I have to come and check on the riverbank, to know whether the river has been kind to me or not over the past year." I asked, "Why is it kind?" She replied softly, "If the river is kind, then the land will flourish, the trees will grow, and people will be able to live peacefully." Hearing that, a lump formed in my throat.

My village nestles beside the Len River, a strip of land as soft as a mother's dress. Every spring, when the wind from upstream carries the gentle moisture to the alluvial plains, the whole village buzzes with the tradition of fetching fresh water. On the morning of the first day of Tet (Lunar New Year), before the sky has fully brightened, the men hurry to the riverbank, carrying earthenware buckets, while the women carefully hold earthenware jars that have been cleaned since New Year's Eve. The villagers row their boats out to the middle of the river, silently scooping up water believed to be the cleanest and freshest, symbolizing a prosperous beginning for the whole year. The sound of water pouring into the buckets and jars is like the whispering murmur of the river. The fresh water is offered to ancestors, used to brew tea, and to cook the first meal of the year, all in the hope of peace for the family and a bountiful harvest...

There are diligent efforts that are not easily seen. Layers of silt, like the dust of time, are sinking down, comforting the land in their own way, little by little like sweet nectar. Water may be angry, but the silt has perhaps never betrayed people's trust.

Strolling along the alluvial plains in spring, one's heart softens like the earth. With each step, one feels a gentle blossoming within, as if the silt not only enriches the plains but also imbues us with a layer of peaceful, stirring emotions. The spring alluvial plains evoke the feeling that all the sorrows of the past year have been washed away by the river into its deepest recesses, revealing before us today a land of tender silk, a new breath, a gentle dream unwilling to change its course. And in this wistful, poignant feeling, we realize that spring may not descend from the heavens, but rise from the warm heart of the earth, from the meandering curves of the river that leave behind for the alluvial plains a story of enduring rebirth.

Layers of silt, like the dust of time, are sinking down, comforting the land in their own way, little by little like sweet nectar. Water may be angry, but silt has perhaps never betrayed human kindness.

Lu Mai

Source: https://baothanhhoa.vn/am-tham-boi-dap-phu-sa-277189.htm