Amidst the city's rapid development, the people here still cherish the dream of having a bridge to end the separation between the two banks.
The village on the other side of the water
From the center of Thuong Duc commune, reaching Dau Go village requires traveling along a long, winding road amidst lush green mountain slopes. Looking across from this side of the river, the village appears faintly visible beneath the trees. Though only a few hundred meters away, it feels like belonging to a different world . Behind it are towering mountains, and in front is the deep and wide Bung River. This unique topography has made Dau Go an isolated "oasis" for decades.
Children born in Dau Go grew up with the image of the boat swaying on the waves. The elders in the village have also spent almost their entire lives dreaming of and waiting for a bridge, but it has yet to become a reality.
The small boat could only carry a few people and some goods. Each river crossing lasted about ten minutes. That time seemed short, but for the people of Dau Go, it held so much worry.
Sitting by the side of the boat in her worn-out shirt, Mrs. Nguyen Thi To (70 years old) gazed with cloudy eyes towards the opposite bank. Her voice, low and sad, blended with the sound of the waves: “Everything depends on the ferry, my child! Children going to school, the sick going to the hospital, weddings, funerals… everything relies on this ferry. It’s manageable on sunny days, but when it rains and floods, the whole village is completely isolated. When something happens on this side, all we can do is look across the river and cry…!”
Ms. To recounted that this area used to belong to Dai Son commune, Dai Loc district, in the former Quang Nam province, but has now been merged into Thuong Duc commune. Administrative boundaries may have changed, but the hardship caused by the fragmented terrain remains, a scar etched into the lives of the people. When the elderly in the village pass away, their coffins must be carried precariously across the river on small boats. Even toddlers, barely able to walk, must learn to balance on the edge of the boats to reach their education on the other side.
Mrs. To's eyes drifted into a distant gaze as she recalled those bitterly cold winter nights when pregnant women went into labor unexpectedly. The whole village would gather, lighting torches, spreading mats, and carrying the woman to the riverbank. The boatman, asleep, would hear the desperate cries and immediately start his engine and rush out. "Some trips made it to the hospital in time, and both mother and child were safe. But some trips were too late..." Mrs. To trailed off, then fell silent, looking down at the gently flowing water.
The hardship of living by the ferry in Dau Go is not just a story of making a living, but also a barrier to dreams. Here, childbirth is not uncommon.
Mr. Mai Van Cong (38 years old) still hasn't forgotten the times his wife went into labor in the middle of a heavy rainstorm many years ago. The river water rose high, and the ferry had to wait a long time before daring to cross. "The first child had just reached the other side when my wife gave birth right on the road. The second child was born right at the ferry dock before we even got on the bus," he recounted, his voice still filled with the haunting memory.
In Dau Go, there are no secondary or high schools, only a combined kindergarten and primary school. To continue their education, the children have to cross the river and travel dozens of kilometers. At the beginning of the week, parents take their children to the ferry dock to wait for the boat. At the end of the week, they anxiously await their children's return. The journey to school for these children begins with the roar of the ferry engine in the early morning mist.
Mr. Cong said that all the children here are eager to learn. Because they understand that only through education can they hope to escape the vicious cycle of poverty and isolation. "Their parents work so hard, so the children feel very sorry for them. They tell themselves that they must study so that they can have a better life in the future," Mr. Cong said.
A dream of a bridge
The gentle Bung River, peaceful on sunny days, transforms into a fierce "wall" cutting off traffic during the rainy season. Ferry services cease, electricity flickers, and phone signals are lost. The entire village is isolated amidst the vast floodwaters. "A few years ago, a man in the village suffered appendicitis at night, but it was raining heavily and the water was flowing rapidly, so no one dared to row a boat. Because he didn't get to a medical facility in time, he didn't survive. It's so tragic, but who can we turn to for help?" said Mrs. Nguyen Thi Hue (53 years old), her voice faltering.
Not only are human lives threatened, but the flood season also directly affects the livelihoods of the entire village. Every time they hear the announcement of flood releases from the hydroelectric dam, the villagers frantically gather their belongings, move livestock to higher ground, and flee into the mountains for temporary shelter, leaving behind the small houses nestled quietly along the riverbank. “Many assets accumulated throughout the year, along with pigs, chickens, ducks… can be swept away in just one night of high water – it’s a common occurrence in Dau Go. We’ve gotten used to it, but it’s still very sad!” Mrs. Hue said with a pensive tone.
The people of Dau Go mainly live by growing acacia trees and pineapples. The land is barren, and the weather is harsh. A good harvest means low prices, while a bad harvest leaves them with nothing. Therefore, poverty has plagued them from generation to generation.
The men of Dau Go grew up listening to the sound of ferry engines on the Bung River. The women in the village are accustomed to standing by the riverbank waiting for their husbands and children to return late each evening. They are used to waking up at dawn to catch the first ferry. But familiarity doesn't mean hope. "Our generation has suffered enough. Now we just hope that our children and grandchildren will have the opportunity to go further, to have a more stable life, and not stay stuck here forever. The greatest wish of our people is to have a bridge. A bridge so that the children can go to school more safely. A bridge so that the sick don't worry in the middle of a rainy night. A bridge so that this village is no longer isolated," Mrs. Hue confided.
Locals recounted hearing rumors of a bridge being built many times. Surveys were conducted, but then faded away. The blueprints were mentioned in community meetings, but remained only on paper. Time passed, the old ferry grew dilapidated, and the people continued to wait. “Several teams came to survey the bridge a few years ago, but it’s been so long and nothing has materialized. It’s probably because of the high cost and the small population, so we’re still waiting…,” Mrs. Hue said with a sigh.
The bridge keeper connecting the two shores.
On a midday in early June, the sun cast a golden glow on the surface of the Bung River. The ferry waddled back to shore, carrying a few sacks of fertilizer, some construction materials, and several motorbikes crammed together in its hold.
The boatman, over 60 years old with sun-tanned skin, said that the job is extremely hard but he can't give it up. "If I quit, the villagers won't know how to get around..." What he fears most is the rainy season. "The water rises, the waves are strong, and many days I don't dare to go all day. But if the villagers need me, I still try," he said, his hand still gripping the rudder tightly.
More than anyone else, the ferryman understands that the Bung River not only separates two banks of land, but also separates opportunities, knowledge, and the future of a rural area. He says that the people here don't dream of extravagant things. They only hope that one day, the clicking sound of the old ferry's engine will be replaced by the bustling sound of cars on a sturdy concrete bridge. So that one day, the Bung River will no longer be a boundary of division.
The Bung River isn't very wide, but it's wide enough to create a distance between its banks. That distance is evident in every step the schoolchildren take each morning, in the anxious gaze of mothers during the rainy season, and in the sighs of the elderly who have spent their lives waiting for a bridge that has yet to materialize.
A leader of the Thượng Đức Commune People's Committee said that the local government has been concerned for many years about the transportation issues faced by residents of Đầu Gò village. The lack of a bridge significantly impacts people's lives, trade, and rescue efforts during the rainy season and storms. "The people suffer many disadvantages because they are separated by the Bung River. The local government also hopes that resources will soon be invested in building a bridge so that people can travel more conveniently and safely," the leader said.
We left Dau Go village as night gradually swallowed the Bung River. The ferry landing behind us receded into the darkness, only the hoarse, muffled sound of the engine echoing. But on the other side of the bank, blue smoke from the small houses rose and mingled with the twilight.
And just as the Bung River never stops flowing, the longing for a bridge connecting the two banks silently exists in every story and every glance of the people here.
Source: https://baodanang.vn/uoc-mo-ben-kia-song-bung-3340427.html
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