January 30, 1993
Piloting helicopters in some of the murkier countries of South-East Asia was good for memorable days.
Some were like flying into the pages of National Geographic.
"Pinch me. Can this be real?"
One like that in 1993 stands out for me, but you wouldn't know it from the entry in my pilot's logbook: Jan.30 AS350B ZK-HDK self US Embassy Opium poppy survey Mg Son 2.10.
Early afternoon. We lift off and track northeast, looking for another site. No roads here; just ridge after forested ridge disappearing into heat haze.
Somewhere just ahead, according to my map, is the border with Vietnam.
Slashes of agriculture hacked into bushy slopes, worms of dusty footpaths, occasional villages dot ridge top or valley floor. Then, a large field - the biggest found so far - materialises out front.
There is an animated conference by my passengers aboard, but not in English.
I get the nod, and look for somewhere to touch down.
The helicopter's blades swing to a halt. Silence.
The landscape seems empty of life, but only for a moment.
Suddenly it bursts with activity.
Locals converge from every forest edge, all of them running.
There's a moment's hesitation while curiosity overcomes shyness. Then, led by the children, it explodes into a festival of joyous welcome! Dozens of beaming brown faces.
Laughter and shouting and waving. These are Tai dam people.
For them, it's a first encounter with white people and helicopters; for us, a heartwarming arrival.
But it's their elaborate costumes that astound.
Everyday garments for them maybe, but tellingly symptomatic of their unique identity, their dignity and their pride.
Stunningly beautiful colours, larger-than-life in this backdrop of natural hues.
An hour later. Apart from a bunch of children crawling under the helicopter to look at themselves in the mirror with shrieks of laughter, our presence is ignored.
There's work to do, and the adults get back to it.
"Work" is painstakingly scoring each pod on each opium poppy stem. There are tens of thousands of them.
The tears of sap, dried by next morning, await harvest next day.
In this faraway place, these are subsistence farmers; this the innocent end of the dreadful heroin pathway.
The intense young couple I delivered here kneel among the poppies with measuring tape and notebook.
Who are they? They wouldn't say, but it isn't hard to guess.
Their American Embassy minder sits in shade on the skid, chatting with their translator, a young guy in jeans who looks only a generation away from the village people.
My Military Security escort, in mufti, discreetly armed "for my protection" and there to "keep an eye on things", is asleep on the back seat.
Soon we'll be airborne again.
Another field? Maybe. Or back to our village base, a cache of drum fuel for the helicopter, for us sticky rice with fractured chicken and a hard bed under a mosquito net.
This was Lao Peoples Democratic Republic.
Democratic? Well, they had to call it something.
And did I really go there? Or was it just a dream?
• Ken Tustin is a Bull Creek moose hunter.
• If you would like to share your "Best day of my life except for ..." story with ODT readers, please email mark.price@odt.co.nz for details.
