a trip
First up
The door of the Fokker hinges up
Steps folding down
Strapping the tarmac
Through an avalanche of thundering, striated, cool grey, monsoonal rain
The field lights battling the rain
Dazed
A cool spray settling onto my face
I grab the handrail as I start the descent
Suddenly panicking
I hope I don’t get body searched?
Flashes like a passing car
Releasing my grip
Fumbling in my pocket
For the roll of American dollars
that I am not supposed to have!
I stepped into nothingness
A slip
An abrupt fall
Roll down the steps
Hitting
splashing down onto the tarmac in Rangoon, Myanmar
Ground staff
Splosh
splash across to me
Picking me up as my head rolls back to the tunnel of light from the aircraft door
The gasping silhouettes of shock
escaping into the drooping night
I’m Ok she’ll be right thanks
I try to straighten up
Pain shooting through my left leg as I limp
Into the dappled, reflected beam of the customs office
The thudding impact of the rain converts to a stamping on the iron roof
As I puppy shake into the customs office
leaving a wet spot
a wet full stop of an entrance
I shuffle towards the desk
the customs officer looks up
questioningly
The shock hits
I stagger
whiting out
doubling up
curling in pain to the floor
before the custom’s officer
Just another drug crazed Anglo
Communes through the ether
four detached arms lift me
drag, drop me into a chair
as the hostess, explains in staccato
my method of arrival into Myanmar
the customs officer laughs
finishing in a broad welcoming smile
I sit doubled up
On the verge of fainting
I drag
walk myself to the taxi
slumping into the back seat
The car then skids, ducktails
accelerating away
I am shouted at by the driver
who has been instructed to take me to the hospital
I had no idea where I was going or what he said!
Unfolding from the back seat of the taxi
Tipping the driver
I limp, holding one arm, into the reception
The light releasing a swarm of staff
Fluttering around me
As I am guided into a casualty room
Blood still on the table
I gingerly lie down
Being examined by what looked like 15 year old’s
The talking stethoscope
I assume
is the doctor
Does an examination
Painfully separating the swollen fingers on my left hand
Digging into my ballooning left ankle
Wheeling me into the x-ray room
As my left hand is put into a splint
my ankle bandaged
I am politely informed that I have broken my little finger and sprained my angle
Welcome to Myanmar
They laugh
endearingly covering their mouths
the pain killers start to kick in
me
trying not to notice the deplorable hospital conditions
very aware
that I would not have received such rapid treatment in emergency in my own country
thanking the staff profusely
they refuse any payment
I stumbled into the back of the taxi in the early hours
Blacking out in my Rangoon hotel room
until the next evening
Feeling like a panda
Black and white all over
I dropped some pain killers, showered in a heavenly warm mist
Washing the pain away
Before going down stairs
very slowly
deliberately
tormenting the handrail as I went
with my right hand
now relegated as my waving hand
I hailed a cab
skating through the rainy Rangoon streets
now left now right
I had no idea where I was going
Again?
My head bumping against the window
Remembering the invitation from my Burmese friend in Malaysia
Who luckily got out, got educated and was then
not allowed back
His father
was the editor of one of the three papers in Rangoon
So overseas families were viewed as possible provocateurs
I offered to take his family a gift and his hugs
At this point
The gift jumping in my bag on the seat
Feeling bruised, vulnerable
Careering towards a bunch of people I don’t know
in a new land
the last thing I felt like was giving hugs!
Finally swerving to a halt in a narrow dimly lit laneway
Men being assured by the driver that this
Was indeed the address
I sheepishly knocked
Leaning into the doorway
The door quietly opened
Light fleeing into the night around me
I introduced myself
In English
which is all I had
to a jumble of animated, silhouetted, people cut outs
As I bowed my way into their home, removing my shoes
As I grew accustomed to the light
Faces
emerging out of my fog
The mother, in perfect English
politely advising me
that it would be a late dinner and the father
Being an editor
Who was not allowed to receive foreign visitors
would arrive after 1.00 am to avoid attention
Awkwardly
standing
Chatting
At the edge of the one, large room
That had obviously had been cleared
With a single table and chair in the middle of the room
With all the furniture arranged around the walls
Like a dance hall
My arrival into Myanmar story
got an airing
by way of explanation of the bandaged foot and hand
As I was assisted
Through a forest of wavering bows
A sea of politeness
to the singular chair at the table
In the centre of the room
From a skirmish of activity behind me
Food started to hover
Then land on the table
I sat politely
smiled
Are you joining me I plaintively, stammered
No
we have already eaten!
Knowing food was scarce, even in Rangoon and usually through the black market
The truth of what was happening
Slowly
seeped into my being
I felt mortified
Like crying
Nodding in appreciation
Knowing this was all the food they had
I mustarded enthusiasm
Desperately trying not to insult their generosity of spirit
As the honoured guest of their son
The dishes keep coming
I ate sparingly
Tasting everything
But leaving left overs
Gesturing
effusive delight at each dish
The plates disappearing as fast as they would arrive
Until the white man
Humbly
Admitted defeat
Entering through the kitchen
A short, stocky, grey haired
Elegant man
Walked towards me
As I awkwardly
noisily
pushed back the chair endeavouring to straighten up
Bowing with cupped hands
The Buddhist greeting
As I extended his son’s best wishes and presented the gift
With both hands
bowing
Taking the gift in one hand extending the other
To guide this bandaged, bent guest to the lounge chairs against the wall
We sit either side of a small table
Our backs to the wall
as tea lands from a saronged vision
my arrival trip into Myanmar gets yet another airing
me deflecting to the story of his son and how he is doing
which morphs into the current political climate
as his son can never return under this regime
the junta has been battling for control since the coup d’tat
the cities and the plains being under the junta’s control
while the mountains are the provinces of the Karen, the Shans and the Rohingya
caught in a continual guerrilla war
that often spills into the plains
Aung San Suu Kyi is still in exile
After the assassination of her father around the time of independence from the British
The environment of fear and oppression is palpable
With resistance growing
Centred around the universities
The road ahead is sketched as rocky
Shaking myself
Realising the time
I humbling thank them for their unending hospitality
as I back to the door
the younger son brings a cab
sitting in the back of the cab
wet
the pain killers having worn off
I sketch out the next steps
In the limited time that I am allowed in Myanmar
My itinerary being approved and paid for in advance
The night flight to Pagan, tomorrow night
Then Mandalay, then Lake Inle and back to Rangoon
The approved circuit, no diversions
All night flights
Each new captivating landscape
in slow release with the dawn
The slow jogging ride in the black & white carriage in Pagan
Weaving between the thousands of Buddhist temples
That dot the valley
In its time the capital and religious centre of an empire
with over 10,000 temples
Of course
the driver’s uncle’s cigar factory was an obligatory visit
Being a non-smoker
I bought a clutch of cigars
After seeing the cigars rolled on the thighs of young Burmese women
I took up smoking?
Earthquakes and time had taken its toll on the temples
But limping
I hesitatingly climbed the Shwesandaw Pagoda
Siting on the top
Foot up
on a structure that is over 1500 years old
My back on the stupa
Watching the sun go down over Pagan
There was nothing better than this!
The heaviness of peace descending with the night
I smoked cigars in solitary heaven
acutely aware of the sacredness of this place
Still in rapture, the taste of cigars fused into my senses
I relayed my cathartic experience to the German next to me on the night flight to Mandalay
Yes!
the cigars are great
He nodded
They get all their taste from the wood shavings and ground coffee beans that get rolled in with the tobacco
Preferring the thigh rolling option myself, I continued to smoke
It was the festival of the lights
Each person buys candles and lays them in the courtyards their temple
Lighting Buddha’s path back to earth flying on the back of a golden chicken
I walked through the streets of Mandalay
Along the white washed temple walls, washed pastel blue by the moonlight
Medieval senses unfolding
Covered bullock carts
bullocks quietly grazing
Children playing
the warm lamps setting the cart canopies aglow
The dancing camp fires
painting invisible landscapes of smoke, incense and food
Of a quiet, peaceful joy
the Hill tribes gathering in Mandalay for the festival
Like scenes from a Fellini movie
A rich tapestry of images
Walking through the gateway
Into the courtyard
Hundreds of candles
mimicking patterned diodes
Lighting the way to earth
The warm glow sculpting the white washed temples against the starry canopy
Again
The deep presence of a profound, ritualised sacredness
A sacredness not diminished by the fact
That in the case of the Kaunghmudan pagoda
The fulsome form was said to be modelled on the monarch’s wife’s breast
Certainly sacred
Setting my sights on climbing Mandalay Hill
I discarded the bandages on my foot to fit into my shoe
For the long zig zag walkway, under covered walkways, tracking to a number of temples
Stopping for pain killers on route, each time gathering a crowd of young, beautiful Burmese people
faces painted with sandalwood
touching my white skin
posing for photographs
In faltering English asking questions
wanting to know so much of the world beyond the junta
running this gauntlet of radiant smiles
lifting me above the immediate pain of self
to the standing golden Buddha on Mandalay Hill
making back to the hotel
pain grabbing my ankle with both hands
it was bandages on for the next day and off with the splint
as I bandaged both fingers together, to make it more comfortable
then dropping pain killers
I hired a jeep
I set out at dawn for Maymyo Hill Station
about two hour drive from Mandalay
sitting in the back seat
with my foot raised on the back of the front seat
yelling to the driver in a continuous discourse
as we bumped, swerved our way to the Hill country
white knuckle gripping the seats with both hands
each conversation
shafts of understanding into the current situation in Myanmar
arriving in Maymyo
the cooler climes explaining the British obsession with Hill Country
I invited the driver to lunch with me
He looked around nervously
I had become oblivious to the uniformed, heavily armed, children
At least that is how they appeared to me
But the driver had not
Politely refusing
Standing by the jeep waiting for me to finish
Reminding me and more to the point, himself
of his place
Taking some food out to him
he jumped
I scrambled into the jeep
Past the white veranda mosque, the clock tower
The tour beginning with all the British country homes, in Tudor style
Only the British could build masonry houses in the tropics, replicating home
Searching, in the hope of a better life for themselves, by stealing hope from other peoples
Usually by force
They were not alone in this endeavour
As a residue from the British Colonialism
the population is really diverse
with Indians, Gurkha’s, Chinese, Chin, Kachin, Karen and Shan
the Indian’s and Gurkha’s dating back to the Burmese rebellions, right up to the Japanese invasion
with brightly coloured carriages clopping through the streets
echoing established nostalgia
the clouds gathered as we ascended back into Mandalay
conscious of the next flight
arriving in darkness
the heavens have opened for the arrival at Hoe Airport near Lake Inle
even so
I do a right handled hail of a taxi
Arriving at the Lake edge as the clouds part
Beams of radiance piercing the racing clouds
I take a chance
I hire a boat, as I fly out tonight
Heading into the Lake, beating the rushers,
As the wooden needle nosed boat, sways
Right, left
Dipping into the serpentine waterways between the rushers
As if Buddha has landed
we come up a litter of canoes along a main channel
the sun spotlighting the golden chicken on a large barge
being towed by at least twenty canoes, each with standing multiple rowers, rowing using their legs as locked rollicks
the oars slicing the water in perfect unison
the black, uniformed troops at the bow and stern
reminders that this Lake has been the subject to raids by the Hill tribes
we are canoeing through marginal space
the lake has several pagodas with sacred relics of Buddha
which are ferried every year from pagoda to pagoda
to mark Buddha’ return to earth
kids dip the canoes as they stand
waving to the smiling, orange monks on the barge
a golden canopy housing the sacred relics
the wake of the barge subsiding
we head back as the sun is beaten back by the clouds
the window to the gods closing
as the rain sets in with a feeling of permanence
wet
siting in the airport
I am early for the flight back to Rangoon
An elderly lady glides in beside me
Choosing company for the wait
My smile of greeting, begrudgingly, interrupting my flow of thoughts
I talk about the profound experience of the gentle, smiling Burmese people
Which takes us into an entwined, spiralling dance
into the meaning of life
With such honesty and openness
That I am disarmed
totally engaged
with this unassuming grey headed lady I have just meet
her husband
a giant of a man
obviously, a lot older
bumps down on my other side
they are from Berkeley in California
both animated
they own a gallery in Berkeley exhibiting indigenous art from around the world
particularly carpets or tapestries
they are waiting for the next flight into China
where they will approach the Hill tribes from the other side
he is 86 she is 69
their flight is called
they stand
gathering their carry on
I give her an inexplicably, emotional hug
Tears welling
Wishing her a safe journey
They disappear behind the gate screen
My gaze transfixed
Her husband
Poking his head back around the corner of the screen
Rolls his fingers in a parting salute, mouthing
See you later alligator
Then puff
gone
standing in my own silent void
emotional
a quiet joy embraces me
what a delight!