There was a knock at Cale’s door. A short Burmese man with dark straight hair, wearing a blue denim jacket and sporting a full set of new teeth, stood in the doorway smiling. Cale realized, besides Paula Henderson, he hadn’t seen a full set of teeth since he left San Francisco.
“Good morning, Mr. Dixon. My name is Jay Walker. Are you interested in going to Rangoon?”
“Yes.”
“We can go when you are ready.”
“I’m ready now. Let me just grab my bag.”
Cale and Jay got a lift from the hotel receptionist back to Lower Enle Lake, where the boatman had dropped Cale off the day before. A long tail boat and driver were waiting. Cale and Jay got in and took off across the lake. The wind was up, kicking up whitecaps and sending waves over the bow and into the long tail. The boatman stopped at a small lakeside village and got out on a pier. The locals hadn’t seen any foreigners in their town in many years, so the children were very excited but kept their distance. Jay and Cale walked straight into the jungle down a single-track trail. Immediately Cale noticed the many snake tracks crossing their path; some of them were four inches wide.
Jay pointed at one track that was at least six inches across and said, “This one can eat children.”
The trail sloped up for hours and broke into a Shan village. There were no automobiles, no generators, just the sound of villagers working and playing in between the small stilted houses. Jay and Cale ate lunch, and Jay went into detail about how the hill tribes dealt with the taking ways of the military. He explained, “The military will check the villages periodically to figure out how much the village will need to survive for the upcoming season and what the military can take for nothing. Of course the military writes down a receipt for the villagers, but there is nowhere to get paid back for the supplies taken by the army. In order to stay alive the villagers began hiding portions of their crops in the jungle, saying, “Oh, no, bad year, no rain—the rice plants are small, no fruit. We will have to buy from another village. I am sorry we cannot help you this year.” Cale was content to listen and continued on quietly for most of the afternoon listening to Jay’s stories. They headed up a steep oxcart path that followed along a river gorge to a waterfall. Above the waterfall, the ground was worn open into a flat clearing. It was the edge of a Lisu village, a hill tribe. The alarm sounded, children ran for their mothers, dogs came forward barking skittishly, and pigs of all sizes and shapes ran in every direction. Jay pointed out that some of the domesticated pigs have integrated with the wild pigs in the area. The difference was in the razorback hair and the emergence of tusks, which had been bred out of the domestics.
Jay said hello to some inquisitive mothers who stuck their heads out of the shadow-drawn doorways of their stilted thatch huts. The women’s faces were yellow with a flakey plaster, which was supposed to be good for their skin. Jay said with a smile, “You’re in luck, Mr. Dixon. It’s Lisu New Year.”
“Really?”
“Yes. But then again, every day is Lisu New Year.” Jay laughed.
“Tonight we stay here. Tomorrow will be a very long walk. Are you okay with that?”
“Fine,” said Cale.
The night had a festival atmosphere. Some of the younger people played guitars, as others wandered around offering pink rice whiskey to the fellow villagers. Some of the elderly women wore brightly colored dresses and gathered around a pine tree to perform a traditional line dance in unison. The stars were bright in the night sky, and Cale had settled into the hill tribe’s festive ways. He had put away the memories of the social and cultural pressures instilled in his first week in Myanmar.
The music stopped, and the dancers moved to another tree. A woman persuaded two young girls to invite Cale and Jay into the dance along with all the younger villagers. One of the uninhibited villagers grabbed Cale’s hand and led him to another tree, beginning a dance all over again.
Cale thanked his partner with clasped hands to his forehead and moved to the periphery. Jay came over, sat near Cale, handing him a jug of local jungle juice, and asked, “Do you know where you are, Mr. Dixon?”
“In the big picture, not a clue,” responded Cale.
“This was all Khun Sa territory years ago,” explained Jay.
“The golden triangle?”
“Yes. But the gold in this triangle leaks like water in a rattan basket. Since Khun Sa turned himself in, the different ethnic groups have lost their precious autonomy. Did you know Khun Sa is half Chinese, same like Ne Win? Khun Sa’s real name is Chan Shi-Fu. There was another drug lord before Khun Sa, who also turned himself into the government, and the government gave him a house in Rangoon and a house in Lashio. They did the same for Khun Sa. With a $2 million bounty by the United States government on his head, no judgment was passed on Khun Sa as long as he remained in Burma. The village people liked having him around. He was more dependable as a leader to the people than the government. He had the pulse of the people because everybody lived under the same umbrella. Everybody could make money with opium through him. He would export it through Thailand. Of course that has changed a little bit. Thailand wants support and money from the Untied States, so the Thais periodically crack down on the trade. Bribes tell the future. These local people thought the days of the opium poppy were over for awhile. Everyone waited until very late to plant. Then China, Laos, Cambodia, and your old friend Vietnam stepped forward and were happy to take the trade from Thailand. Of course some still goes through Thailand, but not nearly as much. The hills are filled with small crops and still some big ones.”
Cale felt the attack of a strong buzz and finished out the night staring into the distant fire and catching the colors of the women’s dresses as they flashed behind the flames. Silver necklaces adorned with old Indian rupee sparkled and reflected brightly into the darkness. It was cold away from the fire and laughter.
The following day Cale and Jay headed upstream through a thick, lush, green pine forest.
Cale asked as they crested a knoll at the edge of another village clearing, “So what’s your story?”
“Oh, same like many others, I guess. I ran through the jungle to avoid being a porter for the military. I only got a one-day visa when I got into Thailand, so I had to renew it every day. In Burma I feared what everyone else feared, a bullet in the head at the end of the workday because I was too weak from malaria, or malnutrition and starvation. I lived in Thailand for seven years getting a visa every day I was in town. I worked as a trekking guide in the Chang-rai area and some other remote spots. But this was all before Chang mai and Chang rai were overrun with tourists. I always wanted to be here the whole time. I love my country.”
Cale and Jay entered an apparently empty Palaung village. There was no one to be seen, not even dogs. Jay used a fire circle to cook up a potato and pork lunch then got back on the trail, which headed down a valley of pine trees with a steady flowing creek down its center. Jay stopped after a half an hour and pointed out over a small hidden valley to the north. Cale saw a crop of opium. Jay pointed to the field of green and brown round orbs stranded on top stalks wrapped in withered wreaths of wilting leaves, “That’s why the villagers aren’t at home. It’s harvest time.”
Some villagers waved at Jay and continued with their bleeding of the pods and pruning work.
Following the creek down into the shade of the towering trees, Cale and Jay came across a shack built over the stream. Jay explained, “This shack is where the locals bring their rice to be cleaned and de-husked. The process also takes away a few vitamins, which make the rice difficult to digest in the people’s stomachs. The rice is too strong. Come in; I’ll show you. The whole cleaning process is water–powered, and the stream makes electricity at the same time. The machine has a waterwheel, and here are a series of belts. The cleaned rice falls through the sifter by size. It costs the growers ten kyat per liter to clean. The machine separates whole rice, broken rice, tailings, and even rice dust. At each level the grower can make a profit. Whole rice can be sold at market, broken rice can be turned into domesticated animal feed, and the bits of rice and the vitamin dust are collected by the rice cleaner for a very special purpose. The husks themselves are also bagged and used in the rainy season on the roads for traction. The cleaners take the broken bits and the dust and boil it for rice whiskey. Here.” Jay walked to the far end of the shack, stood in the middle of many large, clay, lidded pots, and continued, “After it is boiled, it is left to cool and then spread out on a thatch mat. This is when the corn sugar or cane sugar are added and, of course, the yeast. It’s all mixed up and placed in these ceramic jugs. Add water and wait a week. This is fermentation time. After fermentation is complete, the stuff is boiled again under pressure for distilling. A rubber hose is attached to the top of the jug when boiling. The rubber hose is attached to another hose, which is where the alcohol condenses, traveling down to another jug for collection, which is sitting in a pot of cool water. The cool water helps separate water droplets from the alcohol.”
Cale stepped out of the shack, saw a buffalo hide stretched out for tanning, and asked, “What do they use the buffalo hides for?”
Jay shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know.”
A man and a woman came out of the edge of the opium field. Jay greeted them, chatted with them for awhile, then asked about the buffalo hide. They responded with great laughter and a long explanation.
Jay turned to Cale with a smile and explained, “This buffalo was accused of eating too many opium poppies, getting too high, and fighting with the farmers, causing bodily injuries. With a head full of dope, the buffalo was shot six times with an old colonial rifle abandoned by the British when they ran from the Japanese. The gun, like many colonial rifles, has been hidden from the government and handed down through generations, grandfather to son, to son, and so on. They say we can go through the field where the buffalo was shot. It’s a shortcut to where we want to go. Are you ready to move on?”
“Yeah. Do they make morphine near this field?”
“Of course, but if I show you, they will kill you and bury you in the woods. Ready to go?”
Cale nodded and moved on down the trail following Jay and only looking up when they entered a fragrant field of petaled flowers, some as tall as three feet. The field was vast and dreamy. Cale thought of doing a cartwheel but held back his urge knowing eyes in the forest would be on them intently.
Two hours passed at a brisk pace before Cale and Jay came upon another Palaung village. Cale noticed all the plastic bags, plastic wrappers, containers, and general Western packaging waste drifting around the main street in the afternoon breeze. Cale asked, “What’s up with all the garbage?”
Jay replied patiently, “One thing at a time, Mr. Dixon. One thing at a time.”
Children popped out of doorways as Cale and Jay walked down the center of the road. Some of the children were only five years old or so and already chewing betel nut, drooling red stains around their mouths. The red in the betel nut matched some of the tree blossoms and seed pods in a nearby stand of trees. The sun was dropping low on the horizon and drew the blue out of the sky, which seemingly burned the trees an even more vibrant red.
Cale and Jay had a pumpkin and rice dinner by fireside and an evening chat before heading to a local bonfire where some of the villagers would gather each night. Foreigners always drew a crowd. One thing that stuck in Cale’s mind about Jay was his serious dislike for Western companies. Early in the evening, just after dark, Jay bitterly announced, “You seem to be a bright man, Mr. Dixon, and since you will be leaving on a bus tomorrow, I feel compelled to tell you some more of my story, our story, here in Burma. Hopefully you will share it with people who will listen. Do you mind?”
“No, of course not. Please.”
“Well, I want you to know that I’m mad at the Unites States.”
Cale laughed, “There’s not many that are happy with the U.S.”
“Yes, but you live there.”
“Yes.”
“Where in the U.S. do you live?”
“California.”
“Ah, Hollywood.”
“No, north—San Francisco.”
“And Canada and Mexico are your neighbors.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t fight with them?”
“No.” Cale shrugged and continued, “We quibble about immigration and import/export tariffs, that kind of thing.”
“Our neighbors are many, and we don’t fight with them either. We fight amongst ourselves with the help of big business from far away—U.S., Europe, Canada, Germany, mostly developed countries on the list. Did you know that without China, our military wouldn’t have weapons? Without Western interests, we wouldn’t have as much bloodshed of villagers and ethnic extermination. I have seen it with my own eyes most of my life, Mr. Dixon, and my anger still burns me warm on cold nights like this one. Mobile Oil is for the Tatmandaw and the government, not for the people. Pepsi sells their soda here where dental hygiene is almost none existent. Coca-Cola is smuggled in from China; Caltex Oil trucks use the new roads that are made by forced labor. Compaq, Apple Macintosh, and Hewlett Packard all sell their equipment in our country, but only the government can afford it. Philips lightbulbs, Sanyo, Pioneer, and Lucky Strike cigarette billboards are up at the edge of some of the bigger towns. Marlboro is here, and more are coming because they are greedy and don’t care what happens under the thunder of the soldiers’ guns.” Jay stared at Cale across their small fire and continued, “U.S. planes destroyed my village for Ne Win when I was young. They flew over to kill the opium poppy, but they hit the villages as well. Many people died soon after. Babies were born incomplete. What they were dropping was part of the stuff called Agent Orange, leftover from your government’s Vietnam campaign. It got into the water, and it got into our food, on our hands, our feet, everywhere. Ne Win was happy; he was killing us with your help so he didn’t have to go into the jungle and fight for awhile. My village is gone now. The survivors were moved down into the valley where they are not permitted to speak our native language anymore and are forced to abandon their religious and social customs. It’s extermination of village life and extinction of the old ways, which carried us through thousands of miles of migration and hundreds of generations. All has been destroyed by greed in the last one hundred years! Very quick, I think.”
Cale sympathized, looking down at his hands and then at Jay, “I am sorry. I have heard different versions of the same thing and have seen some brutal situations since I arrived. I think it’s terrible, and I also feel pretty helpless.”
“Yes. I’m sure you do,” Jay said slowly with tears of rage and a fierce stare. He continued, “It’s going to continue as long as greed runs our countries and not reason and compassion. Even some of the Buddhists have been bought off. I guess what I want to know is what’s the difference between terror in Iraq, or anywhere in the Middle East, and here in Burma? Why do we not get help when our country wants democracy so badly? I think it’s because we have little to offer to the global economy. America, France, Britain, Japan, Germany, and others take our goods at a cheap price, and the military government takes the profit and takes our souls for nothing. It makes me burn, Mr. Dixon!”
“Like you said, Jay, it’s been going on for some time now. Many feel the same as you do, in your country and in the outside world.”
Jay took a deep breath, and controlled his feelings, then changed the direction of the conversation, “You’re right, enough of this. I just wanted you to know how I feel inside. We are not going to solve Burma’s problems under this night sky, and you will not be president of your country anytime soon. So tomorrow I will put you on a bus, and you will go to Rangoon. You will have to sign out of the country at the MTT office near the bank. Do it on the way to the airport so the Tatmandaw will be a few hours behind you when passing your information along to those who want you. Then leave back to Bangkok and back to your world, which is very, very far from this place. Let’s try and salvage this night by playing with the innocent villagers who don’t clean up after themselves, shall we?” Jay said mockingly.
Cale heard the condescending jab in Jay’s voice, but there was nothing Cale could do, “You sure?”
Jay looked off into the dark and took another deep breath, saying, “I need a cheroot, a glass or ten of rice whiskey, and a good song.”
“I’ll join you in all of the above,” Cale said with a nod.
Jay smirked and spoke apologetically, “Good. I’ll be fine in a minute; I just wanted you to know what lies beneath our smiles—abandonment.”
“Indeed. Let’s go get warm, and have fun with the locals, and forget about all this garbage,” Cale said trying to make light of the subject.
Jay smiled, “Yes, one thing at a time.”
A bonfire glowed in the distance. It was growing bitter cold. By the firelight, three Palaung boys played guitars and sang Western songs with Palaung words. It took Cale a few minutes to figure out why the songs sounded so familiar. One lovesick teenager sang a series of Palaung love ballads, which made the young girls smile shyly. One little girl, all of maybe six, did an imitation of M.J.’s moonwalk with his ex-father-in-law’s gyrating hip swings. Her dark eyes mirrored the stars above with a crescent moon for a smile. The villagers raised the applause with hoots and shouts, and out came the whiskey and the neighbors carrying more wood. Cale thought to himself that the warmest place in the world was right here with these people and this fire, which grew with every new person showing up adding to the stack of wood or offering a milk jug full of pink rice whiskey.
Jay joked as he handed a jug to Cale, “The pink color is antifreeze.”
Five in the morning came brutally early for Cale. He awoke curled in a ball with a blistering headache and his thin blanket beside him. Jay was outside starting a fire by blowing on the end coals of last night’s sticks and logs. Cale got up to join him. They drank tea in silence, shaking off their headaches and the cold. After finishing the rest of the pumpkin and rice, they packed up quietly and vanished into the woods, still heading downhill. Cale noticed some more spot cropping of opium but said nothing. Neither of them spoke until they arrived on a newly paved road.
Jay crossed the road and looked up a steep hill of switchbacks. There was a bus crawling around some of the hairpin turns with its brakes squealing like a gibbon high in the jungle. “This is where we part company, Mr. Dixon.”
Cale could hear the bus downshifting somewhere out of sight up the mountainside. Clouds of black smoke puffed out of the jungle canopy. Cale asked, “Do I owe you some thing, a donation perhaps?”
“No. Thank you for the walk. Hopefully it is I who has given you something you didn’t have before,” said Jay prophetically.
Cale pulled out 1,000 kyat, handed it to Jay, and said, “I have a terrible headache.” Cale smiled genuinely and extended his hand.
Jay took the money and smiled back, “Me too. Good Luck.” Jay stuffed the money in his pocket and hailed the bus as it came into view. Jay spoke with the bus driver in Burmese. The bus driver nodded and looked at Cale. Jay turned to Cale and said, “I told him you were lost and want to go to the Strand Hotel to make a phone call. He’ll drop you off nearby. It will cost you one hundred kyat from here. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye and thank you.”
Jay waved Cale off and disappeared into the jungle.
The bus was packed with locals, and the bus driver forced a man out of his seat for Cale, even though Cale objected. After the bus got moving again Cale stood up and gave the man back his seat much to the man’s protest. The trip was uneventful after everyone stopped staring at Cale. Late in the afternoon he got out at a random stop when the bus driver looked at him in the rearview mirror and nodded. The bus driver pointed down a side road and simply stated, “Strand.”
Cale walked down the road, which was on the backside of a commercial road. The ditches on the sides of the road were filled with black water, garbage, and feces. Clothes were hanging out of many of the second-story windows to dry. Cale turned onto the main road and walked a few blocks until he looked up at the entrance of the old colonial hotel and felt like he had entered another era. The feelings remained as he entered the air-conditioned mezzanine. There was a beautiful wood bar to his right with a few tables against the wall, and overhead were calmly spinning fans. He walked into the center of the building where there were tables set up for dinner with white tablecloths, full sets of cutlery, and three glasses per setting. Large plants in black urns stood at the base of the columns, surrounding the tables. Cale recognized the urns.
During Cale’s flight back to Thailand, he found a one-day-old Bangkok Post in his seat pocket in front of his knees and read of a Dutch couple, a man and a woman, found dead in a ditch near the outskirts of Mandalay. They were badly beaten and had suffered broken bones. There was an introductory investigation by the Burmese government. They had no suspects at this time, but the government suspected an insurgent cell known to be operating in the Mandalay area. There was an ongoing investigation by the Tatmandaw with the help of the Burmese secret police.
Cale could only wonder.