Scotland Pastry Shop: Two Angels and a WEE BIT O’HEAVEN

         It was the driving rain and raw cold that drove me to the pastry shop.  For three hours

I stood along the road which led out of Glasgow, trying to hitch a ride north to the Highlands

of Scotland.

         In those three hours of wet, I sampled a variety of rain types:  from soft bearable mist;

To conventional downpour ; to the brutal horizontal rain.  This is a rain where high wind meets

Rain.  A rain that is punishing like wet bullets.

       

        Scotland oh!  Scotland.  I have read your poet Robert Burns rhapsodize about your beauty.

Your haunting scenery is legend in the Scottish Highlands with its wild weather which erupts

in the Moors.  But oh!  Scotland, you have been trying . . . In my ten days backpacking I have

had seven straight days of rain, rain, rain, rain, and more rain.  I hope to see your bonnie face

soon.

        The pastry shop was simple.  But upon entering, it could have been a Four Seasons Resort,

so inviting was its warmth.  It was dry, toasty warm and carried a delectable fragrance of

baking bread.  I was beyond wet.  I was drenched, soaked.  I was like a human sponge.

        

        The pastry shop was empty.  I stood at the counter and waited.  I turned and looked around,

went back to the counter again and waited.  Was anyone here?  “Hello?”  And then a head

popped out from behind the counter, an elderly white haired woman, with a generous open face

with rosy cheeks.  “Good Heavens, lad, you look like you just had a swim in Loc Lomen,” she

said in a distinct Glasgow brogue bordering on the hard to understand.

     

      As I sat my pack down in the corner and settled myself in the torn but comfortable chair,

the white haired woman came scurrying around the corner with a big steaming pot of some -

thing, putting it on the table in front of me.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t order this,” I said.

“Sweet, please it’s hot tea with lemon, drink up,” she insisted.  And then in a matter of seconds

another woman, almost her twin in appearance, came racing around the other corner with a big

thick towel.  “You must dry off, Love.”

       

      I thanked them and ordered some scones with cream.  They were so good.  But even better

was the feeling of just being inside out of the wet.  I took my time savoring the taste of the

scones.  Also I wanted to linger savoring the warmth and dreading going out into the downpour

again.  But after about twenty minutes, I began to feel ill.  Not so much a nauseous feeling, but

the sweats, chills, and aches rushing all through my body.  Although the rain seemed to have

calmed down somewhat to a light drizzle, it still was raw and I shivered at the thought of getting

back on the punishing open road again.  But I had to push on.

        

       Going up to the counter to pay my bill, the kindly white haired woman #1 looked at me

with grave concern and said:  “Laddie, you look terrible.  You are sweating and trembling.”

“I do feel a little weak and feel some chills.  But I’m sure it will pass,” I tried to say with

conviction.  In truth I felt miserable and that I might pass out.

         

         She continued to study me, shaking her head. “No, you should take some time to rest.

What is your rush?  You can rest at the shop here, and when you feel better you can be on your

way.”  She then called back:  “Mary, fix up the cot, will you dear?  Our friend is going to rest a

bit.”

       

         Mary came out and smiled sympathetically, handing me a heavy wool sweater and said:

“Put the warm jumper on, Love, and follow me.”  The cot was small and sandwiched in the tiny

back room among crates, cartons, cans and confusion.  But to me it was the Plaza Suite.

To be dry, cozy and stretch out on the cot, covered with a fluffy down blanket with tender,

loving care, felt like heaven.  Within minutes both ladies were at my bedside, one with

another pot of hot tea; the other with shortbread cookies.

         

          “Thank you so much for your kindness.  My name is Scott by the way.  What are your

names?”  “I am Gladys and this is Mary.”  I extended my arm from the cot to shake their hands;

each had a strong grip.  “Now rest up, Love, sleep as long as you want.”  “But what time do

you close the shop?” I asked.  “Closing time is around six o’clock, but don’t fret that, just rest

up,” they assured me.

       

           So rest I did.  I would sleep deep, only to be awakened in the evening with Gladys, Mary

and a younger man holding a tray for me.  “Love, this is Robert.  He owns a pub down the

street and brought you some of his shepards pie.”

      

           Meeting Bob just represented the beginning of the caring people I would meet, as I lay

in my little cot in the back room; it being a parade of kind Glasgoites, each bringing me their

own personal warmth to make sure I was progressing well.  I knew I was seriously ill as my

burning up body alternated between shivers and sweating, which continued through the night.

        

          The next day Gladys called for the local doctor to come.  His diagnosis: pneumonia.

He instructed me to take the medicine he prescribed and continue to rest.  I did so for four more

days on this cot, a cot far too small for me, a cot that would sag in the middle and creak when –

ever I moved, and had a spring or two that would poke at me.  This was my bed to recovery.

And the doctor’s prescription helped.  But perhaps the best medicine that performed its magic

was the big dose of healing TLC.

       

          As I slept or tried to sleep on my cot, I would constantly hear the women, especially Mary

because of her louder voice, say things such as:  “We’ve got a young American lad resting up

in the back.”  Everyone was curious and would ask things like:  “What is wrong with him?

Where is he from?”  Some of them were allowed to come back and stick their head in and take

a look.  They were very quiet and considerate as they would gently open the door to the back

room and take a look at the “young lad” resting, as it I were a rare extinct specimen.

          

           But the ladies were always selective and discreet about those they felt would be advisable

for me to meet, or that they felt I would enjoy meeting.  My “keepers” spent the first evening

bedside, as I ate, learning things about me.  But then came a colorful collection of local folks

who found their way to my cot to check up on me.  This was not just kind, but an entertaining,

enthralling experience in getting wonderful contact with the people of the country. 

This included:  an art professor from the University of Glasgow who introduced me to the artist

Renee McIntosh; an inspiring young playwright; a couple of fanatical soccer blokes, who gave

me the low down on the bitter rivalry between the Celtics and Rangers; plus an elderly but fit,

powerfully built gent who had hiked all the renowned mountains of the Highlands.  And then

there was Sarah, well, she was just a lovely, young Scottish lass.

       

           Each night around seven as the ladies were closing the shop, they would knock on my door

and enter ceremoniously with my dinner.  Each evening it was a different person from a different

local restaurant that brought the dinner.  It was as if from my bed I was being served up a

gastronomic adventure of the best of Scotland specialties:  from fish and chips, Yorkshire

pudding, bangers & mash (yikes) to leg of lamb and fresh trout.  After the rigors of the road,

this was first class dining.  But it was more, so much more . . . nourishing me in indefinable

ways.

        

            As I finished my meal, they would sit with me and have tea and chat for an hour or so and

make sure I was feeling well and if I needed anything.  Making sure I had enough covers.

Making sure I was informed what was on the telly.  Making sure I had enough books and

magazines to look at.  Making sure I was comfortable.  Just making sure.  It was so endearing

their quality of caring.  I “made sure” they knew how much I appreciated it.  I called them my

“two angels,” who rescued me.

        

           I always enjoyed our talks.  Their presence was healing.  They would ask me questions

about my family, my thoughts on different matters, and where my future travels would take me.

They were good listeners.  And although they asked a good deal of questions, I could not

encourage them to share much about their own lives.  The two of them appeared close in age

(perhaps in their sixties) and had been close friends all their lives.  They did tell me that neither

of them ever married and now shared an apartment down the street.

        

        By the time I woke up on the fourth morning, I felt much better . . . I was almost

disappointed to feel so good, as my time on the cot in the pastry shop was such a rich, cozy,

nurturing experience.

         

         As I prepared to leave, the ladies gave me a bag of their favorite short bread cooking and a

thermos of hot tea.  They had taken off their aprons for a quick final farewell photo. 

And surprise!  Appropriate for the occasion and their radiant spirits, the sun was finally out.

An auspicious beginning and parting.  A difficult moment.

        

         I hugged them close and thanked them again for their great kindness.  “May your good

deeds be rewarded.  I shall never forget you.” As I hoisted my too heavy pack on my back,

I said:  “I wish I could take you with me, my “angels,” to keep watching over me.”

         “Not much room in there,” Mary giggled.

         “We will be,” Gladys assured me.

A last embrace, and I was off.

       

         As I made my way down the road and out of Glasgow, I could feel myself tearing up and

looked back.  Gladys and Mary were still waving in the distance.  It was almost as though they

were seeing their son off, wishing a fond farewell to that son they never had.

       

        I waved a long final good-bye to my two “angels,” who had watched over me, and shared

so generously their wee bit o’ heaven . . . until the city traffic swallowed me up.

Burma: My Buddhist Savior (part III)

As I began to pack, in order to catch the first bus into Mandalay, Ko said, “Scott, why are you needing to rush off?  You missed your train already. We will go in later. I want to show you something very beautiful.”

And with that, following a breakfast of plums and pineapple, I followed Ko through the stalks of the cornfield down to a lake. Kids were splashing about, jumping up and down screaming, some running to shore to say “Hello mister, hello.” We walked for another ten minutes around the bank of the lake and waited for a small boat. It looked somewhat like a poor man’s gondola, being pushed by a single oarsman, to pick us up and take us across the lake which seemed about a half mile wide. The view was pristine and peaceful, with dense green forested hills rising from the lake. In every direction you looked you could see glimpses of white shimmering pagodas, resembling upside down vanilla ice cream cones.

           Disembarking, I noticed Ko handed the old oarsman a small brown bag. We moved forward through thick vegetation. He told me that the temple we are headed for is named Kyack Taw Gyi and is one of the most famous in Burma. But because of its remote setting, it sees few visitors, he explained. Except for the most ardent followers of Buddha. And probably no western tourists.

We occasionally would pass simple straw huts, kept in much worse condition than Ko’s. And see undernourished kids sitting about, some crying, Ko would seek out the parents or elders and give them plums that he had in his brown bag. “These children are hungry. They need to eat better food.”

We had now been walking over half an hour, and the vegetation was getting more dense, almost jungle like. Then we pushed through a thicket and there was the temple, in all its splendor. Ko mentioned that the temple was nearly 250 years old, that King Pagan erected the pagoda which was to be the reproduction of the famous Anand Temple in Pagan. What especially made it memorable was the magnificent Buddha that rested inside. A sculpture of the sitting Buddha, probably 30 feet high, and this was carved out of a single block of marble. He pointed out two light green spots, one under the Buddha’s chin, the other on his chest. This is showing that it is mysteriously “turning” to jade.

We were the only ones in the temple. Flowers rested at the Buddha’s base. A colorful flag of red and orange was draped behind his head. In the quiet, I could hear the sounds of song birds outside.  Ko shared some of his thoughts about Buddhism and the importance of having “no desire.” Desire, he explained, was the source of evil. He only wanted to live a quiet simple life, being compassionate, living life in the moment one breath at a time. And to raise his plums and pray to Buddha.

All this solitude and serenity and healing, soothing surroundings had put me so at peace. But as we started back, I was snapped back to the harsh reality that I had to go face Tourist Burma and find out what hassle I was in for by overstaying my VISA time. I expressed to Ko that it really was not needed that he accompany me to Tourist Burma, that it would be too inconvenient for him, it was my problem and I would deal with it. But I thanked him for his kind concern and caring. Ko would have no part of this talk from me and said, “Scott, I will support you how I can. But believe me if you go alone, I think it will be very troubling for you.”

Three hours later we were back in Mandalay. I ran into my hotel room and grabbed my backpack. The man at the reception desk, whom I had never seen before, informed me that an official from Tourist Burma was looking for me. He sounded quite distressed.

As Ko and I entered the Tourist Burma Office, it felt like a sweltering hot box. There were two officious looking men standing arms crossed, looking pissed off, as they had been expecting me. One of the men I had not seen before. He was built like a bull. Ko stood with me but a few feet off to my right. 

Before I could even speak, the chubby short officer, whom I had met yesterday, barked: “Where have you been? Why did you not check in last night?” I began to explain my situation, letting them know that I was in the village of Tanguntaing and became very ill. “Why were you in this town? Why did you not notify us of this itinerary change?” snorted the bull. “This is bad, very, verry bad,” chimed in the other one. The bull continued his rant, “You are on a seven day VISA, and now you overstay. This is a severe offense.”

“I am sorry, I got ill. I did not mean it to be a problem. I am ready to return to Rangoon immediately on the train first thing tomorrow morning.”

Ko then quietly said, “Scott was with me last evening. He was a very sick young man.” And as he started to speak more, he was interrupted as a slight, older gentleman walked in. He was dressed in a dark blue business suit and a crisp white shirt. The other two officers seemed to come to attention with his entrance to the room.  He was clearly the leader.

         He walked over to me and challenged me: “You, Mr. Stone, made a serious mistake, not reporting to us. Now please I need to know the reason why you go to such a backwater little village when tourist sights are in Mandalay.”

I responded in all truthfulness. “The reason is I wanted to get a better feeling of the quiet countryside of Burma and its people. And also when I took the bus I noticed the lake and the pagodas. “It seemed like a nice village.”

Then he fired back, “Have you been to the Golden Triangle?” This is the infamous corner where Burma, Thailand and Laos come together and is well known for its opium smuggling. I responded, no that I had not.

There was quiet for a moment. Then the officer from yesterday said, “Please let’s see your passport.” He took my passport and showed it to the leader, the little suited man; the bull looked on as well. The three heads bobbed up and down a couple of times, between gazing at my gaunt face, and what they saw on the contrasting passport photo. Then the leader said what I knew the Burma Tourist office had been thinking all along, “This photo in your passport does not look like you.” I explained my situation, how that was really me and that two years of travel had taken a serious toll on my body, having lost over sixty pounds.

“You must do drugs to look this way,” the bull responded. “No, I do not.” The leader flipped through my passport. “Afghanistan, lots of opium to buy there. Did you buy drugs in Afghanistan?” I responded firmly: “I don’t do drugs, I don’t buy drugs.” “What about Nepal? I see you have been there, all those hippies, that is a drug center.”

“Sir, I do not do drugs, I don’t buy drugs, I answered as calmly as possible.

This was followed by them insisting I empty out all the belongings in my backpack. I did this slowly. Out came my trusty blue jeans, torn t-shirts, faded brown shorts, a map of Southeast Asia, and a little gas stove. My movements were deliberate. I was feeling anxious clearing out my backpack. For although I did not purchase drugs, I had first hand knowledge of the horror stories of travelers (one a friend from England) who had drugs “planted” in their backpacks by the authorities, if the officials wanted to “get back at them” for attitude or for doing a serious misstep. My friend by the way spent six years in an Afghanistan prison. And to this day he denies that the drugs were his.

My backpack had been away from me over night.  I knew that Tourist Burma was very unhappy with my actions. Would they seek their revenge by planting some drugs in my pack? I was sweltering in these thoughts of what  I might find as I continued to take items out of my pack.

         The bull was getting visibly annoyed with the time it was taking me to empty my backpack.  So he grabbed it, unzipped the three side zippers, and held it upside down as if he were emptying garbage.  There was a clattering of items hitting the floor: a couple of pens, loose coins, some Indian love beads, shaving cream, tooth paste, a flash light, pictures of family, postcards and some personal letters from friends. Also a couple of books, Goodbye Columbus and Tropic of Cancer. The leader picked both up and exclaimed, “filth,” and tossed them to the floor in disgust.

The chubby small officer unzipped the bottom compartment of my backpack where my sleeping bag was. They proceeded to turn the bag inside out, shaking it. It was in this compartment that they came across six thick notebooks. These were my most prized possessions, my journals. “What are these?” the leader demanded.

“Those are my journals. I do some writing when I travel.” “And what do you write about Burma and who do you write to?” “I only have written good things about Burma. Please you can read them if you want. And the writing is for me only. Travel journals are for travelers who never want to forget their journey.” The three of them gave the notebooks a quick thumb through, and tossed them aside.

It was a surreal scene, sitting on the floor cross legged, surrounded by all my worldly possessions. It was sweltering and tense in this room, where we had now been for at least two hours. There was quiet deliberation. They talked to each other in Burmese. Then I noticed amongst the disarray of tossed items, resting against the corner of my sleeping bag was something wrapped in white tissue paper. It was small, no larger than an inch with a slight bulge in the middle. It was taped. What was that thing? I did not recognize it. Was it dope? Had they planted this on me? I felt my head was going to explode.

“What is that?” the leader, now looking drained himself, pointed toward my sleeping bag. “What is what?” “That white thing, what is it?” I could feel my heart racing, and sweat coming over me. I answered him honestly, “I don’t know. The bull picked it up and the three of them gathered closely studying it. Then the chubby officer opened it. Inside there was…an orange, a small, withered orange. And then I remembered.

 I explained to them that this was a gift given to me by a revered religious man in India. And that he blessed this orange and wanted me to always keep it for enlightenment and protection during  my travels. They each gave it a quizzical sniff and pinch, seemed satisfied, and tossed it to the floor. Never did I feel such relief. A simple orange, and a rotten one at that, had never looked so good.

There was an awkward prolonged silence. No one spoke. The heat was stifling. The tension palpable. Then after conferring a final time in hushed tones in Burmese with the two subordinate officers, the leader moved toward me, and with piercing eye contact, stated in precise English: “Mr. Scott Stone, you should go to jail for what you have done. But instead, you will be fined 1,500 chat.”

“What?” I looked at Ko in disbelief and said quietly, though the others tried to listen in, that is $200! I only have a total of $300 left, and this was to get me through my  remaining four months of travel. There is no way I can afford this.” 

Ko up to now was quiet, then began to speak. I do not know what he sais.  However, for a good ten minutes he spoke all in Burmese, focusing  his attention on the leader. He would return Ko’s words with a shrug, then a nod, and an occasional “okay” or “yes,” while the other two looked on as if mute.

And that was it…the leader said, looking almost relieved, “Okay, you are free to go. However, I will need to write you an official form to give to the authorities on your departure at the airport. I will have it ready for you this evening.”

As we left, Ko who was my savior before, was now my hero.  What did you say to him?” I asked. Ko just smiled and responded: “The leader, he is a believer of the Buddha…and he likes plums!”

When I embraced my saviour hero for the last time, I was choked with emotion; not only with gratitude for what he had done for me, but in knowing Ko’s kindness would forever restore my faith in humankind and the simple goodness and greatness of which man is capable.

At last when the plane finally made lift off from the binding borders of Burma into the free “blue skies yonder,” with me on it, my spirit lifted off and soared with it “up, up, and away.” Free again! Free again!

Exhausted, I could scarcely muster enough energy to fasten my seat belt and almost instantly surrendered to sleep. But not before reflecting, in reverence, for the “Man Ko Wins” of the world:  the unsung heroes quietly making a difference each day, living simply, seeking justice, serving others, even a fallen American traveler in a cornfield.

And asking nothing in return.

~ The End ~

Photo Top 1: Saturday Market in Mandalay, Burma

Photo Top 2: Way off the beaten path ... in Northern Burma

Photo Bottom: Burmese hospitality

Burma: My Buddhist Savior (part II)

The next day, rising early to the buzz of scooters, I was instructed by the front desk to report to Tourist Burma. I had no idea why, but it is all part of traveling Burma, and the red tape that goes with it. There was a new person there, a rather plump bald man who requested to look at my passport. He flipped open the passport to my picture, studied my face for what seemed about half a minute, returned to the photo, looked up again to revisit my face, and then handed it back with a smile. No questions asked, just a nod, I was free to go. I chuckled to myself that I must be the talk of Tourist Burma, “You should see how skinny and ugly this American kid has become, compared to how he used to look. He was handsome!”

Mandalay was Burma’s second largest city, a place that Kipling wrote about in a poem. To me it sounded so exotic, “Mandalay.” Although my heart wanted to explore and drink in its color, I felt too lethargic and just went through the motions.

The Grand Palace, according to my Lonely Planet guide book, was one of the two “must sees.” When I was told it was about one mile away, I started to walk. It was so hot, and I felt so sluggish, I passed on that “must see.” Instead I made my way out to Mandalay Hill, which according to the book, the walk to the top of the hill to see the breathtaking view of the surrounding countryside was billed as a “not to be missed.” This ranked higher even than a must see. But when I looked up at the hill, and read that there were 1,700 steps, plus the scorching heat, and feeling just so out of it, I did miss it. I passed on something that was probably very special. Ican’t remember this ever happening before. A valid indicator how weak I had become.

I was feeling lightheaded and hungry. Hordes of  local kids followed me and crowded around and stared as I sat at a food stall eating some stew. Hawkers arrived waving things in front of me to buy.  I just did not feel good, and those around me demanding my attention were getting on my nerves.  I just wanted some peace and headed back to my hotel. Feeling queasy, I stopped to vomit. A group of about ten kids watched, some laughing, others caringly running to assist me with water. This was, of course, the last thing I needed.

Not wanting to push my luck any further, I called it a day. I retired to my hotel.  Writing in my journal, I thought of the school teacher I met on the train.

The next morning, still feeling nauseous, I thought it might be wise to explore a near-by small village, rather than deal with the noise and commotion of the city. The train ride up from Rangoon had shown me glimpses of rural Burmese life. I was hoping now to discover some of this on my final day before heading back to Rangoon. I boarded a bus and headed out, not having any idea where I was going. I was seeking a village that just “felt right” to me. After riding the bus for about forty-five minutes, I caught a glimpse of a pagoda above a lake. I got off at this village named Taguntaing.

And this is where we pick up the story from the beginning…I had seen some pagodas straddling above the lake. But to get there I had to navigate through a dense cornfield. As the corn got higher, it became increasingly difficult to see where I was going. It was only 10:30 in the morning, but the heat was intense. Surrounded by this corn, it was almost claustrophobic. My stomach was uneasy. I was feeling just so weak that I could barley walk more than a few minutes at a time. Then dizziness set in. I was doubled over vomiting, not once, but convulsively again and again.

As I was curled over, trying to get my bearings, I heard a rustling. I looked up and there was a short dark skinned man of about thirty years old carrying a machete. His machete looked menacing. But from the look he gave me was not one of his being angry, but of surprise and concern. After explaining what I was doing here, he insisted that I come with him back to his house. Retracing some of my prior steps, and then veering off to the right, we continued through the corn field for another ten minutes before arriving in front of a simple straw hut, like the ones I had seen on the ride up on the train.

His name was Man Ko Win. Sitting on his wooden bench outside the straw hut, positioned between the cornfield and the rural dirt road which ran about thirty yards in front, he served me some milk tea and a biscuit. “You look bad, you should rest.” Feeling my forehead, he said, “you have a bad fever, come lay down over here.”

He led me to the inside of the hut with a dirt floor. Kicking a couple of chickens away, and taking a hand broom and brushing the floor, he said, “I am going to go into the village to get something for your illness. You just take a nap.” By this time several young children of the village had gathered around the open window of his hut, jockeying for position as their eyes peered at me with curiosity. Man Ko Win told the kids to scram, so I could get some needed sleep. Then before leaving, he introduced me to an older gentleman named simply Billy who lived next door. He assured me Billy would check on me if I needed anything.

My sleep was deep and undisturbed. However, when I woke up I was sweating, but I was shivering as well. I called out, “Ko,” but it was Billy who entered. Through hand gestures, he displayed two crawling fingers, and then showed me five fingers on his other hand. From his actions it looked as if Ko went somewhere and would be back at five o’clock. I then gestured that I was freezing and needed a blanket. He gestured he understood and returned soon with a blanket.

When Billy brought me the blanket, he insisted that I return to the cot and rest more. Billy also placed  a cold cloth on my forehead. He pulled the bench inside the room, and this old man with his aged deep dark lined features, watched over me until I was again asleep.

I heard voices, and when I awoke, for a moment I could not remember where I was. I was in a daze, and then I recognized Ko standing over me. He sat on the edge of the cot and spoke quietly, almost hushed, but you could feel the strength in his voice. “I want you to take this.” He held out several leaves on the palm of his hand. The leaves all green in color, about an inch in length, had the texture of sage, but no smell. I am sure he could read the hesitation on my face, and he said, reassuringly, “Please take. This will help calm stomach.” I chewed the first couple cautiously, basically no taste. With no seeming after effects I downed the remaining leaves with greater ease. 

After a short time, surprisingly, my stomach actually did feel better. So I left my cot and joined Ko on the wooden bench. Together we shared a dinner, of boiled chicken with rice, followed by his home grown plums, which were especially delicious. No curry.

As I sat with Ko and sensed the calm of the place, I felt at ease. The lonely dirt road, running in both directions as far as you could see with its thick green vegetation, was so tranquil and welcoming in comparison to the bombastic buzz of Mandalay. For two hours or so, we just sat looking out, talking now and then, sipping our milk tea. A water buffalo would meander by, a woman supporting a long pole across her shoulders balancing two large containers loped past, a couple of bikers coasted by, each waving to Ko.   

I felt so comfortable with him and protected. Even though knowing him only a mater of hours, I had trust in him to do what he thought was best for me. “Ko, thank you very much for your kindness in taking care of me,” I said as we had finished the chicken and now began to sip our milk tea. He nodded quietly, his face breaking into a slight smile. I looked over at Billy who was sitting behind us smoking a huge cheroot, a cornstalk about eight inches long and very popular in Burma. I noticed he was stirring something in the wok.

Man Ko Win was forty-one years old. However, with his smooth dark skin, open face and easy smile, looked ten years younger. He previously worked for government services for fourteen years. Living in Rangoon, he became tired of the noise and congestion and moved to this village of Tanguntaing about five years ago.

He felt good also getting free from working under the controlling clutches of the government. He was now doing all he could to make it as a farmer growing plums. “I love the peace that the village brings, and being on my own, doing my own business,” he said. I asked him about his family. “I have two young children, who live with their mother in Rangoon. I care for them, but I prefer to be apart from them, to see them every so often. I like the solitary life.”

Ko went on to talk about Burma, and not in a positive way. “The country is not stable. The government is corrupt, led by a ruthless man named Ne Win, who has been in power for sixteen years. We are isolated from the outside world.” Ko went on to say that the Burmese are not allowed to travel out of the country; and if you do, you are never allowed back in. “If I was to talk to you and a policeman saw me, he would likely stop and want to know what the conversation was about.” He continued speaking of the oppressive measures. “Mail is opened. Burma is a very poor country, and the government has power over private industry.” 

Many people Ko knew in Burma had crossed the border over the mountains to enter Thailand, and even India, as both presented more opportunities for the independent business person.  Ko said he was strongly considering doing this.

It was now almost 9:00 p.m., the sky was turning orange and pink, and a soft breeze gave nice relief from the humidity.  Billy called out to Ko. Ko got up and went over to where he was cooking. He looked in the wok, nodded, and picked it up and showed me. Inside the wok were what appeared to be grasshoppers frying. Ko nodded his head approvingly and said something to Billy.

Although my stomach felt better, I started to get the cold chills again. Ko gestured to go back to the cot and sleep.  However, before I did Billy came forward with a glass of green liquid. It looked awful. “Is that drink part of that?” I gestured to the fried grasshoppers. Ko, nodded, “Trust me, this will be good for you, bring back strength.” By this time, I had built up so much trust in Ko that I would probably eat or drink anything he suggested.

It tasted like it looked, only worse; it was terrible!  I only hope it does me good, I thought.

Just as I began to get comfortable in the cot and began to doze off, it just hit me. I remembered about having to return to my hotel in Mandalay, and needing to catch the 7a.m. train tomorrow to Rangoon, before my seven day VISA expired. How could I forget?  How could I make such a serious mistake!

I called out to Ko. He joined me by my cot, and I explained to him the VISA restrictions and how I could be in big trouble with Tourist Burma. He was cool and collected: “We will deal with this tomorrow. But you are not going anywhere tonight. There are no busses that early. Just sleep well.”

The next day I woke feeling better, but I was very anxious about my VISA situation and dealing with Tourist Burma. Would there be a big fine, would I be put in jail? I once again expressed my concerns to Ko. He just calmly said, “I am sure they have their strict rules. I will go with you and hopefully help the situation out.”

As I began to pack, in order to catch the first bus into Mandalay, Ko said, “Scott, why are you needing to rush off?  You missed your train already. We will go in later. I want to show you something very beautiful.”

~ to be continued ~

Top picture: with Man Ko Win in his house

Bottom picture: a market in Mandalay, Burma

Burma: My Buddhist Savior (Part I)

His name was Man Ko Win.

He found me in a cornfield, doubled over and vomiting.

He was a saint…his care restored my health; his pleading kept me out of a Burmese jail; his serenity sustained me.

Let me backtrack five days to Rangoon, Burma, and how I arrived in this position, and what would transpire.

“NO SELLING CIGARETTES OR LIQUOR” read the big bold black sign above the reception desk of the Rangoon YMCA, a hotel that was well known for “accommodating” backpackers. This referring to the illegal black market that was so prevalent in Rangoon.

The man at the desk, his head barely reaching the top, asked for my passport, and declaration form with a most official tone. Then following his approval, I turned to go to my room, when I heard a, “Pssst, hey do you have any Johnnie Walker or American cigarettes?” I pointed to the sign.  He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “Forget about it,” or “don’t you understand you are in Burma?  This is our way.”

Burma today is called Myanmar. The horrific tragedy of the June, 2008 cyclone, taking 140,000 lives and the strict isolation from the outside world is well documented. In 1978 Burma presented a mysterious travel destination.  Only very recently had it opened to tourism, and I had never actually met a person who had traveled there.

However, those whom I talked with who had heard from others spoke of its lush landscape, dazzling pagodas, gentle Buddhist people and recommended heading north, to Mandalay or Pagan.  But this rosy image was also tainted with tales of a country that was repressive, a police state that was run by a dictator and a strong armed military, plenty of red tape which allowed only seven days VISA for travel. It was a country that you needed to be on your best behavior as a traveler and strictly obey all government “rules and regulation.” Of which there were many.

It was this shroud of mystery and sense of being an intrepid explorer that captured my imagination.  But, with only seven days, I would have to move quickly, and be in my best traveling shape. Unfortunately this was not the case, as I arrived in Rangoon via my two hour flight from Katmandu, Nepal feeling weak, exhausted and sick. My weight, as of yesterday had reached an all time low. It read 55.4 kilos or 122 pounds. Two years ago when I left the States, it had been a healthy 185 pounds.

I was especially disappointed that my health had taken a turn for the worse, as I had expected in Kathmandu, with a full week of just kicking back, eating good food, and recharging my batteries from the tough travel of India, to get better. But unfortunately this was not the case.

Katmandu, the capital and largest city of Nepal, was a place that is absolutely beloved by backpackers, including me. The heart of the city was made up of narrow, twisting streets with ornate wooden balconies and over 1,000 temples, including the Living Goddess.   A young girl of eight years old would every morning at nine o’clock would open her window and smile and wave to those below.

Restaurants with reassuring, inviting names such as Grandma’s, California Café and Nirvana served up comfort food with familiar sounding dishes that travelers missed: macaroni and cheese, apple pie, meat loaf, lasagna and cheeseburgers. And that was the cause of the problem.  Because the comfort food was so familiar, travelers would assume it was safe like that same food back home.  They would not question it, as they would have in India, where you were always on guard and caution about the food and water.  In Nepal, you relaxed, the defenses came down and bang: food poisoning!

          On my third day in Kathmandu I experienced this.  My familiar sounding dish was shrimp scampi. Within fifteen minutes after finishing I knew I was in trouble. It was until I was ready to leave after I had eaten the shrimp scampi that I learned that Kathmandu, (with all its positive accolades) was known among travelers as “the dysentery capital of the world.”

What also made Katmandu so appealing was its being a crossroads for international travelers. Istanbul probably had more travelers coming and going, but many of those were the short two month college summer vacation variety coming from Europe. Whereas Katmandu attracted the hard core, those who had been on the road a long time, the vast majority arriving overland were directly from India. And like me, they showed their travel time on their road-weary bodies.

Sitting at a café with my new traveling companion Jack, a British architect about thirty years old, whom I met on the bus from India to Kathmandu, we would sip tea and watch the sad parade of travelers walk by and play this game: “Do I look better than he does?” As we would witness astonishing, exhausted, gaunt looking backpackers, amble by, we would compare our emaciated bodies to theirs. The results: I was about the norm; Jack looked a little better than most. But I joked with him that he had only been on the road for about eight months. And, also, his route was “softer,” having spent most of his time in Bali and Thailand and only three weeks in India. India was commonly known among travelers as the most grueling of travel destinations. There was definitely a “look” to those that had traveled India. That look was weight loss.

I spent two days in Rangoon.  Because of the lingering ill effects of the scampi, I spent the time just resting up for the train trip north to Mandalay. However, I did find the energy, thankfully, to visit the world famous Shwedogen Pagoda. Standing 376 feet, the bell shaped pagoda was mesmerizing in its golden glow plated with over 21,000 solid gold bars. The very tip of the stupa was set with 5,448 diamonds, with 317 rubies, sapphires and other gems, 1065 golden bells and a single 76 carat diamond.   Surrounding the pagoda were many smaller Buddhist shrines in silver and gold. It was dazzling, a mind blower. I had never seen anything like it. I felt like I was in the Emerald City of Oz.

The train to Mandalay was to be 445 miles, departing at seven o’clock and was scheduled to arrive thirteen hours later. As I boarded I felt fairly good, and in high spirits. The train itself was comfortable by south Asian standards, in spite of the seats being hard wooden benches. But it was clean, with good size windows, and most important not over crowded. I was seated across from two young orange robed Buddhist monks. A middle aged man sat on my bench with a seat between us. He wore an old but classic Harris tweed blazer with a red tie. With his silver hair and thick glasses, he presented a distinguished professorial look.

The Mandalay train chugged on in a slow unwavering line, passing simple huts made of straw on stilts, virtually in the shadow of the railway track. The children, their faces covered in white powder, would jump up and down as the train approached and run as fast as their little legs could go hoping to catch up with it. Further out, you could see people in the lush rice paddies knee deep in mud. Pausing from work they would wave, some giving the peace sign. All seemed to wear huge grins under their large bamboo triangle shaped hats. 

Yes, so far so good. The scenery was nice, my body functions seemed okay; and I enjoyed getting to know my train companions.  The monks spoke no English and shared little conversation even between themselves. But their faces were so peaceful, it felt good just sit close to them, as if they had blessed our seats with good harmony. They shared with me their mixed assortment of nuts, and every so often they would look at me and just smile. The man in the blazer, sitting to my left, I noticed had the book Airport by Alex Haley, resting on his lap. We began to talk. Our conversation was limited but enlightening. It was also a conversation that was cautious, spoken in a quiet voice, as if not wanting to be overheard.

His name was Kandin, and he was a teacher of high school in Rangoon. As our talk took form, he moved to sit in the space next to me. “Burma is a repressed society. The government watches the actions of people closely.” He went on to say that the book he was reading was one of only two western novels that were currently allowed to be purchased on the newsstand. I found this shocking. Digging into my shoulder bag, I pulled out a beat-up copy of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. “If I gave this to you, could you keep it?” Kandin nodded his head as if disgusted. “No, I would have to hide it. The central government monitors what we are allowed to read.”

I found meeting Kandin insightful, and looked forward to continuing our conversation on the remaining six or seven hours. However when the train stopped at the next town, a new passenger joined our bench, an army officer in his mid thirties.  He was a large man and imposing in stature.  Dressed in a crisp tailored olive green uniform with gold buttons, there was a severity about his face, square jawed with a two inch scar under his right eye.

Hoping to maintain the ease and good feeling of where we sat, I greeted the officer with a “hello” in Burmese. He looked at me as if he smelled something bad, and then spit a red stream beetle nut on the floor.

With the officer’s forbidding presence in the car, the conversation between Kandim and me came to an abrupt end. He nodded ever so slightly “no” with his head, as the officer sat down.  Even the monks’ body posture and faces seemed to tighten.

It was also at this stop, that I jumped off the train and purchased some food to take back on.  It was lunch time, and I was hungry.  I was feeling good up until now.  I should have played it safe and bought some oranges from the fruit seller.  But instead I opted for curry with a questionable meat item.

Well, if my mouth had stopped speaking on the officer’s arrival, my stomach started chattering very loud.  I could feel the impact of the curry with its mystery meat almost immediately.  Within the next hour I dashed five times to the toilet.  My diarrhea had become so frequent, that I had to excuse myself from where I was sitting  (explaining to Karmin, half smiling to the monks, rubbing my stomach).  For the remaining four hours I would stand positioning myself by the toilet. And now adding to my discomfort, vomiting as well.

It was during my time of standing by the toilet that Kandin approached asking how I was.  Looking over his shoulder, he handed me a piece of paper.  Written on it was the following list:

Farewell to Arms – Ernest Hemingway

The Great Gatsby – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Sons and Lovers - D.H. Lawrence

Of Human Bondage – Somerset Maugham

Huck Finn – Mark Twain

I understood.  He wanted books, reading material from the west. Kandin, looking over his shoulder spoke quietly, “If you could send me these, I would be so grateful.” I nodded to him, “I will, I promise.” He then added, that there were two addresses. The first was his, but the second address was where to send the books. It was the address of his brother, who lived in a rural area. He added that the government would be less likely to open his mail there than in Rangoon.

“I wish we could have spoken more, it is just not possible with that officer. Perhaps he doesn’t understand English, but the risk is too great,” he said.  I let him know that I understood and asked if he would like my copy of Sun Also Rises. A wide but controlled smile appeared on his face. And before getting off the train, I made the illegal exchange of the Hemingway novel.

As I exited the train station I felt totally spent, as my last four hours I basically camped out in the train’s disgusting toilet. I was abruptly stopped by two stern looking men who greeted me with “Tourist Burma, follow this way.” I followed them back into the station and into a small side room, where I noticed there were two young, long haired travelers. I nodded. I heard a “salut,” they were French. We were to show our declaration form, and fill in what we had acquired since we boarded the train.

I had trouble finding the form. I could sense they were watching me closely, as I dug through my backpack. Not a good way to start with the authorities. I could hear them snicker and felt their eyes closing in and studying my soiled, dirt caked backpack. I started to mutter, “I know it’s here. I know it’s here somewhere.” Finally finding it, showing it to them, as if it were a golden medal, I sat in a chair and wrote in what I had purchased on the train journey.

The only thing I had bought was the boxed lunch at the train stop. The declaration form required not only the cost, but the description of what was purchased. I knew the cost, 5 chat $0.80, but the description, hmmm, I really had no idea what it was I ate. Do I write “mystery meat curry?” However, this was not the time to be cute, or get involved in a gastronomic debate, so using literary license I just wrote “chicken curry.”

As the inspector studied my passport, he paused, scrutinized me, and then looked at the passport again, and once more at me. It was as if he could not believe I was the person in the photo on the passport. I felt like exclaiming, “The photo was taken sixty-three pounds ago.”

The three of us were then taken to the place we were to spend the night. We had no choice of hotels. The place we were assigned was fairly clean and acceptable but the cost was a full seventeen chat ($2.50).  Wow, expensive!  The French boys and I muttered to each other on this highway robbery cost. It was almost three times as much as the places I stayed in India. However, though irked by the cost, I had no energy to complain and crashed immediately.

~ to be continued ~

Top, Photo 1: Biking in Kathmandu, Nepal

Top, Photo 2: Monkey Temple, Kathmandu Valley

Top, Photo 3: Architecture in Kathmandu

Bottom Photo 1: Statue of Diety in Kathmandu, Nepal

Bottom 2: Restaurant Aunt Janes Place, Kathmandu, Nepal