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