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