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Feature - In search of liberty and peace of mind

The people of Burma live with injustice, believing they ‘will get there in the end’

It was 5:30 a.m., and despite the early hour everyone was chattering around the small boat jetty. I was taken aback by their energy at that time of the day.

Our estimated time of departure was 6 a.m. The captain sounded off, and we left right on time, with the soft light of dawn cresting in the east and the morning stars twinkling high above in the heavens.

Mandalay to Bagan is the most travelled part of the Irrawaddy River. Boats depart daily at the height of the tourist season. The river is wide and the water is muddy. Villages are set far back from the sandy banks to avoid the inevitable annual flooding. Shining white and gold pagodas dot the shoreline, fishermen in rustic canoes go about their morning catch, and lofty palms and abundant corn fields follow the river banks.

I was ready for a day of chilling out on the deck, listening to music, reading Paul Theroux’s latest travel adventures, and hanging out with my new travel friends: the Belgies and Mike the Aussie.

We arrived at Bagan half an hour early; I felt interrupted of my lounge time.

The archaeological zone of Bagan is considered the most wondrous site in Burma, if not South-East Asia, and I have to agree. Without a doubt it equates to Cambodia’s Angkor Wat and China’s Great Wall.

Starting from the shores of the Irrawaddy, encompassing 40 square kilometres, over 2,000 stupas (temples) dot the horizon in every direction. Some temples are massive, dominating the skyline, while others lie dilapidated, collecting dust in the sand. There are so many stupas that most of them have been given a number instead of a prestigious name.

We disembarked and searched out a small guest house situated between Old Bagan and New Bagan. In 1988, after the student demonstrations in Rangoon, the government attempted to promote tourism in an effort to change its image with the international community. The government proceeded to open Rangoon, Mandalay, and Bagan to tourists. The government felt Old Bagan was too ascetic for foreigners, as residents were living amongst the premier temples. Therefore, 5,200 residents of Old Bagan were evicted – forcibly re-located several kilometres to New Bagan.

"We had two weeks notice," a local resident told me. "We were given transportation to move, but there wasn’t any money to build a new home."

We discovered Bagan on bicycles. Our guest house provided us with two wheeled "Pheasants." My bike was in reasonable condition, the brakes worked, and there weren’t any gears to worry about. I jumped on and experienced a strange sensation; the steering pulled dramatically to the right, but if I kept pressure on the left I managed to stay in a straight line. All the bikes had their idiosyncrasies, but the Belgies, Mike the Aussie and I happily set off to explore.

Our first stop was the market at Nyanug U, where a charming, charismatic old gal lured us into her shop. We managed to slip out without spending too much money and found an Italian restaurant to fuel ourselves.

While we ate, the latest Burmese hits played from a distant radio. Anne Murray’s Snowbird and the Eagles’ Take it Easy, sung in Burmese, were topping the charts. I doubt either Murray or the Eagles are aware of the copyright infringement.

Lunch was a flavour burst. Every now and then its nice to have a Western fix – we ordered pizza and Burma’s own Mandalay beer. The friendly proprietor had scribed the following on a board beside the kitchen door:

Peace of mind to all of you.

1. There’s no true success without peace of mind.

2. A successful man posses a great spiritual understanding.

3. A mind at peace is a mind free to conceive great things.

4. Nothing is as precious as your peace of mind.

5. Liberty includes peace of mind.

6. Peace of mind is a basic liberty.

I asked him for his definition of liberty; especially in this country.

"Freedom," he answered.

Interesting, I thought to myself. Buddhism has helped the Burmese cope with life. Buddhism is a faith that is based on acceptance and the belief that suffering is unavoidable. The perfect religion for a military regime to exploit.

Back on our bicycles we cruised around visiting the ancient stupas, pushing our bikes through sand, and snapping photographs. At the base of the monuments hawkers sold lacquerware, postcards, oil paintings, charcoal sketches, wicker ware, longyis, wood carvings, Shan shoulder bags, and T-shirts. It got a little tiring to constantly say "No thank you." I just kept telling myself they’re only trying to make a buck.

After a few days of soaking in the ancient magic of Bagan it was time to think about heading to our next destination; Inle Lake. We opted to organize a local taxi to drive us the 328 kilometres. We had heard through the travellers’ grapevine that the bus ride was "punishing," and that a taxi would save our derrieres a great deal of pain. The travellers’ grapevine proved to be absolutely right, but I still came up with a few adjectives of my own to describe the trip.

The morning we left my stomach was feeling pretty shaky, as was Mr. Belgie’s. Stoically we continued on and I tried my best not to complain. Our driver was in too much of a hurry. He was careening around the corners and the inevitable finally happened; we hit a dog. The sound of the impact was horrible.

"Stop!" Mrs. Belgie yelled.

He kept going, barely slowing down.

"Stop!" I yelled.

He wavered his hand and his head as if to say, "It’s just a dog."

Finally he stopped and we ran back to see the animal lying in a pool of blood.

Mrs. Belgie is a vet. She examined the suffering creature. Its lungs had collapsed and its main artery must have been severed. Within seconds, the animal died. Carefully Mrs. Belgie picked up the dog and placed him on the side of the road.

By this time the driver had walked up to inspect the damage.

She informed him, "You’re driving too fast."

"Yes," I agreed. "You need to slow down."

With trepidation, he nodded in agreement. We got back into the van with the locals staring at us from the side of the road. We proceeded at a slightly slower pace, but I doubt we made any lasting impact on road safety.

Observing drivers in Burma is interesting. Driving is on the right hand side of the road, but most vehicles have their steering wheels on the right.

I asked someone, "Why are they driving on the right, with the steering wheel on the right?"

"Cars and trucks with the steering wheel on the right are much cheaper to buy," was the answer.

Interesting, but dangerous. When drivers pull out to pass, they’re the last one in the vehicle to see the oncoming traffic. And now, here we were with a maniac driver who appeared to be attempting to break a speed record.

My stomach was deteriorating. As we drove into a small city Mrs. Belgie suggested that we stop for a break. I wasn’t out of the taxi for more than a minute before I was vomiting all over the sidewalk in front of the restaurant’s patrons. Not one of my finest moments.

Approximately six gruelling hours later, after being tossed around in the back seat, we arrived at Inle Lake. We had climbed from sea level to 875 metres on a road barely fit for a mountain goat.

Our taxi pulled into our guest house and in a delirious state I asked, "Do you have any rooms?"

"Yes," a young girl answered.

Thank goodness, the last thing I felt like doing was wandering around looking for a place to stay.

She took me to my room and in my filthy, dusty clothes I laid down on the bed and fell asleep. I woke up a few hours later to one of the Burmese girls peeking in to see how I was feeling.

"Better," I answered, I wasn’t being honest, but I didn’t want her to worry about me.

A few moments later she brought me dry toast and Chinese tea. "Try to eat something," she said. I knew I had to re-hydrate myself, so graciously I followed her advice and hoped that I would feel better in the morning.

It’s the backpacker’s code to take care of each other when someone is sick. I was overwhelmed with the kindness from all my new travel friends. The Belgies checked in on me regularly; Sylvie, a Swiss woman, brought me a "cold" coca cola; Tutu, my new Burmese friend, offered to send someone to the chemist; and Anna, from France, gave me throat lozenges.

It was also Wednesday, malaria pill day. There’s nothing quite like choking down a Larium tablet when you’re feeling well, yet alone sick. It was not a flavour burst.

I immersed myself in George Orwell’s Burmese Days , an account of the Raj in Burma. I wrote and watched a little television. The guest house was able to receive France’s national news channel, Monde.

I was writing when my attention switched to the television set – a French journalist was reporting from Ottawa. Paul Martin was announcing the new Canadian federal budget. The coverage lasted almost five minutes, I couldn’t believe that the French were so interested in the Canadian budget. Then the realization came: the Monde was interviewing the Separatists.

Initially I was angry at the biased French report. But then I centred myself and realized that the beauty of both nations is freedom of speech, freedom of the press, and democracy. In that moment I wondered if the young people of Burma would ever understand the meaning of freedom and basic human rights.

A couple of days later, when I was feeling better, Tutu took me to visit a small rural school. I was curious to see the resources and conditions teachers here had to work with. She told me that teachers make approximately $10 a month and that most of them tutor to make a little extra cash.

Tutu introduced me to the teacher and she asked me if I would teach an English lesson.

"Sure," I answered.

I walked into the small classroom and all the rudimentary stools and tables were filled with precious little Grade 3 students.

"Good morning teacher," they said in unison. Their little faces beaming with their use of the English language. They were so eager to try.

I noticed a small, wooden table in the corner that held a few modest teaching supplies I felt decadent when I asked for a piece of chalk. I wrote my name on the small chalkboard, and then wrote "Canada" underneath. Next thing I knew I was giving a 20 minute English lesson and we were all laughing together. Teachers from the other classes stood and stared at me through the open window. Kim Morrison had sent me a handful of Whistler-Blackcomb tattoos so we attempted to apply them on our arms. The children’s innocence, augmented by their enthusiasm, made the experience magic.

I asked their teacher if I could take a photograph. Her response was, "No." I was disappointed, but I guess she didn’t want to get into trouble if the local authorities discovered a foreigner had been taking pictures in her classroom.

Teachers in Burma teach their students what they need to pass their exams and the curriculum is government controlled.

"We do our best," one teacher explained. "This generation isn’t getting a proper education. We all search for second jobs, or tutor, to make some extra money to feed our families."

An estimated 27 per cent of the public completes primary school.

In 1990 the government shut down the University of Rangoon. The military is afraid that a concentration of students will repeat the demonstrations of 1988. Students who led the demonstrations are still in prison.

Those who have connections with the military travel to Singapore or Malaysia for post secondary education, or they have the option of attending a military college. I interviewed three students attending military colleges – actually one, as the others were too afraid to speak. This young person is studying medicine.

"I don’t chew betel nut, I don’t drink, and I don’t smoke," he said. "You don’t want to get sick here, because the hospitals haven’t any medicine, and there’s no staff to take care of you. The hospitals are called, ‘the gateway to death.’ Only those associated with the military have decent medical care."

Ironically, the following day I felt like a picture of health and I set out to explore the lake with Sylvie and the Belgies. Inle Lake is approximately 22 kilometres long and 11 kilometres wide. Framing the lake are hills that rise up 500 metres from the shoreline.

We hired a motorboat and headed out on the lake. At the same time several incoming boats were bringing baskets of ripe red tomatoes to be sold in the local market.

Once we were out of the canal, and on the open lake, the wind whipped against us. It was cold. We huddled against the wind and zipped up our layers. We watched, in the distance, a couple of traditional fishermen stretching their nets over bamboo frames the shape of a cone. These are then dropped in the water and dragged behind their boats.

Our captain took us to all the touristy sights: silk, lacquerware, cheerot, and silver factories. These communities are all built on stilts; houses, schools and factories – the Venice of the East. The villages looked like something out of a story book; but I’m sure when the sun sets and the mosquitoes come out the novelty would wear off. People bathed, rinsed off their food, washed their dishes and did laundry in the water. I didn’t want to think about its chemical makeup.

After five days it was time to move on, back to the city life in Rangoon. I was dreading the 18 hour bus ride. I contemplated spending $99 US on a plane ticket, but the bus cost $3 and I was on a budget.

Mentally and physical prepared I boarded the bus determined to not dwell on past bus experiences, but to happily embrace the moment. Within the first half hour a young girl in front of me was vomiting, and a man sitting behind me continued to hack betel juice spit into a plastic bag.

Around 6 p.m. we approached a military roadblock and were all ordered off the bus. As we stepped down soldiers had a look in our bags. I was the only Westerner on the bus and I felt people gravitating to me in the darkness on the side of the road. I didn’t understand what was happening… and then the military personnel stepped onto the bus and started to shred people’s bags apart.

"They’re looking for weapons," a woman whispered to me.

"Really?" I answered, wondering what would happen if they found any.

After 15 minutes of searching the driver honked the horn two times and we were allowed back on the bus. We took off immediately, with passengers putting their bags back together while they stood in the isle.

As I settled back into my seat I thought: the fun just doesn’t stop.

I returned to Rangoon with the realization that the people of Burma had cast a spell over me. I felt obsessed to tell the world of the imposed injustice inflicted upon these peaceful people. Burma is one of those mysteries that tugs at the heart, and yet the sadness permeates my soul.

The elections of 1990 fuelled hope – only to be extinguished by a greedy, ruthless, military regime.

Aung San Suu Kyi is the hope of her people. I was told, "We all rely on her, she is the life of the people."

Aung San Suu Kyi believes, "We will get there in the end."

To the people of Burma, your courage is inspiring, and the impact of your country will resonate and stay with me for the rest of my life.



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