Burma - Eleven

"This is a dangerous
country..."

I AM RUNNING OUT of places to search for the little orchid girls -- in real life, in my mind, in memory, in the future. We can't go to Chogali; it is simply too dangerous. So we fly to what seems to be the only place left: Rangoon, the capital of Burma, the seat of military power.

We arrive in Rangoon shortly after a bomb has killed the daughter of a top general. It is a few days before the start of Water Festival, the biggest Buddhist holiday in Burma and the only time when the army allows crowds to gather.

This year, because of earlier riots and student demonstrations that shut down the universities, the government has set up a Water Festival Disciplinary Committee, whose charge, apparently, is to cancel most festivities and unroll miles of barbed wire at traffic kiosks, temples, atop the wall surrounding our hotel.

On the streets, people's eyes shift constantly, looking at us, looking away, looking at the overpasses and rooftops from which soldiers have fired upon crowds in the past. In the tea shops, where students were once eager to talk with Westerners, young Burmese men huddle nervously on low stools and stare at their saucers when we approach.

Mister J. Donut, a pink ice-cream parlor, features strange warning signs: red slashes across pictures of cameras and video recorders. Taxi drivers tersely refuse to take us anywhere near the house where Aung San Suu Kyi, now a Nobel Peace Prize winner, still lives under virtual house arrest.

In front of the government tourist office, soldiers grip their automatic rifles in firing position.

As we trudge through the heat, visiting temples and noodle shops and the city's vast bazaar, we are followed by various men. Some are touts, eager to earn a few kyats showing us the town. A few beckon us into crumbling stairwells and the back seats of taxis, urging us to exchange foreign currency at black-market rates. The most ominous guy, wearing dark glasses and a black T-shirt that reads "Bang Boy," trails us for hours, staring, saying nothing. It is like being in a bad movie, but it is real.

We visit Rangoon's most glorious gilded temple, Shwedagon Pagoda, at sunrise on a Saturday. A crowd forms around well-dressed women pouring water over a white stone Buddha. Suddenly, there are helmeted soldiers with automatic rifles all around, one so close I can see the texture of different metals in his gun and the glint of dawn light on his thumbnail, which is trembling.

At other times, in other countries in Asia, I have been among the potentially volatile mix of armed soldiers and civilians. This is different. Never before have I sensed that anyone might shoot.

This climate -- uncertainty, humidity, suspicion and fear -- is exhausting. So, at the end of every day, we retreat to the hotel pool.

Before coming to Rangoon, I had been puzzled by the pool scenes included in recent articles about war in hot places. The big swim, I quickly realize, is the contemporary equivalent of Somerset Maugham drinking gin on the rattan verandas of grand old colonial hotels. The pool is an escape from the heat and the dust and the weird. Swimming is soothing and predictable. You push the water one way, you skim across the pool in the opposite direction.

Except. All my concerns float to the surface: I worry about Dr. Cynthia. I worry about the orchid girls. I worry about all the horrible things human beings do to each other and how easy it is to be indifferent, to turn away.

An evening breeze fans the garden around the pool, and above chlorine fumes, I smell the clear sweet fragrance of white star flowers, the same kind that grow on the bushes in Chogali. It is dusk now, suppertime. The pool has wrinkled my skin. The air is gritty, traffic honks, construction cranes slash the sky. Even in the heat, Rangoon makes me shiver. It has none of the warmth of Huay Kaloke refugee camp. Just the shadows of empty chairs.




"This is a dangerous country..."		I AM RUNNING OUT of places to search for the little orchid girls -- in real life, in my mind, in memory, in the future. We can't go to Chogali; it is simply too dangerous. So we fly to what seems to be the only place left: Rangoon, the capital of Burma, the seat of military power. We arrive in Rangoon shortly after a bomb has killed the daughter of a top general. It is a few days before the start of Water Festival, the biggest Buddhist holiday in Burma and the only time when the army allows crowds to gather. This year, because of earlier riots and student demonstrations that shut down the universities, the government has set up a Water Festival Disciplinary Committee, whose charge, apparently, is to cancel most festivities and unroll miles of barbed wire at traffic kiosks, temples, atop the wall surrounding our hotel. On the streets, people's eyes shift constantly, looking at us, looking away, looking at the overpasses and rooftops from which soldiers have fired upon crowds in the past. In the tea shops, where students were once eager to talk with Westerners, young Burmese men huddle nervously on low stools and stare at their saucers when we approach. Mister J. Donut, a pink ice-cream parlor, features strange warning signs: red slashes across pictures of cameras and video recorders. Taxi drivers tersely refuse to take us anywhere near the house where Aung San Suu Kyi, now a Nobel Peace Prize winner, still lives under virtual house arrest. In front of the government tourist office, soldiers grip their automatic rifles in firing position. As we trudge through the heat, visiting temples and noodle shops and the city's vast bazaar, we are followed by various men. Some are touts, eager to earn a few kyats showing us the town. A few beckon us into crumbling stairwells and the back seats of taxis, urging us to exchange foreign currency at black-market rates. The most ominous guy, wearing dark glasses and a black T-shirt that reads "Bang Boy," trails us for hours, staring, saying nothing. It is like being in a bad movie, but it is real. We visit Rangoon's most glorious gilded temple, Shwedagon Pagoda, at sunrise on a Saturday. A crowd forms around well-dressed women pouring water over a white stone Buddha. Suddenly, there are helmeted soldiers with automatic rifles all around, one so close I can see the texture of different metals in his gun and the glint of dawn light on his thumbnail, which is trembling. At other times, in other countries in Asia, I have been among the potentially volatile mix of armed soldiers and civilians. This is different. Never before have I sensed that anyone might shoot. This climate -- uncertainty, humidity, suspicion and fear -- is exhausting. So, at the end of every day, we retreat to the hotel pool. Before coming to Rangoon, I had been puzzled by the pool scenes included in recent articles about war in hot places. The big swim, I quickly realize, is the contemporary equivalent of Somerset Maugham drinking gin on the rattan verandas of grand old colonial hotels. The pool is an escape from the heat and the dust and the weird. Swimming is soothing and predictable. You push the water one way, you skim across the pool in the opposite direction. Except. All my concerns float to the surface: I worry about Dr. Cynthia. I worry about the orchid girls. I worry about all the horrible things human beings do to each other and how easy it is to be indifferent, to turn away. An evening breeze fans the garden around the pool, and above chlorine fumes, I smell the clear sweet fragrance of white star flowers, the same kind that grow on the bushes in Chogali. It is dusk now, suppertime. The pool has wrinkled my skin. The air is gritty, traffic honks, construction cranes slash the sky. Even in the heat, Rangoon makes me shiver. It has none of the warmth of Huay Kaloke refugee camp. Just the shadows of empty chairs.