A Taste of Victory

September 18, 2007

Our trip started off quite uneventful. After a few days in Kyeng Toing, our schedule eventually took up something of a pattern. We would wake up early, meet in the small reception desk/cafeteria, get breakfast, venture forth to the mountains, visit small, native villages, and return back in time for dinner at one of a half dozen or so restaurants. Our presence there just about doubled the population of the town and made us part of the less than a dozen or so tourists in the region. (The Burmese are masters of the military checkpoint.)

We had been told many times that it was the middle of the monsoon season, and it immediately made its presence known. The first days light drizzle quickly turned into an all out downpour, as walls of rain descended upon us. Every square inch of Gor-tex and waterproof materials proved totally useless, and any effort to stay dry was quickly abandoned as the rain pounded us mercilessly.

Still, we trudged always onwards and upwards. We eventually straggled into a small, shanty village and were greeted by a few very old women. They led us by the hand into a small home with a large hearth and fed us. Then they rummaged out some bags that they and the rest of the village had made and urged us to buy them. I bought one from a sad, quiet, desperate eyed old woman. If the actual living conditions that these people have to face aren’t enough to pull on ones heart strings, then, especially for the most impoverished, the sheer desperation that they hawk their wares is heartbreaking.

We represented probably more foreign peoples than had even been assembled in that first village. We numbered probably less than a dozen, but the inhabitants of the village numbered only a handful more than that. After spending some time with the elders, and allowing for the rain to slack, we ventured forth into the courtyard/town square were the children all dutifully lined up to receive gifts we had brought them. We gave them the customary candy/school supply/toiletry triumvirate and bid them adieu.

We all left in a much more somber mood than we entered. I have never seen a place like that before. Here we were, three hours walk, uphill, away from the closest “road” and these people were living here! They somehow eek out a living on farming and the occasional tour group who come and spend a few bucks buying their goods. There is no electricity or running water. There is no hospital or school. There is, however, strangely enough, a church and lots and lots of rain.

Coming down the mountain, the rain, which had subsided, continued anew with fresh vigor. Visibility was almost zero. The paths came dangerously close to washing out completely. Regardless, we trekked.

Then, suddenly, the rain stopped completely.

It was amazing to see the lush land seem to suck in the massive torrent of water like a sponge. There seemed to be an audible slurping sound all around as the reddish brown clay claimed back its moisture from the combative sky. It seemed impossible, but somehow the rain and wetness vanished and the sun peeped out from behind the massive, dark clouds.

Little did we know, it was actually impossible.

We were cheering our good fortune as we came towards the end of the hike. We could faintly see the Civilian and the Aviator, our vans, on the road below. My driver, as far as I could tell, was smoking his customary cigarette and smiling. I was slowly walking off the wetness from my body when I came to the last hurdle of the day.

The water all had to go somewhere, I knew. In the back of my mind, I knew that something was strange about the lack of wetness from the days rains. And suddenly the answer was staring me in the face. There it was, just meters from the road and salvation: a river across the trail.

It wasn’t just any river, either. It was wide, it was deep and it was fast moving; it was the final blow from mother nature herself in an attempt to thwart our jaunt through the mountain. Our porters were gamefully already on the other side, smiling at us and beckoning for us to come over. Zo was in the middle of the group, instructing us to, “Run and don’t stop!”

So, in the Burmese way, we grinned and bared it. We lowered our heads, kept a sharp eye and sprinted across. The water rushed by quickly, a brown, churning, bubbly force. It was about thigh deep, thus ensuing that any dryness that might have somehow been left was quickly obliterated. One girl fell and a couple people left with with a fair number of leeches sucking hungrily on legs, feet, and in one instance, from a scene straight out of the movie Stand By Me, on parts unmentionable.

We all returned to the vans in a heap. We carefully inspected ourselves for foreign bodies, tore off our ruined socks and battered shoes and crawled into the sweet, luscious dryness of the van. My thoughts alternated between reminisces of the day and forecasts for the next day.

It was a quiet ride back to the Private Hotel. Between the thousands of gold covered pagodas, the red, craggy mountains and lush, green landscapes, it seemed like we had entered a world that wasn’t of this planet. The colors just seemed more vibrant, the smells more memorable, the sights more incredible than what real life usually offers up. Burma is a land of mystery, full of color and sound that seems like nothing else in the world.

We slowly meandered back towards town– most of the roads by now had been rained out. There was a real sense of accomplishment, though. We had seen and we had survived. That feat alone seemed like enough of an accomplishment to warrant a good day.

They next day, however, would prove to be a completely different story.