This is part 2 of the Myanmar trip story and was written by Dick Svee.
Burma Road
They lived among an ancient civilization; hundreds of pagodas and stupas in various stages of decay, some with cracks and broken plaster revealing eroding brick foundations; others with trees growing and swallowed by the encroaching forest.
Why the site was abandoned, no one knows. It was a long time ago.
Those people are gone now and what Buddha relics are encased in these gentle tapering domes, no one knows. There is no exaction, there are no tourists; there are only villagers and an occasional visit by Cho.
The stupas go unnoticed by the villagers as they go about their daily chores treading dirt paths past bamboo fences that surround simple huts. Some gates are latched but they are only to keep dogs or children in or out.
We wandered in and out of yards at will. They all bade us welcome.
“Come. Sit.’ they say, ‘Stay awhile.’ they motioned.
We were greeted by ‘Hellos’ from approaching children; who back off a half a step with our returned ‘Hellos. The children smile and giggle and ‘Hello’ us again.
The parents slowed and stopped their chores of cooking and cleaning.
They look up and invite us welcome.
‘Hello.’ we said. They nod and smile, ‘Hello.’
An old man near a well dips a large gourd and pours water over his partially clothed body. He saw us, laughed and dipped again.
“Come join me,” he motioned, “the water’s fine”, he seemed to say.
We laughed, he laughed. Water sputtered from his face as he hung onto his long skirt with one hand and wiped his face with the other. He swaggered over.
“Come sit,” he said tying his longyi. “Have something to eat. Sit here.” He pointed.
We were pleased but slightly embarrassed by their kindness and generosity since we were the intruder. We politely declined and asked for photos. They smiled.
“Fine,” they say and waved and smiled some more. We waved as we moved on.
“Fine,” they say, “come back anytime.”
House after house we found the same hospitality. No one selling; no one asking for anything; just kind people willing to share what they had with passing strangers.
I felt curiously warm when I got on the bus.
Our guide, Cho, stood at the head of the bus smiling and flashing his slightly large white teeth.
Cho was from the city, well educated and well off but Cho had the same warmth as these people of the country.
He said, “You know, in my country we have a name for you people from the United States. You want to know what it is?”
“Yes, of course.” was the reply.
“You are the ‘Hello People’.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I think I did both.
Later the next day we travelled towards Bagan.
The rain had been falling for months. Not unusual for the Monsoon season but the season was well past. Streams, creeks and the mighty Irrawaddy were swollen. Water rose to the banks and beyond.
Somewhere up river a dam had overflowed sending tons of water raging across the plain and the people of the countryside scrambled to save their belongings.
People lined the high ground of the roads while we drove cautiously across the water, silt and mud now covering the roadway. The people drug poles and tarps and whatever else they could salvage to make temporary shelters along the highway.
Livestock was hurried to higher ground. Cows stood tethered to trees and goats skirted about chewing anything available. The people mostly sat quietly and stoically. They did all they could do. Some stared, some talked, but most simply waited for the river to subside; but all managed a smile at the ‘Hello People’ as we passed.
No one cried at the devastation that swept livelihoods away….
except for a few ‘Hello People’ on the bus.
We pressed our faces against the windows watching as we forded the swollen river. Men from the village would walk ahead of the bus as the swiftly moving current swirled around their knees. They motioned the driver “Here! Here!” as their arm swung the direction.
Mile after mile it was the same; flooded fields, houses washed away, and belongings lost. They walked helping others, they stood watching, they sat staring but no one cried…. except a few on the bus.
Cho, the guide from the city said he wanted to take up a collection for the people. He walked down the aisle.
Wallets flashed and within minutes a ball of bills grew in his small Burmese hand.
A fortune, I thought. A fortune I hoped.
With the calmness of a Buddhist priest, Cho descended the bus and sought out the village headman.
The villagers seemed to sense something was about to happen. A crowd formed, followed, gathered and parted. Arms signaled and after a few minutes a tall man emerged from the crowd. He was older but not old. He carried himself straight and although naked to the waist, a crown would have fit his head.
Cho explained and pointed toward the bus. Eyes widened and smiles began to ripple down the road as word spread. Cho returned and we moved slowly off.
No one cried except the Hello People on the bus.
Tags: Burma