“Be in place within days. Well before we arrive. They’ll have organised hotels, visas, flights out, everything.”
“How far is it to Mandalay?” I asked.
“A little under three hundred miles.”
“Three hundred...!”
Gudrun quelled the potential riot with another wave of the hand, “Mandalay is only the big city where we wrap things up. From where we get you out. No question of walking anywhere near as far as that. In fact, I hope we’ll only have to walk the first few miles over the border. The plan is to hit the Salween river and then float down on the current; the river starts up in Tibet, so at this time of year there’ll be masses of snow-melt to speed us on our way. Think of it as a holiday - and remember your sun tan cream...”
Like the Caribbean, I thought. Next thing she’d be telling us about waiters in white gloves offering rum punches...
“The Salween runs south,” she continued. “And eventually comes to a main road that goes straight to Lashio. From where it’s just a few hours by car... bus... whatever to Mandalay.”
“So Lashio is our first aiming point?”
“That’s right. Had we been able to drive direct, we’d have been able to reach it in a couple of hours.”
“Instead, you’re offering us a river cruise,” said Alexei, with what I thought was unnecessary sarcasm.
“Under the circumstances, we have to take a short diversion.”
“Does this tour have a leader who knows the way?” I asked. “I presume you’ve not been here before yourself?”
“That’s another thing I’ve been busy with,” replied Gudrun, a bit too smugly. “Apart from the well-advertised crossing points, borders in this part of the world are little more than lines on maps. People living on either side are well used to drifting across, using tracks known only to the locals. I’ve been able to hire a guide, who’ll take us into Burma and then on to the river.”
“What about those warring armies we’ve heard about?” asked Alexei. “Might we not meet some of them in the jungle? Or on the river?”
“Doubtful. Burma is big and sparsely populated. But I’ve also covered the possibility that we might be stopped en-route. Border guards are trained to scrutinise documents - to decide whether to let you pass. But once you’re into a country, officials are less clued up...”
“You hope,” interjected Alexei.
Gudrun ignored the comment and continued: “So while you lot have been sampling Ruili’s sex shops, I’ve been busy downloading documents from Stockmann: impressive paperwork which I can present to anyone who queries what we’re doing.”
We digested this for a while. With our food. I was confident our tummies would have no problems with Ruili’s open-air restaurants - less certain about these offerings from Gudrun. It all seemed too cut and dried. Too pat.
As we finished our meal, Su asked, “When do we go?”
“Tomorrow. Soon as we’ve done our shopping. Must have the proper equipment.
43
Gudrun was certainly thorough. Or so it seemed at the time. Ruili is a big place, so finding what we needed was easy. Everyone finished up with a back-pack of jungle-ready gear and enough food for several days. Hats on our heads. And sturdy trainers on our feet.
“Got any Burmese money?” asked Alexei, trying to think of everything.
Gudrun replied, “Of course. No shortage of Kyats here on the border.”
“What rate did you get?” asked Freddie.
For a moment Gudrun seemed flummoxed. “Does it matter?”
“Just wondering,” replied Freddie. “It’s a rubbish currency. Last time I checked you could get 1,851 Kyats to the Pound.”
“Good for you.” Gudrun was dismissive. “A few Kyats here or there is the least of our worries.”
This exchange revealed that the unflappable Gudrun could admit to being worried. And that Freddie, while he seemed to have no clue what a brothel was, could offhand quote obscure currency rates. Our genius suffered from extreme tunnel vision that soaked up all sorts of facts, useful and otherwise, but shut out much that was necessary for survival.
We checked out of the hotel, stuffed our backpacks with as much as we could get in and dumped the rest in the boot of Gudrun’s rental car, never to be seen again.
Had a substantial early lunch.
As Gudrun reminded us - wish she hadn’t. “Don’t know when we’ll see our next square meal.”
Replete, the five of us then set off, Gudrun at the wheel.
“Where to?” asked Alexei.
“First we pick up our guide.”
Who lived in a back street and turned out to be middle aged and gnome-like. Not someone to inspire confidence. We never did discover his name, so for the brief period he was with us I’ll refer to him as the gnome.
Under the gnome’s instructions, Gudrun drove out of Ruili, initially back towards Dali. There was no other choice, because the China-Burma border wriggles, as borders do, and the Ruili salient is a finger of China that sticks into the body of Burma. Unable to drive south, our desired direction, we had to edge our way out of this salient until we came to some place where the gnome could insert us into Burma unofficially - okay, let’s not use weasel words: get us into Burma illegally.
Soon we were off the main highway onto minor roads that became progressively worse. Tarmac gave way to dirt and on these we bounced around for about two hours. Surely there should be crossings closer to Ruili? I asked Su to find out why we were taking so long. Our guide spoke no English - Gudrun must have used an interpreter to fix things.
On the gnome’s behalf, Su explained that it was difficult to find a crossing where we might not be seen. There was much farmland, usually terraced paddy fields: and illegal logging had devastated much of the forest. As a result, much of the countryside was quite open. To reduce walking mileage we also needed to cross as close to the river as possible.
At last, the sun now low in the sky, we turned off the country road onto a track that was even worse. Traffic signs and human habitation ebbed away. Until we came to a dead end, a small clearing, where Gudrun turned the car round and killed the engine.
We got out, struggled into our backpacks, and took one last look at China. Within minutes we should be clear of any possible retribution for Panda, who was still hopefully enjoying his bath in Lake Erhai.
“What happens to the car?” asked Alexei.
“The guide picks it up on his way back,” replied Gudrun. “Drives it home to Ruili, leaves it anywhere and tells the rental people where it is. I expect they’ll wonder how it got there and what happened to me, but I’ve paid for another week, so they won’t bother to wonder for long.”
As our little crocodile set off, I appointed myself tail-end-Charlie, to keep an eye on things.
Our guide led the way with a steady plod. This was his territory. He knew what to do.
Next came Gudrun, a head taller than the gnome, but about the same age. Paradoxically, these two oldies were probably the fittest of us all. The gnome would have been trekking in these home hills and valleys for decades, while Gudrun had already demonstrated her stamina on snow and in water. They should be able to maintain this pace until the end of time.
Not so number three, Freddie Ricketts, whose brain power was the reason we found ourselves in this pickle, but whose muscle power was an unknown quantity; unknown perhaps, but one would suspect that someone who had spent most of his young life sitting down, might not be that fit. Time would tell.
Trailing in Freddie’s wake came Su, so slight it seemed as though a puff of wind might blow her away, but who was probably as tough as nails. Her body weight must have been about half that of her boyfriend, so fewer calories needed to keep going.
Alexei and I in the rear, although not as super-fit as Gudrun, would be able to give a good account of ourselves; should certainly be able to outlast Freddie.
We had been advised to wear long trousers, in case of scratchy undergrowth, so were spared the
sight of Freddie’s hairy legs. Everyone also had hats, although it was now so late in the day they were no longer necessary and most had been stowed. It was a balmy tropical evening, not too hot up here in the hills. Ideal for a stroll in the woods.
We walked for maybe a couple of hours, the last part in the dark. The geography was nobbly, barely a flat inch of ground, so the gnome kept as much as possible to the contours: less up and down traded in for more miles. Once we skirted a rice terrace, which loomed above us like a giant staircase in the gathering gloom.
Shortly after that, where the path opened up slightly, the gnome called a halt. He said a few words to Su, who reported,
“This is where we spend the night. He says welcome to Myanmar.”
“Can’t say much for the hotel,” I quipped, in an attempt to cheer.
Su responded with a wry smile, but I could see it was tough. Whereas the rest of us had escaped a country that might want to skin us alive, she had left home for an uncertain future, her only support a newly acquired boyfriend.
We ate a spartan supper; pitched our primitive tents for some shelter; snuggled down and tried to sleep.
What was that distant noise?
Thunder?
44
BURMA. MAY
I doubt if many of us slept much. I didn’t. Apart perhaps from the guide, we were not happy campers. I was almost relieved when sergeant major Gudrun prodded us into life while it was still dark.
As dawn broke, we refuelled for the day on bananas, stale sandwiches and hot tea. To keep back-pack loads acceptable, personal possessions had been limited to the bare minimum and dining would be frugal: mostly fruit and high energy pre-cooked meals from a Ruili supermarket; for cooking and tea making we had a few small Gaz containers. This should keep us going for about a week, after which we’d have to start foraging; a challenging prospect in these surroundings. But the gnome had said only three days to reach the Salween river. I hoped this was an accurate forecast, because we were in no state to undertake a lengthy foot-slog.
But when we reached the river, what then? We would have to find a boat. Or build one. Somehow get ourselves down a stretch of water which Gudrun, in an unguarded moment, had let slip was one of the five major rivers of Southeast Asia.
All this in a region ravaged by a civil war that had lasted on and off since the days when Noah built his ark. If we came across any locals, how would they receive us? With guns pointed at our bellies, if they had any sense.
Anyway, what the hell was I doing in this savage piece of real estate? I should have been stepping into my skis for a morning of sport in Val Fornet. Or rather, as it was now the month of May, I’d be in Greece, making sure my Sea Supreme clients were having fun in the sunny Aegean.
My meanderings of self-pity were cut short by sergeant major Gudrun: “On yer feet, you ‘orrible lot”. Or words to that effect. We gobbled down the remains of breakfast and stuffed everything into our backpacks. The crocodile reformed and we were off.
Unlike the previous day, the gnome set a brisk pace. To make matters worse, it was unpleasantly sultry, overcast yet heating up fast. Again unlike yesterday, our route failed to stay with the contours, increasingly going up and down across the ridges. Rice fields and evidence of man became fewer, giving way to huge stands of timber: teak? mahogany? rosewood? God only knows. Just an endless bloody great expanse of trees.
As we broke for lunch, I said to Su, “Is he trying to kill us? This isn’t a race.”
Already briefed, she replied, “He says we have to get to some place. Before dark.”
“The river?” Surely not so soon.
She shook her head. “Somewhere... I don’t know. He says there’s bad weather ahead.”
I sniffed the air. Windless. Cloud obscured the sun. I recalled the rumblings of yesterday evening. The last poor day had been on Lake Erhai, when the low cloud and mist had actually been to our advantage. Before that the worst had been the rain-drenched drive from Kunming. We were probably due another weather change.
In view of the hot pace the gnome was setting, I asked, “Is Freddie okay?” For some reason, I assumed Su herself could cope.
She replied hesitantly, “I think tomorrow will be better.”
This dodging of the question probably meant Freddie was not okay. But what was ‘tomorrow will be better’ supposed to signify?
Halfway through the afternoon I again began to pick up distant sounds. Thunder. No doubt about it. And getting closer.
Dusk was approaching when the crocodile came to a halt. By now I was an automaton, putting one foot in front of the other, in such a daze I almost collided with Alexei ahead of me. We had entered a small clearing, allowing our crocodile to break up. Up front, I heard Freddie say something in an excited voice. I went forward to investigate.
Square windows in the undergrowth. For a moment I couldn’t work out what it was. Then it came into focus. I was looking at a plane. An aircraft. Or rather, what was left of it. A wreck.
Freddie was pushing branches aside, chattering excitedly. I had rarely seen him so animated. The gnome said something sharply to Su, who went across to Freddie, put her arm on his shoulder, said,
“Leave it as it is. All this...” she pointed at the leaves and other detritus lying on top, “…all this is protection.”
“Protection?” Freddie was not only bemused, also annoyed at having his fun spoilt.
“He says it stops the inside getting too hot during the day. And keeps out the rain.”
Then it clicked. This was the reason we’d been rushing. This was our hotel for the night. A crashed aircraft in the jungle.
On cue, a large drop of rain pinged onto my hat. Then another. Followed by a wallop of thunder, now much closer.
With scant regard for age or gender, we made a concerted rush for the hole, the door of the wreck. All of us managed to squeeze through by the time the drops became a torrent.
When we had gathered our wits and dumped our backpacks, Alexei asked, “How about a nice cup of tea?” As though sitting in her front parlour.
There were no objections, so she proceeded to unearth the necessary from her back-pack and light up a Gaz.
Meanwhile, the rest of us began inspecting our new home, which had clearly received some attention from previous occupants. For example, the cocoon of protective foliage, which Freddie had been trying to remove, was clear of the sixteen square cabin windows, thus giving us a fair amount of light; and a damaged part of the cockpit windscreen, which was mostly intact, had been patched up with a slab of hardboard. Although the original cabin door had disappeared, the entrance was now shielded by an overhang of branches to stop the rain getting in; a makeshift porch.
Freddie, his enthusiasm barely dented by having to give up on the outside, was now exploring the plane’s interior. Although the cabin was nothing but an empty space, any cargo it might once have carried long since gone, the cockpit looked barely damaged. The crew should have made it out of this one alive. Our new crew, Captain Freddie Ricketts, had installed himself in the left hand seat and was manhandling the control column, as though about to shoot down an enemy.
“It’s a C47,” he informed us.
Su shouted back, “Come on, Freddie, tea’s ready.”
Freddie yelled back, “Military version of the Douglas DC3. Often called the Dakota. One of the all-time greats.”
He was like a kid with a new toy; tea could wait. So we left him to it. Got down to organising ourselves.
Our new accommodation might not have been the Ritz, but was far better than the stuff we’d bought in Ruili, on the assumption we would only need shelter for a couple of tropical nights. We were now being assaulted by the sounds of a full orchestra: the timpani of thunder, often right overhead, accompanied by the constant hammering of rain and wailing of wind. Under primitive canvas, we’d have been washed away. Instead, we were cosy and dry.
We quickly established our territory, Su settling down in the front of the cabin, to be n
ear her Freddie, who had to be close to his command post in the cockpit; the rest of us further back.
After that, it was a romantic torch-lit dinner: chicken, pork, noodles, rice, veg, etc, all pre-cooked, so easy on our Gaz supply. With water cascading all around, there was no problem with thirst. Wine would have been too heavy to carry, but towards the end of the meal Gudrun had a surprise for us. Mindful maybe of the Royal Navy, where seamen once received a rum ration on the principle they were more likely to do a nasty and dangerous job if half cut, she produced a bottle of the local firewater. Under its influence we began to think of this as an adventure. Morale rose.
Nice and mellow, I asked Su to see if the gnome knew anything about the history of our hotel. How had it come to crash here? And when?
After a pow-wow in Chinese, she explained that during World War Two, when America, Britain and China had been allies against Japan, China had been desperately short of arms. Britain controlled India, but in between lay Japanese occupied Burma, to say nothing of some very inhospitable terrain, so the only way to get these supplies to Chairman Mao was by air. This airlift had been called... she thought it was...“The Bump”. With overloaded planes flying over mountains in often appalling weather - something we could confirm from the racket going on outside - the attrition rate had been horrendous. Hundreds of wrecks like ours lay still undiscovered in the jungle.
Later I was able to check that Su had got it nearly right. The airlift had been known as The Hump, not the Bump. And the supplies had gone not to Mao’s Communists, but to their rivals under Chiang Kai Shek. During the long fight against Japan the Chinese civil war had been put on hold and the allies had naturally favoured the non-communist faction. In 1945, with Japan defeated, normal service within China had been resumed and Mao had driven Chiang to the offshore island of Taiwan. As a schoolgirl under the victorious Communists, Su had been taught that Chairman Mao, not Chiang, had been responsible for Japan’s defeat.
Back to the present, it had been a tough day and we were ready for an early night. Before turning in, Gudrun asked Su, “Any idea how much further to the river?”
ROAD TO MANDALAY Page 18
