ROAD TO MANDALAY

by Rolf Richardson

  Although not as arduous as our trek from the border, it took longer than I’d anticipated to reach the river. Su said this was because we were not heading for the village itself, but a mooring a couple of miles downstream, away from prying eyes.

  After a break for lunch, we got there at the same time as the afternoon shower, so stood there under a primitive shelter until the worst of the weather had passed. This gave us a chance to inspect our prospective transport, a narrow craft with high prow and three crosswise benches. Someone had enjoyed themselves with a paint brush because the upper surface was yellow, the interior red and the sides a multi-coloured pattern of speed strakes. The outboard motor at the stern suggested it should actually produce a decent turn of speed.

  When the shower had passed, Gudrun and the head-man went down to inspect the boat. There was then a discussion between Jim and his father which ended with nods and Su telling us all was ready.

  Gudrun turned to me. “Okay, Max, time for a test run. See what you make of her.”

  “Me?” I was taken by surprise.

  Gudrun grinned. “Didn’t you say you were Sea Supreme in the Greek Islands? That should make you our sailor.”

  I nodded. Water was water, boats were boats. Wherever you went. But it was an interesting challenge because the river was flowing fast, so I would have to be careful.

  I got in, gingerly, so as not to capsize and make a fool of myself before we had even left. Jim joined me, a smile on his face, interested to see how this stranger would cope. It was good to have an expert on hand if things went pear-shaped, but I was determined not to let that happen.

  I tugged the outboard into life, tested the throttle and let the engine settle. Then gave the signal to cast off.

  Upstream first. Against wind and water. The other way you’d soon disappear beyond the horizon if things went wrong.

  The little craft was a joy to handle, responsive and fast. After a few hundred yards and some wriggles to test the helm, I was confident enough to turn round. Now with the current, we positively raced along. I waved to our party on shore, took her a short distance downstream, then back to our mooring. Gudrun clapped, which was gratifying.

  It was now quite late in the day and I didn’t know what the next move was to be. Plan A: load up and take a couple of hours on the river before finding somewhere to spend the night? Or Plan B: stay put and wait until morning? In fact we got Plan C, because the previous discussion between Jim and his father came to life again, now more excited and heated. Surely not a last minute hitch? It ended with nods from the head-man, reluctant nods, by the look of it. Su explained,

  “Jim’s coming with us.”

  “I thought the village was scared of having anything to do with us,” I said.

  Su nodded. “They still are. But Jim said he wants to help. And it makes sense, because he can bring the boat back when we’re finished. We only need to borrow it.”

  ‘Hire’ not ‘borrow’ would be the word I’d use. We’d still have to pay something. But this was great news in more ways than one. Instead of blundering around in a strange and hostile land, we would now have a native to take us down river.

  It had apparently been the age-old conflict between generations: the young lion eager to earn his spurs against the parent reluctant to yield the reins. That Jim, the young lion, had won the day was surely due to the boost of confidence he’d received from to his friendship with Freddie.

  The older generation - the head-man - departed and our new captain issued his orders. He said our passage to the Lashio road could be completed in one go during daylight, so we would spend the night under the shelter by the mooring. We would start soon after dawn, Jim and I sharing the helm, as it would be a long day.

  Plan B now modified by Plan C.

  49

  Next morning dawned bright, with scattered cloud and almost windless. Ideal for a river cruise. We loaded the boat with our few belongings and set off. Jim indicated I should take first shift at the helm, while he sat in front, on the look-out for hazards. ‘A little to the left’; ‘okay’; ‘slow down’ were natural hand signals that knew no language barrier. In the event, this first session was drama-free.

  After a couple of hours we changed over and I realised Jim had let me go first because this had been the easy bit. Soon there was disturbed water ahead. I signalled a go slow. Jim grinned and gave a thumbs up. He said something to Su, who told us to, “hang on”. A set of rapids. Just as well we were not trying to negotiate this stretch on our own.

  The Salween is a big river, usually wide enough to be placid. On either side forest alternated with rice terraces and odd signs of habitation. But in a few places the land tightened into a gorge, the current speeded up and, for the unwary, the going could become fraught. But not for Jim, who had grown up in these parts. We enjoyed ourselves like kids in a waterpark.

  It was approaching midday and I was wondering whether we would stop for lunch or take it on the go, when Gudrun gave a shout. She pointed at the right bank, from where a boat like ours had appeared; a boat similar in shape perhaps, but less garishly painted. It was quite difficult to see against the green of the forest - well camouflaged.

  Jim immediately throttled back. Gudrun yelled at him to press on. Even to someone with doubtful English her message was clear, but Jim ignored her and came out with one of his newly acquired English words, “Army.”

  As the other boat gained on us, we could see he was right. Whether or not they were actually army, two of the three men on board carried rifles. There was little doubt they could out-run us, so we were in no position to argue.

  The other boat was soon alongside and no language was necessary to understand the message: follow us. By now Gudrun realised that protest was useless and probably counter-productive, so she remained silent as we turned around and moored next to them on the river bank.

  I’m sure we were all scared. Everyone, that is, except Jim, who seemed remarkably relaxed, even friendly towards the other three, whose dress looked distinctly military.

  It had happened so fast and was so slick, it was difficult to escape the conclusion that our abduction was no accident. I remembered the exchanges between Jim and his father before we left. We had originally expected to travel on our own, but the head-man had been persuaded to let his son join us. Did this mean he knew nothing and it was Jim who had betrayed us? Jim, the lad we had taken to our hearts? Freddie’s best mate? Surely not!

  As we disembarked, one of the soldiers indicated we should take our backpacks. This was done so casually, even politely, that I began to feel less apprehensive. On every film where the hero is taken by an armed gang there’d be drama: shouting; shots; prodding with rifles. Not here. We followed the three men only because it was expected of us.

  We did not have far to go. Barely a hundred yards into the forest, just far enough so that it could not be seen from the river, was a small camp: half a dozen tents, with a few men loafing around.

  As we appeared, they stopped loafing; sprang to life with excited chatter. From one of the tents appeared an older man, also without any visible insignia on his worn uniform, but somewhat smaller and chubbier. He had a slight limp. Clearly their leader.

  He came up to Gudrun, held out his hand and said, “Welcome.”

  In English!

  Gudrun shook his hand and gave a curious half-bow, as though uncertain how to respond.

  “Call me the Colonel,” he said. “You’re expected. And here you are, right on schedule. Jolly good show.”

  Apart from the scruffy dress, he could have come straight out of the Military Academy at Sandhurst. Perhaps he had.

  “Thanks to our good friend here.” He gave Jim a friendly pat on the shoulder. “You need to look after him.”

  So it had been planned: Jim insisting he should lead us down the river. ‘Lead us down the river’ in every sense. At present everyone seemed very friendly. I just hoped it was not the start of a ‘good guy, bad guy’ routine; that we would not
soon be faced with the Colonel’s aggressive other half.

  “You’ve had a tiring morning,” continued the Colonel. “Time for a modest repast. Then we talk.”

  The repast was indeed modest, but what else could one expect in the middle of a Burmese forest. Food was rice and some vegetable concoction; drink was tea - we were, after all, near tea country; our chairs were lightweight canvas and we ate off log tables from the forest.

  Conversation was guarded, the Colonel enquiring innocently how we came to be so far from the usual tourist trail. Left unsaid was the weird composition of our group: four very different Europeans and one slip of a girl from China.

  Gudrun’s reply, that we had arrived at the border to find it closed and been forced to make do, was difficult to believe. Why had we not gone back and found another way out of China? A legal way.

  We were not the only ones being coy about the truth. Our ‘Colonel’ obviously did not hold that rank in the regular army, so had to belong to one of the factions making trouble for the regime. The fact that Jim was chatting and joking with the men who had brought us in confirmed this. It was inconceivable that a young man in the Shan states would be best buddies with the hated boys from Rangoon.

  Lunch over, the Colonel opened the serious business by asking for proofs of our identity, adding: “We’d heard you were around, but the bush telegraph is not known for its accuracy.”

  Instead of presenting her passport, Gudrun handed over two sheets of A4 paper and said, “Our credentials from the organisation I represent. Not in your language, I’m afraid, but I had to get it emailed to us in Ruili in a hurry. I couldn’t find a printer to do the job in Burmese - even if I’d been able to get it translated. Not that it matters, because your English is perfect, if I may say so.”

  The Colonel glanced at the papers, said, “As is yours, Mrs Larsen.”

  I hadn’t heard Gudrun addressed as Mrs Larsen since the acned youth receptionist at the Glacier hotel in Val Fornet - an age ago.

  “Stockmann is an international concern,” she explained. “So we have to work in English. Not much good if I’d handed you this in Swedish or Norwegian. But we’re typically Scandinavian in being neutral; we keep clear of the big powers.”

  Clever of Gudrun to stress our impartiality; no axe to grind in Burmese politics, therefore no need to detain us.

  “The world trusts us,” she continued. “We’ve had two heads of the United Nations: Trygve Lie and Dag Hammerskjold...”

  “And my country has had U Thant. The longest serving of them all,” said the Colonel, with a smile.

  Gudrun acknowledged the point graciously. The two of them seemed to be getting on rather well.

  “And the rest of your team?” asked the Colonel.

  We hesitated, unsure what to do, so he rapped out, “Your passports please.”

  The Colonel inspected each in turn. None had a visa for Burma. I dreaded to think how he would react, but he merely handed them back with the comment, “Hardly a Scandinavian team, would you say?”

  “Stockmann is international,” she repeated, dead pan.

  “Very well.” The Colonel seemed to regard our doubtful legality as of little consequence. “I’ve brought you here because I feel we can do business. Both of us have something we need. And something to offer. You are in a predicament, if I may say so. Should you fall into the hands of the Tatmadaw, the results would not be pleasant. Found wandering around a sensitive border area without proper papers...” He tut-tutted and shook his head. “However, I might be persuaded to help you...”

  As the widow of an ex-ambassador, Gudrun was too experienced a diplomat to reply to his prompt. Waited for him to continue.

  “What we need - and what you may be able to provide - is the oxygen of publicity. Make the world aware of our cause...”

  “Stockmann strives to remain neutral...”

  “Come on, Mrs Larsen!” Now he was annoyed. “Neutral is a word everyone throws around but no one really believes in. Everyone has an opinion. Of course, if Stockmann does not have the influence you claim - is unable to help... well, there’s a Tatmadaw unit not far from here who would be most grateful for information about a group of foreign infiltrators.”

  The Colonel had shown his claws. Our passage to safety would have a price.

  “What do you have in mind?” asked Gudrun, without a quiver.

  “During the war we were fought over twice,” replied the Colonel. “First when the Japanese attacked, then when the Allies threw them out again. They called Bill Slim’s Fourteenth the Forgotten Army, because the men who fought in it were far from home; Burma just a sideshow. Another forgotten cause is my country...”

  Gudrun interrupted: “I take it you don’t mean Myanmar?”

  “I mean the Shan States. Here. The nation the world refuses to recognise.”

  “How can we - Stockmann - make a difference? When you’ve been fighting central government for... how long?”

  “Seems like forever,” said the Colonel grimly. “At first the British allowed us a fair amount of autonomy. Then came the war. After that the generals. All the time more and more rules and regulations from Rangoon. Came to a head during the seventies, when there was a full blown civil war here. Eventually, both sides realised it couldn’t go on like that, so bits of paper were signed. Things calmed down. But didn’t really improve. From time to time - like now - we prod them a bit. Make sure they don’t forget us...” The Colonel drifted off, lost in thought.

  To bring him to life again, Gudrun said, “Again, I don’t see how we can help.”

  The Colonel gathered himself. “The big fellow across the road - the Great Helmsman they called him - was always on about the Long March. It was part of his legend; his myth. A zigzag across China that went on for years. He used to say every journey starts with one small step. I tell myself we’re on a similar journey. A Long March to Independence. With many steps.”

  “You think we can give you a bit of a push?”

  “Every little helps.” He gave a wintry smile. “As someone who has managed to reach the end of that road, I’m hoping you might be sympathetic to our cause.”

  Gudrun looked puzzled.

  “Your passport says you’re Norwegian.”

  She nodded.

  “And your country is independent?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course! Of course! I love it!” He slapped his thigh. But his tone was bitter. “Everyone accepts Norway’s right to run its own affairs. Which happened quite recently, I believe?”

  Gudrun nodded. “1905.”

  “How long did it take you to become free?”

  “Well... we’d been a sovereign kingdom back in Viking days. But then came the Black Death; hard times. We found ourselves under Denmark; the Four Hundred dark years. Then another ninety years under Sweden...”

  “Let’s say five hundred years until Norway finally made it?”

  Gudrun nodded. “A rather Long March.”

  “How big is Norway? How many people?”

  “Recently reached five million.”

  The Colonel grinned. “We’re just ahead of you. Shan States is nearly six million. So you see, we’re country cousins: very alike. Except Norway has beaten us in the freedom business. When you found oil you kept it. And became rich. Shan States is still poor, but we have minerals; could damn this river for power. If we can only keep and manage these things ourselves...”

  “You’re a persuasive man, Colonel, but how can we influence events when everyone else has failed?”

  The Colonel’s finger pointed at Gudrun. “We’re on a Long March, Mrs Larsen. I hope it won’t last as long as your five hundred years, but we’ll get there in the end. All I ask is that you... I believe the phrase is ‘use your best endeavours’.”

  Gudrun nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. But no promises.”

  The Colonel thought for a moment. Then said, “That’s all I can expect. That you try.”

  He rapped an o
rder to one of his men, who reappeared a few moments later with a bottle of colourless liquid and some glasses.

  “I don’t usually permit this when we’re in the field, but I think a celebration is in order.”

  He stood up. “To an Independent Shan Nation.”

  We all stood. And emptied our glasses. The potion was strong and surprisingly good.

  “Too late to travel any further today,” he announced. “So you’ll spend the night as our guests. Tomorrow we’ll send you on your way again.” He grinned. “Avoiding the Tatmadaw, I promise.”

  50

  Their accommodation wasn’t a patch on our old Dak, which had been five star by jungle standards, but was acceptable for one night. Fortunately, it forgot to rain. By the time dawn broke, we had been fed and watered and were on our way.

  One of the Colonel’s men, now in scruff civilian dress instead of uniform, had been added to our crew. It made for a heavy boat, but we soon realised the reason: after a few miles we came to some rapids that had to be negotiated by a short portage - carrying the boat overland. No problem with the muscle-power we had, but Jim would need the extra pair of hands for the return journey.

  That apart, the rest of our trip went without a hitch. Shortly after midday, our boat was brought to rest against the riverbank. I was puzzled, because we still seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.

  It was explained that around the next bend lay our target, the road to Lashio. But also a small town, which currently housed a detachment of Tatmadaw - government troops, which it would be prudent to avoid. However, here we should be able to get a mobile signal. Cellphone country! We’d been stuck for so long in our Jurassic age we’d almost forgotten such devices existed.

  While at Ruili, Gudrun had asked Stockmann to position a man for us at Lashio, our first up-country town on the road to Mandalay. She selected his number. We waited expectantly. Then an answer! Had we truly arrived back in civilisation? And in a country where no one was interested in the strange disappearance of a Mr Cho?