Hseng Noung and Hseng Tai stayed on for a few days at the camp. Hseng Tai had grown since I had last seen her in Panghsang almost a month before. She toddled around the bamboo huts in the camp, exploring every nook and cranny. I saw them off as they began their trek back to Man Hpai and the border.
“See you in Jinghong, if everything goes well.”
“It will be all right,” Hseng Noung said before she walked off with Hseng Tai in a baby-sling on her back. A local girl who spoke both Burmese and Chinese went along to help with any unforeseen happenings. In my hut that last night in the camp, I felt nervous for the first time in months. The last stretch of our journey lay immediately ahead and I fervently hoped nothing would go wrong.
Chit Tan, I and a section of CPB troops slipped out of the camp on the afternoon of April 16. We hurried past Man Hpai where the sound of gongs and drums clamoured around the pagoda. Local people from both sides of the border were still celebrating the water festival. We made a detour around them to make sure nobody saw us. I was wearing my flip-flops and carried my shoes in a plastic bag as we climbed steeply downhill towards a narrow valley.
In the evening, it began raining. It was the usual ‘Water Festival rain’ which falls predictably at the peak of the hot season every year. The soles of my flip-flops became thickly coated with mud and walking got so difficult I had no choice but to change into my worn-out running shoes which were kept together with nylon string and assorted nails. I squelched on in the mud to a small Palaung village on a hillside, where we stayed overnight.
The festival was being celebrated here as well. Gongs and drums played all night, the music being punctuated by gunshots as the villagers fired their rifles in the air. The sky was cloudy and the moonlight dim. I had some tinned fish and rice for dinner but found it difficult to eat. I simply had no appetite; I was too worked up about the imminent crossing into China. I really did not want to be turned back a second time.
The following day’s journey was the longest since I had left Panghsang nearly four weeks before. It began with an extremely strenuous march over forested hill country. Water was dripping from the trees and the grass was wet. While we were resting by a stream, I found that leeches had got into my socks. This was a bad omen and it worried me. Another infection was the last thing I needed at this stage of the journey. I carefully sprinkled salt on the vicious little creatures and kept my fingers crossed that nothing more than profuse bleeding would come of the encounter.
The hill country gave way to a narrow valley when we reached the Nam Loi River again. We entered a large village called Hsopnam which served as a camp for the local CPB units; its original inhabitants had fled to Mong Yawng and even to Thailand when the CPB took over, as Chit Tan explained in some embarrassment.
“They didn’t understand what our party stands for and they were afraid,” he said as we walked into the village. I wondered whether they had not done the right thing. Surely, at least the ones who had made it to Thailand would be much better off today than if they had stayed behind under CPB rule.
A rough road led eastwards through the forest from Hsopnam. Chit Tan suggested we should continue by bicycle, since the journey ahead was long and it was such a blazing hot day. I instantly agreed and we borrowed a bicycle each from the CPB cadres at Hsopnam. We rode along the valley, into the easternmost corner of Shan State which juts like a narrow corridor between China and Laos. It was bliss to be on a bicycle, at least when the road ran downhill.
But the heat was really getting to me. I was daydreaming of icy cold cans of soft drinks. Throughout the journey, I had always tried to repress such longings as they were simply a waste of time. But now, since I would be in China on the following day if nothing went wrong, I allowed myself this indulgence. I visualised a large refrigerator stocked full of canned soft drinks—and I pedalled along the bumpy road with this picture glimmering like a mirage ahead of me.
We cycled into a wide green valley in the afternoon with a number of large Shan villages surrounded by newly harvested paddy fields. The valley’s monasteries and pagodas were all made of brick but looked neglected and decaying. The people were obviously poor as the area was much more remote and isolated than the Mong Wa valley which we had passed through before. We halted at the local CPB township office. This was Mong Hsa or Wan Hsa—as far as I intended to travel inside Burma. The big mountain range to the west formed the border with China.
I bathed at the village well, leaving my green fatigues lying there for anybody who wanted them. We had rice and rubbery chicken for dinner and, worn out by the day’s travelling, I went to bed at eight. My last evening in Burma was not a momentous one.
14
TO SIPSONGPANNA AND HONG KONG
The alarm clock rang at midnight. After less than three hours’ sleep, I stumbled out of bed and dressed hurriedly in the new brown corduroy trousers and Chinese sport shirt. The field jacket I decided to risk: for one thing the night was still cold; for another, it would not be unusual to see in a tourist wearing one. I slung the camera bag with the luggage identification tag for the Kunming-Simao flight over my shoulder and put on a big, Shan-style straw hat with a chinstrap.
I looked in the mirror on the wall and nodded at myself in approval. If we were to run into any Chinese border patrol, I looked offbeat enough to pass as an innocent tourist who had lost his way. There was only one problem. I looked down at my feet: my shoes. They were a conspicuous mess after all my repairs. But, they would have to last for the final trek over the border range into China.
Chit Tan was awake to say goodbye and two teenage Akha boys who would serve as guides to Ta Mong Long, awaited me outside the house. I made it clear that should we encounter any problems along the way, they should drop out of sight immediately. I had no wish to drag the two into any difficulties simply because they had agreed to help me.
Chit Tan followed us a short way along the path that led out of Wan Hsa. I hoped he would be able to make it to West Bengal where his intellectual abilities might be better appreciated. I gave him the only thing I could afford to leave behind: the old cane walking stick I had carried from Panghsang.
“Keep this and remember me. And I hope to see you again some day.”
“Take care. And come back if you can,” Chit Tan replied waving the walking stick.
I followed the two Akha boys along the Wan Hsa valley. Nobody was awake and we managed to bypass the houses without triggering the usual cacophony of barking and snarling. After half an hour’s walk, we quit the flat and cut into the forest where the path began climbing towards the crest of the range which marked the border. It was April 18, just a few days past full moon and the moonlight was still bright enough to guide us through the forest along a wide path that sloped gently uphill.
As the incline grew steeper our breath came in shorter gasps. We passed no villages, but occasionally came across the scattered hill paddy fields of nearby Akha settlements. Towards four o’clock, the path levelled out and we paused to rest. There were no stones or pillars to indicate an international frontier. But since the path ahead began to snake downhill, it was clear we had reached the watershed. One of the Akha boys pointed towards a valley to the west where a cluster of five or six electric lights gleamed.
“Ta Mong Long,” the boy whispered.
Rising to our feet, we began the steep descent. We were now inside China. I grinned to myself in the darkness; I felt like some truant schoolboy breaking bounds. But if things went wrong I stood to get more than a slap on the wrist.
A further two hours’ walk brought us to a dirt track, wide enough for motor vehicles, which wound down onto a wide, cultivated plain. By now we had increased our pace, racing against time to reach Ta Mong Long before its inhabitants were up and about. I followed the Akha boys along the track that crossed through serried lines of trees that marked a large rubber plantation. Then we cut sharply across some irrigated paddy fields, following the dry banks above the water.
There were only th
ree villages along the way, which, to judge from the houses and neat flowerbeds, were Shan. By this time early risers were out on the wooden porches outside their houses splashing water on their faces. I pulled the brim of the straw hat down over my face, trying to look like a local hurrying to the morning market. But nobody seemed to pay any attention to us; apart from my height, there was in fact nothing remarkable about our party.
Ta Mong Long came into sight just as daylight was breaking, shortly after seven thirty. Just before the village, there was a stream with a rickety bamboo bridge over it—obviously designed for lighter people than I. The Akha boys crossed first and then I ventured onto the structure which began swaying alarmingly.
At that point I slipped, my leg plunging down between two pieces of bamboo, and my camera bag almost falling into the river. The Akha boys, now plainly nervous, did not dare to draw more attention to us by helping me up. Just ahead of us were three Shan women carrying baskets hanging from bamboo poles. As I swayed precariously on the bridge, they stared hard but said nothing. Then I scrambled up and completed my awkward passage.
At eight sharp, we climbed over an orange-painted iron gate which separated the village’s main street from open paddy fields. As chance would have it, the local police station, surmounted by the national flag, was immediately opposite and two policemen dressed in tracksuits emerged. My heart began pounding wildly. But the two broke into a jog and set off down the main street without a second look. If they had paid me any attention at all, they must have taken me for a stray tourist. My two companions pointed down the main street. There was a bus station at a crossroads. I half-ran down the street with my camera bag over my shoulder and my big straw hat on. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the two Akha boys disappearing back into the paddy fields.
At the bus-station, an ancient bus was already waiting, engine revving. It was already full of locals and I recognised the two characters for “Jinghong” on a signboard on the front. I clambered eagerly aboard only to be stopped by an old Chinese woman who smiled and pointed towards a ticket-counter. I piled off again and pulling out a five yuan foreign exchange certificate, pushed it at the girl, snatched up my ticket and a handful of change, and ran back to the vehicle.
Two minutes later, with a final revving on the engine, the bus pulled out. To add to my relief, my presence appeared to excite little or no curiosity on the part of my fellow passengers. Most, it seemed, were peasants going to Jinghong, and with tourists a common sight in Sipsongpanna for more than a year they scarcely looked in my direction. Even so, I did my best to play the part, sitting holding the tourist map of Sipsongpanna Hseng Noung had given me at Man Hpai, and feigning great interest whenever we passed a Buddhist pagoda, or village.
Just before twelve, as the bus approached the outskirts of Jinghong, I spotted two real tourists on bicycles and with cameras around their necks. The two men in their mid-thirties were dressed in shorts, patterned shirts and cotton sun hats. As the bus passed, I turned to them, realising suddenly that they were the first Caucasians I had seen since Darjeeling in July 1985. They stood out as curiously tall and pale. I had all but forgotten I looked the same myself.
I climbed off the bus at Jinghong’s bus station and, map in hand, started walking towards the tourist lodge. On the way, I spotted a restaurant with a refrigerator inside. I went in and ordered ice-cold lemonade. The owner smiled at me as I gulped down three cans in a row. The fantasy of the last 100 kms had been fulfilled.
There were no messages on the notice board at the tourist lodge. Our friend obviously had not arrived, and our passports were either lost or in Hong Kong. Point one on my agenda was deleted. Number two was to find some trustworthy tourists and hand over our sensitive bags. I spotted a group of Westerners in the reception, and sauntering over, asked them where they were from.
“We’re Dutch,” a pot-bellied man in the group said, puffing on a pipe.
I asked whether they were going on to Hong Kong or Beijing.
“Neither. To Lhasa or Kathmandu. Do you know any good place to stay in Kathmandu? Or New Delhi? We’ll be going there afterwards.”
Trying not to show my disappointment, I recommended a couple of hotels in New Delhi but said nothing about where I had come from. I was about to turn away when I caught the sweet aroma of his Dutch pipe tobacco.
“I’m terribly sorry, but could you possibly spare me a little of your tobacco?” I pulled out my own pipe to show I was a fellow addict.
“Sure! You must have been in China for a long time. I understand how you feel.” He handed me a packet of Amphora Gold. “Keep it. I can get some more in Kathmandu or New Delhi.”
I could hardly believe it. I stuffed my pipe full with the aromatic blend and lit up. I was almost about to say I had not tasted something like this for two years, but halted myself in time. Then thanking him, I left the Dutch party in the street outside the tourist lodge and walked on. At an intersection just outside Jinghong’s post office, I heard someone shout my name.
“Bertil!”
It was Hseng Noung with Hseng Tai in her arms and one of her friends, a girl from Man Hpai.
“Any problems on the way?”
Taking Hseng Tai from her mother and hugging her tightly, I told them about the night’s trek and how I had managed to get on the bus undetected. Hseng Noung had been in Jinghong for two days already and knew her way around. Together, we walked on to a small guest house on the outskirts of town to continue our search for a tourist who could be entrusted with our film, notebooks and video tapes.
The guest house was a traditional Shan wooden building, constructed on stilts with a restaurant under the house. We ordered sticky rice, fried pork and some other Shan dishes. At the next table, two young Europeans were sitting, and by pure good fortune they were talking in Swedish. I decided not to beat about the bush.
Introducing myself as a fellow-countryman, I moved over to their table and sat down. Then, having briefly gathered my thoughts, I made it clear I wanted to speak in Swedish to avoid being overheard.
“I’ll be quite frank with you,” I said. “I’ve got a small problem and you may be able to help me. I’m a journalist and I crossed the border from Burma this morning. Right now, I’m here illegally and am liable to be picked by the police. The snag is that I’ve got some notebooks and stuff that I simply cannot afford to have confiscated if I get arrested. I need someone to help me by carrying a bag of this stuff to Beijing or Hong Kong.”
The two exchanged decidedly apprehensive glances.
“How did you get here?” asked one.
“On foot from Burma.”
“And how did you get there?”
“Well, I walked from India. We crossed the border between India and Burma a year and a half ago.”
“We? You mean there’s someone else?”
“My wife and baby daughter.”
“From India? Did you come by train or bus?”
“No, we walked.”
“But what about a visa for Burma?”
“We didn’t have one. We went from one guerrilla group to another.”
More looks were exchanged; eyebrows raised. There was a long silence. It was clear that my veracity—to say nothing of my sanity—was far from established and I had some detailed explaining to do. With the aid of a travel map of Asia, I recounted, step by step, as lucidly as I could, the course of our journey and some of our more salient experiences. Twenty minutes later, I folded up the map and sat back.
“Unbelievable!” was the first remark from the elder of the two, a young student in his early twenties called Lars. Both were clearly fascinated and enthused by the whole situation and the idea of lending a helping hand to “smuggle” out our more sensitive material appealed to them. As chance would have it, they were in any event leaving shortly direct for Hong Kong. We could hardly have been more fortunate.
Hseng Noung and I returned to the house in town where the bag had been left. Then at three o’clock, as arranged, we met Lars
and his companion Anders, outside the post office. They sat down beside us, ostensibly to chat for a while. The bag was placed beside me. A few minutes later they rose to leave, Lars casually picking up the bag, and sauntered away.
Our main problem had now been solved. If arrested, we had nothing beyond the clothes we stood up in. The next step, ideally before becoming embroiled with the police, was to contact the Swedish Embassy in Beijing. It was Saturday, April 18. After months of travel, we had overlooked the fact that it was a weekend and, worse still, Easter weekend.
But we resolved to try to make contact, and walked down to the telephone exchange next to Jinghong’s post office. I tried every possible number I had to contact Swedish officials in Beijing—in vain. I counted our Chinese money. We still had a few hundred yuan in local currency which we could use anywhere in Jinghong save for the government guest house.
We then decided to phone friends in Bangkok who would be able to understand our dilemma and help us out. We still had not checked in to any hotel, since we had no passports to show on registering. But I had the number of the government tourist lodge written down on my map of Jinghong which could be used by anyone contacting us back.
First I tried phoning a colleague, but an unknown maid picked up the telephone. Speaking in Thai, I tried to ask for my friend but all I could make out over the bad line was a faint “wrong number.” Then it suddenly dawned on me: the Telephone Organisation of Thailand had announced in early 1985 that all Bangkok numbers were to change—and I had only the old ones. Desperately, I turned the pages of my address book and discovered that one friend—Swedish, fortunately—had had the foresight to give me his new number just before we left Bangkok in March 1985. I put a call through to the number—and almost to my own surprise got through.
Land of Jade Page 48
