The Golden Land

by Di Morrissey

  Andrew never ceased to be shocked by the imperious attitude of the British civil servants. The British police officers often made rather incendiary and unnecessary remarks about the local people. Andrew had fought beside Indian military companies in the trenches on the Western Front so he knew what brave and reliable soldiers they were. Many of the comments he had to listen to were nonsense, but he held his tongue and kept his opinions to himself. Tipi Si’s story had yet again reaffirmed his discomfort at British behaviour in Burma. Nevertheless he chatted briefly with several regular members and the club secretary, and eventually learned that Ferguson was indeed in Burma. He had recently set off on a trip north, presumably to collect more artefacts. Cheered by this information, Andrew departed the club and set about planning his own foray to the north.

  Andrew felt his legs wobble and feet bounce as he stepped onto the narrow plank linking the old boat to the landing. Surrounded by goods and other passengers, he’d been the only European on the boat since its dawn departure from the busy port of Sittwe. The creek was low and the mud shone in the last light of the day. It had been an arduous journey up the Kaladan River and now the simple village of Thantara looked very welcome.

  Andrew managed to get directions to a small guesthouse where he stayed the night. There he made arrangements to travel by pony cart to Mrauk-U, the place where he’d been told Ferguson was working.

  Andrew had been on Ferguson’s trail for weeks, travelling overland and along rivers. He had taken photographs of the countryside with its ancient temples and little villages, as well as the Burmese people. Every place he’d been to seemed to have a story to tell and Andrew knew that he would be able to sell most of them. Mrauk-U was not easily accessed but not a surprising destination for the Scot as the ancient capital was filled with the remains of temples and pagodas.

  As the little pony trotted through the ruins, Andrew saw that village life continued to flourish among the crumbling stupas. Goats fed on the grasses around the hilltop pagodas, and the village itself encircled the area where a royal palace once stood. It didn’t take long to learn that Ferguson had hired several locals to help him work at the Shitthaung Pagoda.

  The following day just after sunrise, Andrew headed to the ridge where the sprawling pagoda was reflected in the early morning light. It was surrounded by bell-shaped stupas the size of small cottages, built to house Buddhist relics. But Andrew was dismayed to find that the great temple was very dilapidated and seemed to be deserted.

  He walked through it, negotiating piles of forest debris and animal droppings, recoiling from the stench of the bat colony that had taken up residence. He groped his way into a narrow corridor as best he could and tried to find his way to the central sanctum. In a pale beam of light, a row of large carved Buddha figures sat along the inner wall and stared silently into the shadows. Andrew quickly counted twenty-eight of them.

  He paused. He could hear a faint tapping sound. He turned a corner and entered a room that had more light and saw that the walls and ceiling of the temple were covered in carvings. He was astounded by the intricacy and detail of these small sculptures that depicted animals, goddesses and scenes from the spirit world and from Buddha’s life. Looking closely he saw that some of them had been painted. They were faded now, but Andrew could imagine how brilliant and vibrant this gallery must have been when it was first completed.

  The tapping had grown louder. Turning another corner into a long stone passageway, he saw a small light at the far end and several figures moving about. He realised that this must be Ferguson and his team. He called out.

  ‘Who’s there?’ demanded Ferguson.

  ‘It’s me, Hancock. Andrew Hancock,’ called Andrew, waving his torch. ‘We met once, years ago.’

  ‘Good lord! What are you doing here? Wait there, and I’ll come and show you the way.’ Ferguson hurried down the corridor. ‘This way, this way.’

  As he walked into the bright sunlight, Andrew saw that age had faded Ferguson’s sandy hair and he had grown more rotund, but his air of confidence remained, as did the old-fashioned pince-nez, which was still firmly planted on his nose.

  ‘Remind me where we’ve met. I can’t quite place you,’ said Ferguson, squinting.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ replied Andrew. ‘It was before the war, on a paddle-steamer to Mandalay. I had just arrived in Burma and you were explaining that you were an authority on Burmese art and architecture.’

  Ferguson sat down on a broken pillar and lit a small cheroot. ‘Can’t say that I remember, but never mind. Bit of an out-of-the-way place to run into you, again,’ he commented as he took a puff of the small cigar.

  ‘Amazing place. Shame it’s so dilapidated,’ said Andrew. ‘Where’s the central sanctum?’

  ‘Oh, down there. Can you see that small alcove? Follow me.’

  Andrew did as he was told and at the end of the narrow corridor he stepped into the small chamber. Even in the dim light he could make out the huge statue of the Buddha sitting cross-legged on an ornamental stone platform, gazing calmly, staring into the gloom of centuries. Andrew found it awe inspiring.

  ‘Incredible. I see why you’re so fascinated with all this. What are you planning to do?’ asked Andrew as Ferguson led the way outside.

  ‘Looking at what can be restored and what should be removed for safekeeping.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ said Andrew cheerfully. He peered around the temple. ‘Well, I’m on the hunt for stories. I’ve been travelling all over the country and I’ve come across a few decent ones. The Illustrated London News has taken some. Anyway, I was in Sittwe and I heard you were here and I thought I might find a good story for the magazines back home. And I was told that the ruins at Mrauk-U are fascinating.’ While this was all true, Andrew hoped above all that Ferguson would still have the princess’s kammavaca and that he would be able to persuade the art dealer to sell it to him.

  ‘Jolly good. What do you want from me?’ Ferguson seemed eager to help.

  ‘I’ve just got a few questions,’ said Andrew. ‘How long have you been working in Mrauk-U? Who do you work for, who are the people you sell to and what sorts of things do they buy? What do you think would be of interest to people back in England?’

  Ferguson studied the younger man for a moment. ‘I don’t want you to think that I sell everything I come across. A lot is being transported for safekeeping. I mean, look at this place.’ He waved his arms towards the row of small stupas. Many were smashed, now looking like defeated, broken bells. ‘Weather, time, treasure hunters and looters. So many relics have gone.’

  ‘What was inside those small stupas?’

  ‘Could have been gold figurines, gems, bronzes or religious texts, just waiting there for me to show them to the world. Such a shame they’ve all gone. You must remember, art belongs to everyone, laddie. Many of those beautiful things should be in the British Museum, for example. Not lying around in the jungle for thieves to pilfer, or rotting away in abandoned shrines for a few local villagers to notice, if indeed they do.’

  ‘But,’ said Andrew, looking at the hundreds of ruins in front of him, ‘surely there is too much here for museums. They couldn’t take it all.’

  ‘You’re right, laddie. But there are a lot of collectors in Europe and especially in America who are pleased to pay for a Burmese artefact. And I’m happy to sell them. Allows me to continue my work out here.’

  ‘Have you been in Mrauk-U long enough to excavate anything of major importance, Mr Ferguson?’

  ‘Nothing really spectacular yet, but it’s early days. Would you like to see what I’ve found?’

  Ferguson walked over to where a large cart was piled with bulky objects covered by a blanket. Two local men were lifting a stone Buddha the size of a large boulder into the last space in the ox cart. Ferguson pulled back the blanket. Andrew could see that the cart was full of stone Buddhas.

  ‘What will you do with these?’ he asked.

  ‘They aren’t particularly except
ional pieces, so I’ll put them on the open market. I send them to agents, runners. Occasionally I go over to Ceylon and Siam with items, trading with serious collectors and such.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a memento of Burma. It’s a pity these are so big. Have you got anything that doesn’t need porters to carry?’

  ‘What, gems or gold, or a small statue?’

  ‘Goodness, no. I probably couldn’t afford anything like that.’

  ‘I have got something small that might interest you. It won’t be cheap because it has an interesting history. But I’ll show it to you and you can see what you think.’

  Ferguson led the way to his small tent, which had a table and chair outside it. He reached in under the fly netting for his satchel and took out a small, narrow box, covered in gold engraving.

  ‘The kammavaca in this box belonged to the last king of Burma,’ he told Andrew.

  Andrew couldn’t believe his luck, but he knew that he would have to be very careful so Ferguson did not suspect his real reason for wanting to buy this particular artefact.

  ‘How on earth did you come by it?’ he asked innocently.

  ‘It belonged to his half sister. She’s had an eventful life and now lives quietly. Told me that this was the last thing of value that she had, but I’m sure she has a few other treasures, a few last jewels tucked away. You never know with these people. I’ve seen others like her. They all complain that they’re down on their luck. Blame the British administration. But funnily enough they always manage to find something to sell.’

  Andrew bit his tongue. ‘Can you explain this piece to me? I’m certainly no expert, like you.’

  ‘This is a particularly fine and unusual kammavaca because of the exquisite illustrations. It’s a bit like the illuminated manuscripts that were produced in Europe before the advent of printing. And it’s not made on palm leaf, either, as they usually are, but specially treated cloth. And that it was made for the king gives it an impressive provenance,’ said Ferguson knowledgeably.

  ‘So it’s kind of a family heirloom,’ said Andrew.

  Ferguson unfolded the little sections and carefully handed the kammavaca to Andrew, who turned it over and studied it.

  ‘What does it say?’

  Ferguson peered at it. ‘I haven’t looked at it much. But usually these sorts of things are just prayers and sacred texts from the Pali canon. Not worthwhile bothering to translate them, really. I thought I had a buyer in Mandalay so I carried it with me up there, rather than leaving it in Rangoon, but the chap had gone back to England before I could contact him. Bit of good fortune for you, young man.’

  ‘It is delightful. This is just the sort of thing I had in mind,’ said Andrew. He carefully refolded the sections of the long, banner-like kammavaca and placed it in its box. ‘It rather intrigues me. I’d like to take home one souvenir of Burma and this is easy to carry if it’s not too expensive.’

  ‘I couldn’t let it go cheaply. It’s definitely a collector’s piece,’ said Ferguson, getting down to business.

  ‘But if it belonged to the former king, it’s not very old, is it?’ said Andrew. ‘You’re very knowledgeable and lead such a fascinating life, I’m sure that any article I wrote about you would be very well received in England. People outside the world of archaeology would certainly learn all about you.’

  Ferguson considered this. ‘You’d have to be careful what you wrote. Can’t have every Johnny racing out to Burma and clearing out the tombs and temples, eh?’ began Ferguson, but Andrew could see he was flattered by the idea of appearing in a publication as prestigious as the Illustrated London News.

  They bartered back and forth and in a short while had agreed on a price for the kammavaca, on the condition that Andrew should write an article about Ferguson and his work in Burma.

  Andrew extracted some English pounds from his wallet. While the price for the kammavaca was not a huge sum, it left a bit of a hole in his savings. But for Andrew it was a matter of principle. The meeting with Princess Tipi Si had affected him deeply and had brought to the surface his own embarrassment at the greedy and unscrupulous behaviour of his countrymen in Burma. If he could show the princess that not all of them behaved so badly by returning the king’s kammavaca, then he would feel better. It would be his moral victory.

  Andrew took some photographs of Ferguson working at the Shitthaung Pagoda and other locations in Mrauk-U, and of three red-robed monks making their way down the green hillside from their monastery to the village with their alms bowls. He then packed away his camera, settled the small teak box with the kammavaca inside his luggage, and began the arduous journey back to Rangoon to see the princess and return her family heirloom.

  Gold Coast, Queensland, 2006

  NATALIE GRASPED MARK’S ARM, closed her eyes and held her breath.

  ‘Going once . . . Going twice . . .’ The auctioneer paused, holding his gavel aloft, and glanced around at the small crowd standing on the footpath.

  ‘Last chance for what could be the best waterfront living on the hottest part of the Gold Coast.’

  ‘Oh no, that couple are going to get it. Mark, bid again!’ whispered Natalie urgently.

  ‘We’ve already gone past our limit.’

  ‘Please try another five thousand dollars, quick.’ She pushed his elbow and Mark’s arm shot up.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Now, going once, twice, going three times . . . Sold!’ The agent banged the hammer onto the lectern in front of him and pointed to Natalie and Mark.

  ‘Congratulations to the young couple with the stroller! If you could just come this way, we’ll sort out all the details.’

  Mark and Natalie walked back through the house, now seeing it through different eyes. They were about to be its new owners.

  ‘Scary but wonderful, isn’t it?’ said Natalie, already visualising the changes she wanted to make to their purchase.

  That was six months ago. How excited they’d been to buy the house of their dreams. Natalie and Mark Cutler had been married for five years. But with the arrival of their children, Charlotte, who was now three, and eighteen-month-old Adam, they’d outgrown their house in Brisbane. They’d decided to move to the Gold Coast, mainly for the lifestyle it offered, but also because they’d be a bit closer, but not too close, to Natalie’s mother who lived over the border in northern New South Wales now less than two hours away. Mark, who was an electrician, had mates who assured him there was plenty of work available for good tradesmen on the Gold Coast. So they’d sold their nicely renovated house in Brisbane for a better price than they’d expected and spent the following weekends looking at homes on the Gold Coast.

  Being a holiday and a tourist destination, highrises dominated the skyline and hugged the beachfronts. But with a growing family, an apartment was not for them. Slowly they began to explore the suburbs away from the beach strip and discovered that they liked many of them, although a lot of the houses were way out of their price range.

  One day as they drove from one house inspection to the next, Mark said, ‘I don’t want to move out into the hinterland. Too rural. Too isolated. Let’s stay fairly close to the coast.’

  Natalie looked at her fit and handsome husband, who at thirty-eight was still sports mad even though he didn’t play competitive football anymore. His hair was sun bleached and he had a year-round tan. Both of them liked swimming and surfing, so finding a home close to water had been high on their wish list.

  ‘Oh, I agree,’ said Natalie. ‘I want to be close to shopping. With Charlotte and Adam we need to be near a park, perhaps a play group and a doctor. All that sort of thing. But I don’t want to get caught in an area that’s full of holidaymakers, either, so that I can never park the car, and where there could be a lot of party noise.’

  ‘I really don’t want to be in a part of town surrounded by stuffy retirees,’ said Mark. ‘It would be great to have families our own age nearby so the kids have someone to play with.’

  Eventually they found what th
ey thought was the perfect place. It was a rather run-down seventies house that they knew would need a lot of work, but they loved the area, which was full of well-kept houses and mature gardens. There was a handy corner shop and a park at the end of the street. Most of all, they loved the position of the house. It sat on one of the wide canal developments so that from the back of the house the view was of a broad expanse of sparkling blue water.

  ‘I think this place has fantastic potential,’ Natalie whispered to Mark the first time they inspected it. ‘The bones of the house are terrific, and how about that outlook? Can’t you see us fishing off our own little wharf? We might even be able to buy a boat and tie it up at the bottom of our garden.’

  ‘This place is really run-down,’ Mark cautioned.

  ‘I know. But we’d never be able to afford a place in such a fabulous position if it wasn’t. If we can do up a place in Brissie, we can do this one up. You’re handy, and all your mates are tradies. Surely we can get things done for mates’ rates, and we can paint and do a lot of the renovations ourselves!’ exclaimed Natalie.

  Mark smiled. ‘You really want this place, don’t you?’

  Natalie steered him onto the deck that overlooked the patchy lawn running to the water’s edge. Beside it was a swimming pool that desperately needed cleaning. ‘I didn’t want to seem too keen, but I know that we could fix this place up and make it a really wonderful house to live in.’

  ‘It’s big enough with five bedrooms, but there’s only one bathroom and a dinky ensuite. And there’s no big work area for me,’ said Mark.

  Natalie gave a dismissive wave. ‘I can see it! I can just see how we can fix this place up.’