Cale Dixon and the Moguk Murders

by David Dagley

  “Jay Walker? Is this a joke?” asked Cale.

  “You don’t need to know his name,” remarked the boatman.

  “Who is he?”

  “He will be your trekking guide.”

  The longboat ran aground, and Cale climbed out, “Thanks for the ride.”

  “No problem. Mr. Walker will take you on a three or four day trek, and then you will go straight to Rangoon and leave. It has all been arranged. The military is definitely looking for you now because you disappeared from the main arteries of transportation. I don’t think you should use your real name anymore, and they will ask. Make something up, confuse them, and keep moving. A bus should come by soon. Go to Loikaw. Okay. Good-bye.” Cale helped push the boat back out into the lake where the boatman spun the boat around and headed back to the headwaters of Lower Enle Lake.

  Cale walked into town, where he saw a family riding a field auger. The family had taken off the blades and fastened a flatbed to the rear of the auger. The father drove along with a baby between his knees, riding on the gas tank. Three children and their mother all sat comfortably on the flatbed, staring at Cale as they passed.

  Cale found the hotel where he was directed to stay. Like the boatman said, the bus driver was reluctant to drop him off where he wanted, so the driver dropped him off a few blocks away at another guest house, and Cale walked back. The man behind the desk of the hotel didn’t ask Cale for his name or his passport. The receptionist told Cale that Mr. Walker would be in later and that Cale should be ready to go very early in the morning.

  The night was filled with noise. A pack of dogs barked at shadows in the wind and distant echoes of their own howls. Soldiers were getting drunk and boisterous at a nearby restaurant across the street until very early in the morning. It was hot in Cale’s second-floor corner room. Neither the fan nor the lights worked. Cale thought it might be on purpose so as not to give away his or anybody’s presence, who stayed in that room.

  —

  26

  —

  The phone rang. Lyin answered, “Yobosayyo, Lyin imnida.”

  “Hello Lyin. It’s Mr. Won.”

  “Hello, sir.”

  “How’s everything at home?” asked Mr. Won.

  “Same, same, always the same. And you? How’s America?”

  “It’s saddening business. Lyin, I would like your family to stay upstairs at my brother’s house while you’re gone.”

  “Gone, sir?”

  “Yes. I need you here with me in the States for awhile. I need you to do something for me, and then you will accompany my brother’s body back to Seoul. It shouldn’t be for too long. But I need your help. Can you do it?”

  “Of course. I’m packed, and my papers are in order. I’m sorry for this sad news, sir.”

  “Thank you, Lyin. Your ticket will at the Korean Airlines check-in desk. I will call you and let you know when your flight leaves Seoul. It’s not for a few days, but I want you to be prepared. I will meet you at baggage claim when you arrive in San Francisco. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir. See you soon.”

  “One more thing, Lyin, don’t tell my father or your family what you are doing. When you leave, tell them you are heading for Jeju Do on an errand for me. See you soon.” Mr. Won hung up the phone.

  Lyin hung up the phone and turned. The agima was standing right behind him. Lyin’s face flushed hot. He knew she had heard everything.

  She stood, staring at Lyin with black eyes glaring, and asked, “Where does my son want you to go with your papers?”

  “He asked me to join him in San Francisco for an errand and then to accompany your eldest son’s body home on the plane. He told me to bring my family to your house and have them stay with you while I’m gone.”

  “My son’s body?”

  Lyin became frightened, “Yes, agima, he was murdered in the Cho Museum with the family Un Jang Do. Your second son went there to identify his body. Agima, he asked me not to tell you or your husband where I was going, to tell everyone that I was going to Jeju Do on an errand.”

  The agima’s face became stone as she spoke, “I will not tell the others if you do not tell them that I know my first son has died.”

  “Yes, agima. I am sorry to be the one to tell you this bad news. Your son has been most kind to me and my family. He will be missed.” Lyin bowed and walked out of the room as quickly as possible.

  The agima stood motionless, staring fury out the window.

  —

  27

  —

  There was a knock at Cale’s door. A short Burmese man with dark straight hair, wearing a blue denim jacket and sporting a full set of new teeth, stood in the doorway smiling. Cale realized, besides Paula Henderson, he hadn’t seen a full set of teeth since he left San Francisco.

  “Good morning, Mr. Dixon. My name is Jay Walker. Are you interested in going to Rangoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “We can go when you are ready.”

  “I’m ready now. Let me just grab my bag.”

  Cale and Jay got a lift from the hotel receptionist back to Lower Enle Lake, where the boatman had dropped Cale off the day before. A long tail boat and driver were waiting. Cale and Jay got in and took off across the lake. The wind was up, kicking up whitecaps and sending waves over the bow and into the long tail. The boatman stopped at a small lakeside village and got out on a pier. The locals hadn’t seen any foreigners in their town in many years, so the children were very excited but kept their distance. Jay and Cale walked straight into the jungle down a single-track trail. Immediately Cale noticed the many snake tracks crossing their path; some of them were four inches wide.

  Jay pointed at one track that was at least six inches across and said, “This one can eat children.”

  The trail sloped up for hours and broke into a Shan village. There were no automobiles, no generators, just the sound of villagers working and playing in between the small stilted houses. Jay and Cale ate lunch, and Jay went into detail about how the hill tribes dealt with the taking ways of the military. He explained, “The military will check the villages periodically to figure out how much the village will need to survive for the upcoming season and what the military can take for nothing. Of course the military writes down a receipt for the villagers, but there is nowhere to get paid back for the supplies taken by the army. In order to stay alive the villagers began hiding portions of their crops in the jungle, saying, “Oh, no, bad year, no rain—the rice plants are small, no fruit. We will have to buy from another village. I am sorry we cannot help you this year.” Cale was content to listen and continued on quietly for most of the afternoon listening to Jay’s stories. They headed up a steep oxcart path that followed along a river gorge to a waterfall. Above the waterfall, the ground was worn open into a flat clearing. It was the edge of a Lisu village, a hill tribe. The alarm sounded, children ran for their mothers, dogs came forward barking skittishly, and pigs of all sizes and shapes ran in every direction. Jay pointed out that some of the domesticated pigs have integrated with the wild pigs in the area. The difference was in the razorback hair and the emergence of tusks, which had been bred out of the domestics.

  Jay said hello to some inquisitive mothers who stuck their heads out of the shadow-drawn doorways of their stilted thatch huts. The women’s faces were yellow with a flakey plaster, which was supposed to be good for their skin. Jay said with a smile, “You’re in luck, Mr. Dixon. It’s Lisu New Year.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. But then again, every day is Lisu New Year.” Jay laughed.

  “Tonight we stay here. Tomorrow will be a very long walk. Are you okay with that?”

  “Fine,” said Cale.

  The night had a festival atmosphere. Some of the younger people played guitars, as others wandered around offering pink rice whiskey to the fellow villagers. Some of the elderly women wore brightly colored dresses and gathered around a pine tree to perform a traditional line dance in unison. The stars were bright in the nigh
t sky, and Cale had settled into the hill tribe’s festive ways. He had put away the memories of the social and cultural pressures instilled in his first week in Myanmar.

  The music stopped, and the dancers moved to another tree. A woman persuaded two young girls to invite Cale and Jay into the dance along with all the younger villagers. One of the uninhibited villagers grabbed Cale’s hand and led him to another tree, beginning a dance all over again.

  Cale thanked his partner with clasped hands to his forehead and moved to the periphery. Jay came over, sat near Cale, handing him a jug of local jungle juice, and asked, “Do you know where you are, Mr. Dixon?”

  “In the big picture, not a clue,” responded Cale.

  “This was all Khun Sa territory years ago,” explained Jay.

  “The golden triangle?”

  “Yes. But the gold in this triangle leaks like water in a rattan basket. Since Khun Sa turned himself in, the different ethnic groups have lost their precious autonomy. Did you know Khun Sa is half Chinese, same like Ne Win? Khun Sa’s real name is Chan Shi-Fu. There was another drug lord before Khun Sa, who also turned himself into the government, and the government gave him a house in Rangoon and a house in Lashio. They did the same for Khun Sa. With a $2 million bounty by the United States government on his head, no judgment was passed on Khun Sa as long as he remained in Burma. The village people liked having him around. He was more dependable as a leader to the people than the government. He had the pulse of the people because everybody lived under the same umbrella. Everybody could make money with opium through him. He would export it through Thailand. Of course that has changed a little bit. Thailand wants support and money from the Untied States, so the Thais periodically crack down on the trade. Bribes tell the future. These local people thought the days of the opium poppy were over for awhile. Everyone waited until very late to plant. Then China, Laos, Cambodia, and your old friend Vietnam stepped forward and were happy to take the trade from Thailand. Of course some still goes through Thailand, but not nearly as much. The hills are filled with small crops and still some big ones.”

  Cale felt the attack of a strong buzz and finished out the night staring into the distant fire and catching the colors of the women’s dresses as they flashed behind the flames. Silver necklaces adorned with old Indian rupee sparkled and reflected brightly into the darkness. It was cold away from the fire and laughter.

  The following day Cale and Jay headed upstream through a thick, lush, green pine forest.

  Cale asked as they crested a knoll at the edge of another village clearing, “So what’s your story?”

  “Oh, same like many others, I guess. I ran through the jungle to avoid being a porter for the military. I only got a one-day visa when I got into Thailand, so I had to renew it every day. In Burma I feared what everyone else feared, a bullet in the head at the end of the workday because I was too weak from malaria, or malnutrition and starvation. I lived in Thailand for seven years getting a visa every day I was in town. I worked as a trekking guide in the Chang-rai area and some other remote spots. But this was all before Chang mai and Chang rai were overrun with tourists. I always wanted to be here the whole time. I love my country.”

  Cale and Jay entered an apparently empty Palaung village. There was no one to be seen, not even dogs. Jay used a fire circle to cook up a potato and pork lunch then got back on the trail, which headed down a valley of pine trees with a steady flowing creek down its center. Jay stopped after a half an hour and pointed out over a small hidden valley to the north. Cale saw a crop of opium. Jay pointed to the field of green and brown round orbs stranded on top stalks wrapped in withered wreaths of wilting leaves, “That’s why the villagers aren’t at home. It’s harvest time.”

  Some villagers waved at Jay and continued with their bleeding of the pods and pruning work.

  Following the creek down into the shade of the towering trees, Cale and Jay came across a shack built over the stream. Jay explained, “This shack is where the locals bring their rice to be cleaned and de-husked. The process also takes away a few vitamins, which make the rice difficult to digest in the people’s stomachs. The rice is too strong. Come in; I’ll show you. The whole cleaning process is water–powered, and the stream makes electricity at the same time. The machine has a waterwheel, and here are a series of belts. The cleaned rice falls through the sifter by size. It costs the growers ten kyat per liter to clean. The machine separates whole rice, broken rice, tailings, and even rice dust. At each level the grower can make a profit. Whole rice can be sold at market, broken rice can be turned into domesticated animal feed, and the bits of rice and the vitamin dust are collected by the rice cleaner for a very special purpose. The husks themselves are also bagged and used in the rainy season on the roads for traction. The cleaners take the broken bits and the dust and boil it for rice whiskey. Here.” Jay walked to the far end of the shack, stood in the middle of many large, clay, lidded pots, and continued, “After it is boiled, it is left to cool and then spread out on a thatch mat. This is when the corn sugar or cane sugar are added and, of course, the yeast. It’s all mixed up and placed in these ceramic jugs. Add water and wait a week. This is fermentation time. After fermentation is complete, the stuff is boiled again under pressure for distilling. A rubber hose is attached to the top of the jug when boiling. The rubber hose is attached to another hose, which is where the alcohol condenses, traveling down to another jug for collection, which is sitting in a pot of cool water. The cool water helps separate water droplets from the alcohol.”

  Cale stepped out of the shack, saw a buffalo hide stretched out for tanning, and asked, “What do they use the buffalo hides for?”

  Jay shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know.”

  A man and a woman came out of the edge of the opium field. Jay greeted them, chatted with them for awhile, then asked about the buffalo hide. They responded with great laughter and a long explanation.

  Jay turned to Cale with a smile and explained, “This buffalo was accused of eating too many opium poppies, getting too high, and fighting with the farmers, causing bodily injuries. With a head full of dope, the buffalo was shot six times with an old colonial rifle abandoned by the British when they ran from the Japanese. The gun, like many colonial rifles, has been hidden from the government and handed down through generations, grandfather to son, to son, and so on. They say we can go through the field where the buffalo was shot. It’s a shortcut to where we want to go. Are you ready to move on?”

  “Yeah. Do they make morphine near this field?”

  “Of course, but if I show you, they will kill you and bury you in the woods. Ready to go?”

  Cale nodded and moved on down the trail following Jay and only looking up when they entered a fragrant field of petaled flowers, some as tall as three feet. The field was vast and dreamy. Cale thought of doing a cartwheel but held back his urge knowing eyes in the forest would be on them intently.

  Two hours passed at a brisk pace before Cale and Jay came upon another Palaung village. Cale noticed all the plastic bags, plastic wrappers, containers, and general Western packaging waste drifting around the main street in the afternoon breeze. Cale asked, “What’s up with all the garbage?”

  Jay replied patiently, “One thing at a time, Mr. Dixon. One thing at a time.”

  Children popped out of doorways as Cale and Jay walked down the center of the road. Some of the children were only five years old or so and already chewing betel nut, drooling red stains around their mouths. The red in the betel nut matched some of the tree blossoms and seed pods in a nearby stand of trees. The sun was dropping low on the horizon and drew the blue out of the sky, which seemingly burned the trees an even more vibrant red.

  Cale and Jay had a pumpkin and rice dinner by fireside and an evening chat before heading to a local bonfire where some of the villagers would gather each night. Foreigners always drew a crowd. One thing that stuck in Cale’s mind about Jay was his serious dislike for Western companies. Early in the evening
, just after dark, Jay bitterly announced, “You seem to be a bright man, Mr. Dixon, and since you will be leaving on a bus tomorrow, I feel compelled to tell you some more of my story, our story, here in Burma. Hopefully you will share it with people who will listen. Do you mind?”

  “No, of course not. Please.”

  “Well, I want you to know that I’m mad at the Unites States.”

  Cale laughed, “There’s not many that are happy with the U.S.”

  “Yes, but you live there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where in the U.S. do you live?”

  “California.”

  “Ah, Hollywood.”

  “No, north—San Francisco.”

  “And Canada and Mexico are your neighbors.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t fight with them?”

  “No.” Cale shrugged and continued, “We quibble about immigration and import/export tariffs, that kind of thing.”

  “Our neighbors are many, and we don’t fight with them either. We fight amongst ourselves with the help of big business from far away—U.S., Europe, Canada, Germany, mostly developed countries on the list. Did you know that without China, our military wouldn’t have weapons? Without Western interests, we wouldn’t have as much bloodshed of villagers and ethnic extermination. I have seen it with my own eyes most of my life, Mr. Dixon, and my anger still burns me warm on cold nights like this one. Mobile Oil is for the Tatmandaw and the government, not for the people. Pepsi sells their soda here where dental hygiene is almost none existent. Coca-Cola is smuggled in from China; Caltex Oil trucks use the new roads that are made by forced labor. Compaq, Apple Macintosh, and Hewlett Packard all sell their equipment in our country, but only the government can afford it. Philips lightbulbs, Sanyo, Pioneer, and Lucky Strike cigarette billboards are up at the edge of some of the bigger towns. Marlboro is here, and more are coming because they are greedy and don’t care what happens under the thunder of the soldiers’ guns.” Jay stared at Cale across their small fire and continued, “U.S. planes destroyed my village for Ne Win when I was young. They flew over to kill the opium poppy, but they hit the villages as well. Many people died soon after. Babies were born incomplete. What they were dropping was part of the stuff called Agent Orange, leftover from your government’s Vietnam campaign. It got into the water, and it got into our food, on our hands, our feet, everywhere. Ne Win was happy; he was killing us with your help so he didn’t have to go into the jungle and fight for awhile. My village is gone now. The survivors were moved down into the valley where they are not permitted to speak our native language anymore and are forced to abandon their religious and social customs. It’s extermination of village life and extinction of the old ways, which carried us through thousands of miles of migration and hundreds of generations. All has been destroyed by greed in the last one hundred years! Very quick, I think.”