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Tales
from Burma
Richard at
work in southwestern China during his search for the
elusive Yeti -- better known in the West as "The Abominable Snowman."
"The Golden Rock"
I had first seen the "Golden Rock
of Kyaik-to" in a painting at the Inya Lake Hotel and was told that no tourist
could go there. The golden boulder was perched atop a solid granite
outcrop, jutting out from the side of a mountain in Burma's Mon State,
precariously near the edge, leaning over, appearing to nearly fall off, but it
is balanced, and it is believed to be on the hair of the Buddha, so it will
remain perfectly balanced forever.
I checked into my hotel on the Royal Lake, the Kandawji, the old British Rowing
Club, and headquarters for the Japanese Imperial Army during WW2. The next
morning I went searching for a reliable driver and companion. Near the
Strand Hotel where the money changers and hustlers hang out, I found a man and
his friend who were willing to go to Kyaik-to for twenty-five cartons of
cigarettes. At the equivalent of four dollars per carton sold at the
diplomatic store, it came to one hundred dollars. The smokes could be
black-marketed at a profit. We went to pick up the cartons, but the
manager was out and the clerk couldn't sell such a large order. I had them
drop me off at the Shwe Dagon Pagoda, and told them that I would meet them after
five at the Strand Bar.
Barefooted, as is the requirement, I ascended the east stairway, past the
dangling horse puppets, tortoise shell combs and triangular brass bells to reach
the walkway of the 2,500 year old pagoda. Near a soft-drink stand at the
tail end of a green scaly cement serpent, a Burmese man approached me speaking
perfect English. He invited me to sit in the courtyard's shade, where I
smoked a Naga brand cheroot and drank a sparkling lime. Pigeons marched
around puffing up their feathered chests, and we spoke in hushed tones, as our
eyes darted around looking to see who may have been observing our conversation.
There could be no doubt in Burma that military intelligence agents watched the
movements of everyone.
I told him that I wanted to go to Kyaik-to Pagoda. There was no talk of
twenty-five cartons of cigarettes to seal the agreement. As we talked of
the golden rock, something sympathetic developed between us. Evidently he
had never considered going to Kyaik-to because of the chronic wheezing asthma
which constricted his breathing and would prevent him from slogging over those
hills. I knew that he wanted to go and although it was not allowed for me,
that he had found the courage to try. He said that his name was Mgtwe and
that he would pick me up at six the next morning. I gave him a hundred
dollar bill to begin preparations, and to show him that I trusted him. As
Mgtwe stood and began to leave, he turned back to me and said, "We eat off the
same plate."
At five that evening, I returned to the Strand Hotel bar where the two men from
that morning were waiting for me. I had already decided to cancel these
two sharks, but after finding that they could not even read the Burmese script
on my tee shirt, and that they were not Buddhists, I told them to forget the
whole thing. As the muscles in their jaws tightened, I finished my drink,
picked up the tab, stood up and walked out of the bar room at the Strand Hotel.
Promptly at six 6:00 A.M. Mgtwe arrived at my hotel with blankets, food and
water. The driver of the car was his friend, a lanky Burmese. We
drove north from Rangoon to Hlegu and on to Pegu, one of the ancient capitals of
the Mon people. Pegu was at one time a small island in the Gulf of
Martaban. It is said that the island was so tiny that only one duck could
land there. The duck's mate had to perch on his back to rest. Even
today, the women of Pegu are teased about their attachment to their men.
One Pegu girl near the Shwemawdaw Pagoda said that my pants had many pockets.
The women of Pegu are very beautiful she said, and that with so many pockets, I
should carry a few Pegu girls along with me. I agreed and asked her if she
would like to be the first to climb inside. She laughed, wearing a
wonderfully playful smile.
Across the plains to Waw and through a town called Nyaungkhashe, and finally
across the Sittang River, we crossed into the Mon State over a bridge which
closes at sunset and opens at sunrise. The Mon State was closed to
tourists, so I felt like celebrating. Just then a soldier intercepted us,
climbed into the car and ordered us to command headquarters.
The Mon State was certainly a
different district, as the people on bicycles rode around with rifles in long
holsters attached to the back. The soldier who rode with us had a green
uniform with three stripes on his shoulder. We pulled up to the post, and
the commander looked up from his desk through thick glasses which magnified his
eyes.
He asked if I was authorized to come here. Where were my papers? Who
gave me permission to cross the Sittang River? My passport had four
additions, each of which folded out over a yard long, covered with visas.
Amongst those visas he found several to Burma.
"Why do you come here with no authorization? You must return to Rangoon; this is
an insurgent area," then added "and we cannot guarantee your safety."
"But sir," I implored. "I am a Buddhist, I have lived in Asia for many
years, as you can see by my passport, I didn't come as a tourist, I came to
pray. As a Buddhist yourself sir, you can understand that it is very
important to pray at the Golden Rock." I offered him a carton on Winstons.
"Please, sir, you must help me to pray at the Golden Rock."
My name was entered into a log book as "Mr. San Francisco." "OK" he
smiled. "Here is your pass," signing a long form which he had been filling
out in duplicate from the beginning. Everyone in the room clicked their
tongues and smiled. The commander popped a green leaf stuffed with beetle
nut and lime into his mouth. A black telephone with an ancient crank on
the side rang on his desk. It occurred to me that this was the first
telephone that I had seen since leaving Rangoon. The telephone number was
two digits. The commander picked up the line, barked something into the
perforated mouthpiece and hung up. As we were shaking hands, I noticed the
pass was only for one night. "Can you, sir, extend this pass to three
nights and four days." "OK, Mr. San Francisco" he beamed, "Plus a
VIP room at the top."
Mgtwe was completely surprised. We took the once fearsome soldier who had
become our friend and defender back to his station near the river and gave him
100 Kyats. As we pulled away and waved at each other, he faded into the
distance and we proceeded along an oxcart road lined with ancient bell-shaped
stupas. "This road is opened only if the rebels want it opened," said
Mgtwe. Children vendors sold cooked locusts on a stick, and if their wings
were peeled off, they tasted like cashew nuts.
The Mon people were very white-skinned with delicate features and so friendly.
Long before the Burmese had left their homelands in central Asia for their
migration south, the Mons had settled into the fertile coastal lands along the
Gulf of Martaban on both sides of the Tenasserim Mountain Range. The Mons
founded a Kingdom called Suvannabhumi, or the "Golden Land," which was a
federation of three states. The Mons ruled for one thousand years and
became southeast Asia's most cultured people, as the arts and architecture of
that time show. The Mons had contacts with kingdoms in India and
shared trade and culture as early as the beginning of the Christian era.
The whole of southeast Asia could have come under the domination of the Mon, but
unfortunately for them, they were not a warrior race, but a race of artists and
poets.
At the last Burmese army outpost, there was an orange-robed monk with tattoos on
his neck. The soldier asked if we could give the monk a ride to the base
of the mountain. Of course we agreed. The monk sat next to me.
He was a Karen, he said, and lived on top of Kyaik-to. "Tonight will be a
full moon," he said, "and we are lucky as the long tedious walk ahead
shall be well lit."
We parked the car and hired baggage carriers. Some pilgrims, too old or
too sick to take the long walk were wrapped in green blankets tied to thick
bamboo poles, and two hearty boys carried them up the hills for hire.
Mgtwe and I decided after dinner to bathe before the journey. A walk down
the hill led to a bamboo shower room. Inside a woman poured buckets of
water drawn from a well into a wide pipe of bamboo which went through the wall,
where a dozen naked young monks showered. I too stripped and poured the
fresh, cold water over my steaming head and body. The drive here with the
military interruptions had taken from sunrise to sunset.
The porters were strapped with our baggage, and just as we began to walk uphill,
two young Mon girls who were finishing their journey and coming down the
mountain said smiling, "Oh you are just beginning your walk, here these staffs
are helpful." One girl was so beautiful, her skin so white, like a
powdered rice ball. She handed me her staff and looked into my eyes
deeply, brushing my ear with her flowing black hair, her smile still lingers.
it was nearly dark when we began the ascent. There were thirty-three hills
to climb over and the walk would take from six to eight hours from the bottom to
nearly 4,000 feet. The trail was rough in places. Tigers do live in
these hills and more people die from snakebite in Burma than any other country
in the world. The trail became a tunnel, as the bamboo was so thick,
collapsing in on itself, a solid roof of vegetation blocking even the moonlight.
In open places, the shadows of huge jungle leaves above became like monstrous
spiders, black undulations on the silvery earth. A flower which opens only
at night scented the cool night air as we walked. Stumbling up one
mountain and down the next, we had to pause often until Mgtwe could catch his
breath between coughing fits.
Ever climbing up and down, we finally reached the ridge where the Golden Boulder
could be seen lit up and shimmering in the distance. The sight gave us
strength. Men with huge bamboo lattice cylinders shaped like ice-cream
cones attached with straps to their heads and shoulders like a yoke, moved
steadily upwards on legs of iron, humping baggage like our own. We had a
torch dipped in kerosene to light the way. The jungle was controlled by
the Karen, who smiled at us and offered a drink. We ate many oranges as we
walked over the mountains, through the jungle, humming with nocturnal insects
when we again met the Karen monk. We joined together as we walked, and he
talked about Buddhism and the virtues of the dignified man. He offered us
a place to stay at the monastery, but I explained that the officials had already
provided a room for us. Finally, about midnight, we arrived on that
thousand-year-old trail at the plateau of the Golden Rock.
We were escorted to a room where a military officer offered us tea. The
long walk had been exhausting for us all, but we felt a sense of accomplishment.
Mgtwe especially felt elated, this being his first trip to the Golden Rock; in
his heart he never felt that he would be able to walk up here due to his chronic
asthma, which had required me to walk much slower than usual. Mgtwe had to
stop many times along the way with violent coughing spasms. As we laid out
our bedrolls, a satisfied smile passed over each of our weary faces.
We awoke at five the next morning and the air was chilled while people lit
incense and candles in the darkness. Women pilgrims near the base of the
Golden Rock sang chants and songs. As the first pink rays of sunlight
struck the Golden Rock, it seemed to glow like a burning ember. Kyaik-to
Pagoda was perfectly balanced upon a blunted granite column rising off the side
of the mountain. This column was tilted at the top with a slight lip at
the edge, keeping the boulder balanced. Gilded petals of flowers opened
around the top of the granite column, and were outlined in red. Sloping
downwards towards the precarious edge, looking as if it should tumble off into
the darkness below, was the Golden Rock. The boulder rested perfectly on
its center of gravity, enabling three small boys, putting their shoulders to the
edge and moving in unison, to easily rock the massive boulder back and forth.
The golden boulder was about twenty feet tall, gilt solid from centuries of
devoted hands pressing on gold leaf which by now had become several inches
thick. On top was a ten-foot spire shaped like an elongated bell. It
was crowned with a pure gold umbrella, delicately filigreed like lace, which
impaled a golden bird resembling a phoenix. Above the bird, the four
directions were indicated, and at the very top was a gold lotus blossom, which
was traditionally studded and filled with gems.
At the entrance was a small gate under which women cannot pass, and over a short
bridge spanning a gorge which separated the granite outcropping from the main
mountain, we passed under another gate made of silver with the respective
deities and nats peering down to those faithful passing below.
Orange-robed monks bowed at the base of the rock and touched their lips to the
gold. People were encouraged to push the boulder as hard as they could to
demonstrate its magical perfect balance. Incense sticks placed vertically
between the golden boulder and the column supporting it, bent elastically,
nearly to the breaking point, defining flexibility. The male pilgrims
knelt and touched the golden rock where mere children seem to have the strength
to rock several tons of granite back and forth like a toy. The sound of
the boulder moving was an indescribably deep hollow sound, the sound of granite
moving over granite, a sound from the Ice Age, and the creation of the world.
I was so strange here, being the only foreigner, but people were not the least
bit shy. Anywhere I sat, a crowd of curious children would join me,
leaning on me, and making sounds to attract my attention. Mothers of small
children pointed their babies' fingers at me as if to say, "Who is that?"
Chanting goes on constantly near the Golden Rock. One chorus picked up
where the other ended, breathing in rhythm like cicadas, the air was filled with
unending song. The people were from all parts of the country, but there
was not another foreigner for a hundred miles. On the sides of the
mountain hermits lived in caves. To go inside, I had to crawl through
limestone rocks in the darkness to a cool cavern where a hermit sat silently
before Buddha. At another opening people threw coins over a ledge into the
hermits cave. The mountains surrounding this place purpled in the
distance. Around the mountain, people sold tiger skulls with long, gaping
teeth, flying squirrel pelts, leopard and tiger skins, elephant femur bones and
teeth, powdered rhino horns, monkey skins, dried monkey hands and monkey skulls
from bowls stacked up like grapefruit. Goats heads were being cooked with
their severed tongues draped between their eyes, over a slow roasting brazier.
There were snake skins covering stalls which were over twenty feet long and more
than two feet wide. The people were so beautiful and innocent that when I
looked at them, they turned and looked behind them, thinking that I must be
looking elsewhere.
The courtyard overlooking the golden rock was a mosaic of unmatched Chinese
ceramic tiles. Old women threw hand fulls of jingling coins across the
tiles for Buddhist merit, and children ran to and fro collecting them. An
old hermit approached and hammered his walking stick, which was crowned with
fragrant jungle flowers on the ground before him. He wore dark,
black-rimmed sunglasses, and his teeth were stained reddish-black from chewing
beetle nut. Each of his fingers had at least one ring with various stones
and metals. He walked to the opposite end of the mosaic courtyard and
again hammered his staff as he sat down. His beard and mustache were
streaked with white and his skin was like oiled hardwood.
Mgtwe told him that I thought he must be a very holy man. He said that he
wandered around the entire country, sleeping in caves or under the moon, and
that like a monk, he ate nothing after the noon hour. He held my hand and
felt the knuckle bones in my fingers like prayer beads as he chanted and looked
up into the sky. I bowed before him as he brought his hand to my forehead
and touched me. The liquid sun poured down upon a scorched horizon below.
The sky turned to red as the sun fell behind the golden rock, then to a grape
purple, like a boxers bruise.
The VIP quarters were separate rooms in a basement. Mgtwe and I shared a
room with a Burmese lieutenant-colonel, his wife and four kids. We slept
on a wooden platform wrapped in moldy blankets. That was the VIP room.
Where everyone else slept looked like the Bombay bus station. At dawn, the
sky became pink, and when the first rays of sunlight slowly pulled the molten
gold out of the darkness, I took some pictures. Hundreds of people burned
candles and incense in prayer. To see the endless mountain ranges below,
stretching out to the ends of the curving earth, and to realize that all of
these hills were populated with remote tribes people, the Padding, Bre', Latha,
Karen and so many others, was to understand their isolation.
Everything had to be carried up the mountain by the lattice basket cone
carriers. Some with the muscles of goats, made the trip more than once a
day. The beer that I ordered had arrived packed, as I had specified, in
ice by these cone carriers. Breakfast was pan-fried noodles, onions and
spicy porcupine steak. Every time that I ate, I thought of those crispy
locusts on a stick and wondered if I would find one in my rice.
Local craftsmen made bamboo spectacle frames without lenses, and burned the
sides to resemble tortoise shell. Toy bamboo transistor radios, with the
dial numbers cut from a length of measuring tape glued beneath red plastic, and
bamboo machine guns were very big with the kids. On several of the toy
rifles U.S.A. was burned into the shoulder stock. There was a stiff wire
hand crank, which when turned rotated an uneven spool. The spool's edge
snapped a wedge of bamboo and imitated rapid gunfire. The real war was not
far away and has often closed this area.
I bathed and learned the fine art of sarong bathing -- bathing outdoors in a
river, while never being less than fully clothed.
Another hermit reached the summit
of the Golden Rock. He smoked a gnarled
black burl pipe attached to a plastic tube which he held in his mouth. He
had a snow-white beard and wore lime green snap-on earrings and a chocolate
brown robe which matched his skin. Hermit chic.
