Between the two operations and later, when the infection seemed finally to have cleared up, we visited N’Raw Kawng as often as we could. Its more than 70 bamboo houses were spread out over a number of grass-covered knolls which were set in a spectacular landscape of sharp peaks and serried mountain ranges. Chicken and pigs roamed at will and herds of goats were always browsing in the shade of the walnut trees which encircled the village.
N’Raw Kawng had a school and a church and there was also a hospital compound which served as an instruction centre for village health workers who, after training, were sent out to remoter places in the Triangle to treat civilians. The KIA military had its own medical NCOs.
Village life was hard and simple. Every afternoon, files of women of all ages returned from the forest carrying firewood in baskets on their backs. The men were away in the hill paddy fields most of the day, sometimes together with their children who by the age of even six or seven had to combine their education with work. Whenever they had spare time, they could be seen playing on the dusty village paths with whatever homemade toys they had: wooden spinning tops and bamboo stilts.
Especially popular was a gadget which consisted of a pair of wooden discs as wheels with a bamboo pole attached to the axle. The children would trundle these in front of them for hours. Since the terrain was too mountainous even for bullock carts, these were the only wheels of any description in the village.
The few men in the village above the age of 50 invariably talked of their exploits in the war against the Japanese when all of them seemed to have served either with the British-organised Kachin Levies or the US-trained Kachin Rangers. The affection they felt for the Allied soldiers alongside whom they had fought ran deep, and they were genuinely happy that a Westerner had returned to their land after so many years. I was frequently questioned as to the whereabouts of Sergeant Major Jones, Private Wilson or that American fellow, John something-or-other.
But in addition to these recognisably English names, there were also a couple of odd-sounding ones which kept cropping up during our conversations. One of these was “Duwa Hpawt” and another “Duwa Kaw Dan”.
With the help of Ian Fellowes-Gordon’s The Battle for Naw Seng’s Kingdom, it was not difficult to identify the first duwa, or officer, as Lieut.-Col. Ford, one of the first British commanders who organised the Kachins against the Japanese. From my own first inglorious encounters with the Kachin language—preekop and hpatick—I had already learnt to look for an English “F” whenever there was an aspirated “HP”.
Kaw Dan, however, eluded me for weeks. It sounded like a Kachin name rather than an English one. He was tall and had a moustache—like a kala, or an Indian—and he did not hesitate to share an occasional pipe of opium with the locals. He was remembered with affection for his friendly behaviour and a keen sense of humour.
“He spoke Kachin very well also. Just like us. But I don’t know where he is now,” said one old man.
Then finally one night after a few glasses of rice liquor, as I was warming myself by the fire and flicking through my book about the last war in the Kachin Hills, it suddenly dawned upon me that I had overlooked the obvious: “Kaw Dan” was, of course, “Gordon”—the author himself, Fellowes-Gordon. On the following day, Hseng Noung and I walked down to N’Raw Kawng to meet some of the veterans. Without hesitation, one of them pointed at a picture of the author in the book:
“Dai Duwa Kaw Dan re.” That’s Officer Gordon.
Our stay at 1st Brigade headquarters coincided with the snap election in the Philippines and most of our hosts eagerly followed developments over the BBC’s World Service. The day the Marcoses had flown into exile in Hawaii turned into a day of celebration even here in the northernmost corner of Burma’s wilderness. The event was on everybody’s lips.
“Ne Win next!”
“The time of the dictators is over!”
“Soon democracy will return to Burma also!”
“But where will Ne Win flee? America can’t accept somebody like him, can they?”
“Switzerland! That’s where he’s stashed away all his fortunes! Jade, gold, precious stones and stacks of money!”
“Yes, Marcos is poor in comparison!”
“Switzerland! That’s where the old bastard’s going to escape to!”
A lot of what was said was exaggerated or pure speculation. The fact remained that to that date at least, only the ethnic minorities had dared rise up against the government. On visits to Rangoon and Mandalay before trips into the guerrilla zones made further legal visits to Burma impossible, I had found the people charming and friendly. But I had always found it difficult to understand their submissiveness to the regime. I felt they deserved a better fate than being ruled by a corrupt and inefficient military coterie that manifestly was not competent to govern.
The weeks went by at 1st Brigade headquarters. Apart from allowing my foot to heal properly, we were also waiting for the return from Pa Jau of Lieut.-Col. Zau Hpang, the brigade commander, who would bring back instructions for our onward journey. For security reasons, as little as possible concerning our presence or intended movements was transmitted over the radio.
On March 17, he arrived together with some other high-ranking officers. But not until the following morning was he free to come and see us. A short but sturdily built officer in his late forties, he planted himself in a deck-chair by the fireplace and lit a cigarette.
I asked whether there had been any indication that the government knew when we were leaving.
“They know you’re here. But we’ll move you down to Pa Jau before they can find out anything about our plans. I heard your foot is bad. Can you walk fast?”
My own immediate concern, however, was whether the NDF delegation was still at Pa Jau.
“No. All the delegates left in February.” He blew some smoke on his arm to repel a mosquito. This was a serious setback. First we had missed the meeting and now even the delegates.
“Where are they now?” I was half-hoping I might possibly catch up with them somewhere.
“They’re going to the CPB’s headquarters at Panghsang. I guess they must have reached there by now.”
Hope was revived. At least they were not back on the Thai border where other journalists would get the scoop. If we pressed on to Pa Jau as soon as possible, I would be able to read all the documents from the meeting, interview Brang Seng and still be first out with the news. I noticed Zau Hpang had brought with him a large packet wrapped in plastic. He nodded at it:
“By the way, that’s for you.”
We opened it and there were all the goods we had ordered over the radio from 2nd Brigade: rolls of colour transparencies and black-and-white film—and, the best of all—a new lens to replace the old one which had fungus in it. There was also lens cleaning liquid, blower brushes and lens-cleaning tissue paper.
“It came up from Thailand via China a month ago,” Zau Hpang smiled.
Hseng Noung and I were both enormously relieved. Had the Kachins’ line of communication not worked, we would have been stuck in the north of the state without any means of documenting our onward journey photographically. Hseng Noung had shot her last colour transparency as we crossed the Mali Hka on our way to 1st Brigade headquarters.
With the arrival of the film, Hseng Noung could at last get down to work. A few days later, she set off on an expedition to the nearby Gawng Sha gold field. From the beginning, it had been clear it would not be advisable for me to go. The place attracted hundreds of traders and many of them also acted as government informers in order to facilitate their movements around the country. With Hseng Noung went Ja Reng, Ma Shwe, Khun Nawng and a small KIA escort.
For the first time I was alone at the camp. I was not lonely, however, and passed the days writing and going for short walks. At night, I brought my diaries up to date and listened to the BBC.
They returned a few days later. Hseng Noung was full of excitement over what she had seen at the gold field.
> “It’s a pity you couldn’t have come with us,” she said. “There was so much to see.”
For once it had been Hseng Noung keeping the notes. At Gawng Sha, a thriving centre of entrepreneurial activity in the midst of the Kachin jungle, more than 2,000 people had gathered panning for gold. They worked in groups of 15-30, living together in large bamboo barracks by the Mali Hka River and sharing whatever gold dust they managed to extract from its sandbanks.
Local people panning for gold near the Mali Hka River, northern Kachin State.
Most of the prospectors were local farmers or townspeople, too poor themselves to buy the necessary equipment. They were recruited by businessmen from the towns who provided water pumps, generators and petrol in exchange for 50% of the gold a group extracted during the course of one season, which usually lasted from October to May. Then, with the onset of the monsoon, the rising level of the river made further mining impracticable.
The KIA imposed taxes on the equipment used as well as on the gold collected. The season before that had amounted to more than 30 kgs. Through the traders of northern Burma, some of it had found its way onto the gold markets of Taiwan and Hong Kong.
There was one other feature of note Hseng Noung had to report from her trip: Ja Reng had learnt to sit. While this new accomplishment was being proudly displayed for me, Ja Reng beamed widely. It was then we both noticed she had grown her first tooth! A tiny white bud gleamed from her smile.
Apart from Hseng Noung’s and Ja Reng’s visit to Gawng Sha, we made only two other excursions from 1st Brigade headquarters, both of which I was able to join. On one occasion we climbed Lakawng Bum to see how my foot would hold up to a long day’s march. It was mending.
Every year, thousands of people flock to the gold fields at Gawng Sha in northern Kachin State.
The other trek was to one of the bombed villages Chyahkyi Htingnan had mentioned, N’Bau Bum. We were taken by the still grieving relatives to see the graves of the ten women and children who had been killed in the attack.
Most of our journey down to Pa Jau was to be through safe territory and an entire company, or almost 100 men, had been assigned for our security. The only obstacle along the two-week long walk down to Pa Jau was the road from Waingmaw to Chipwe, which we would have to cross before reaching the mountains along Burma’s border with China.
We had by now heard how Maj. Pan Awng had resorted to stratagem to cover our departure from 1st Brigade headquarters. Choosing his tallest soldier, he had given him a pair of sunglasses and a bush hat and put him on a horse. Then he had left with nearly 200 soldiers and moved south towards the Myitkyina-Mandalay railway. A section of the most heavily armed troops had surrounded the tall figure on horseback.
Predictably, word of their progress had soon found its way back along the informer network to the Northern Command in Myitkyina. They had thus been convinced that John Hamilton was on his way to Pa Jau along the shorter route over the railway, and troops had been deployed in three blocking lines between the Hukawng Valley and the railway. Pan Awng had fought his way through the first two, and then retreated.
Meanwhile, the real John Hamilton had been marching safely along the longer route to Pa Jau, over the Kumon Range and towards the Triangle. The aircraft we had heard at that time had been there only as an added precaution and had anyway failed to spot us.
Now, however, the Northern Command knew we were in the Triangle and since there was only one possible route ahead, diversionary tactics were hardly feasible. We would have to rely on secrecy and speed.
On March 31, we left early in the morning on a fast trek south. A platoon of KIA troops, led by a 2nd Lieut. La Nu, escorted us. I enjoyed being on my feet again. The infection had not cleared up completely, but was bearable. Ja Reng too seemed happy to be on the move again and slept soundly on Hseng Noung’s back.
The first three days’ march were through safe territory. The villages consisted of the traditional longhouses decorated with monkey skulls and buffalo horns above the doors. The last village inside the KIA-controlled area was called Htarawng Zup and there we found more troops waiting for us. A KIA captain, La Nan, had been assigned to lead our column through the danger zone around the Waingmaw-Chipwe road and on to Pa Jau.
To disguise his rank and importance, La Nan was dressed in civilian clothes but had a walkie-talkie stuck into the belt of his baggy, farmer’s trousers. He was a professional soldier who carried out his duty with firmness and skill, assisted by La Nu and a sergeant-major, Dingring Naw Bawk. This NCO was cast in the same mould as Maru Tanggun who had fallen at Kesan Chanlam: tough and devoted to duty. He was tall and rangy and set a cracking pace on the march.
Some traders from Myitkyina were also in the village and Hseng Noung bought some dry plums and biscuits from them. Itinerant merchants of this kind were perhaps unique to Burma, although reminiscent of Europe’s traditional door-to-door pedlars. Carrying on their backs baskets laden with tins of condensed milk, packets of tea, coffee and biscuits and the odd longyi or women’s cosmetics, they often spent months in remote areas, trekking from village to village to earn the merest pittance. Such were Burma’s harsh economic imperatives.
South of Htarawng Zup, we entered contested territory, controlled neither by the rebels nor the government. The few villages we passed were nearly all deserted; the local people had been resettled close to the army outpost at N’Jang Yang, the government’s only toehold east of the Mali Hka.
Since there was not enough arable land to support the resettled population, many villagers had secretly slipped back to their old homes, but were forced to hide out in the jungle. Only when they were sure no government patrols were in the vicinity could they emerge to cultivate their fields.
These “hidden villages” were not so common in Kachin State where the KIA is in firm control of the countryside. But in Shan State to the south—where the government competes with a dozen different rebel armies—tens of thousands of people lived under these deplorable conditions.
This internal refugee problem explained in some measure why the country’s opium production had increased almost tenfold over recent decades. In the past, almost no Shans grew opium; they lived in fertile valleys and were hard-working cultivators of wet paddy, soya beans, vegetables and fruit.
But the war and constant harassments by both the government forces and the numerous bands of privateers in Shan State have forced thousands of Shans to flee into the hills where the only viable crop is opium. One aspect of the Burmese tragedy was that no foreign government or UN agency had appreciated this fact and exerted pressure on the Rangoon government to end the civil war as a precondition to tackling the narcotics problem. Instead, millions of dollars had been pumped into aid projects of dubious value which had served primarily to fill the pockets of corrupt army officers.
We marched briskly over the hills with only a few preekops along the way and slept in the jungle since there were no villages. On the fifth day, we reached a pass high on a ridge from where we could see the Nmai Hka River—and the road to Chipwe on the further side. A Burmese Army outpost called Mandawng had been established by the road and I gazed at it through binoculars. There was no sign of activity; they were clearly unaware of our presence.
A steep descent followed towards the river gorge which we reached after dark. Since government troops were likely to be positioned along the road across the river, we walked in silence in a long, spread-out file, thus reducing the risk of heavy casualties should we come under fire. Orders were conveyed in a whisper from man to man along the line.
“No torches! Pass it on!”
“No smoking! Put out cigarettes and cheroots!”
“Don’t talk! Don’t step on twigs!”
There was also, in our case, another somewhat unusual order which Capt. La Nan gave:
“Keep the baby quiet! Feed her immediately if she starts crying!”
Fortunately, Ja Reng was sound asleep and did not wake up until we reached another dese
rted village at which it was considered safe to spend the night. Some local people passed through the abandoned village that night and told us government troops were patrolling the area between the Nmai Hka and the road.
A convoy of trucks had passed the day before, so it appeared they were not making any extra precautions for receiving us. But to be on the safe side, on the following day, we halted at a small village just by the river. A patrol had actually been spotted on the opposite bank on the previous afternoon, a villager told us.
I had been dressed in green fatigues and a KIA cap—but without badges—ever since we had entered the guerrilla zone. My disguise evidently left something to be desired, however, as the few people we met had stared openly at me. I felt certain that not for one moment did they take me for a Kachin. But no word leaked out to the nearby government outposts and for that I was grateful to the villagers.
In the evening, our scouts returned with word that the route ahead was clear. We crossed the Nmai Hka on the morning of April 5. The river’s name literally meant “Dangerous Water” and there were only a few places where it was possible to cross. The numerous rapids made any crossing hazardous and the ferries were unwieldy bamboo rafts. The current was so strong the two ferrymen—one on either side—had to begin by paddling diagonally upstream, carrying no more than five people each time.
Land of Jade Page 24