Later, at the Grand Hill Hotel (a few small bungalows so recently constructed that my bath and basin still had their manufacturer’s paper labels), sleep was disturbed by the remembrance of this vibrant festival and was further denied by the skirmishes of rival gangs of dogs, the television next door, the faulty bearing of the bathroom fan (there was no visible switch), a soulful tomcat, the plaintive call of a nightjar, a nearby factory that seemed to work a night shift taking deliveries of corrugated iron sheets and, at 3 am, blaring speakers along the road that intoned Buddhist chants. Frustrated by these disturbances, I opened the jewel case of Ann Fadiman’s latest collection of sparkling essays. Along with Dickens, Jan Morris, H. H. Munro and Perelman, she would be on my desert island bookshelf – well, that was that night’s choice.
We set off down the Salween in a boat of clinkered construction and seemingly great age, the three of us sitting one behind each other, on fully upholstered chairs borrowed from a local restaurant. Approaching Moulmein, the first glimpse was of stupas that formed a seductive girdle of gilded breasts above the coconut palms. Caught in the slanted beams of first light they shone with polished allure. Kipling’s town, ‘lazy by the sea’, still had an air of languid indulgence. Lives were unhurried, the market busy but unaggressive and rickshaws were pedalled by lean men whose insouciance reflected a wish for a regular bowl of rice rather than a desire to trade up to a better model. The back streets were a model of tolerance where the Buddhist majority were neighbours to Christians (Catholic, Baptist, Methodist, SPG and probably more), Hindus (their temples awash with crocodiles, elephants and devils) and bearded Muslims. Scattered through the town with apparent abandonment of the principles of prime location, were the old, grand, rotting wooden mansions of previous merchants and colonial grandees. Like Miss Haversham, they rested in sad and decaying splendour under a web of lianas that twisted their way over fretted balconies and decorated dormers. A sunbeam sometimes caught the coloured glass of a door so that a brief splash of green, red and blue appeared as a jewelled brooch on a withered façade. Possibly loved, universally uncared for but occasionally occupied, they were the remnants of the commercial success of this teak trading town. Along the seafront, Chinese investors had erected the contemporary symbols of success: hideous buildings draped with ceramic tiles, stainless steel balconies and neon signage.
With the lassitude of previous untroubled times, Kalaw spreads itself over hills sprinkled with stone pines and alder. These also clothe three valleys that meet in a glittering collision at the silver mirrored stupa that marks the town centre. A favoured hill station in colonial times, half-timbered clones of Surrey gentility occupy the spots with the best views. Most would sadden or even break the hearts of their original inhabitants with their slipped slates and wayward gutters and the tropical exuberance that has overtaken the gardens but some carry the evidence of suburban home county gardens with sweet peas, roses, marigolds and dahlias. My parent’s old house is one of these. Perched on a prominent mound to catch cooling breezes and the pleasure of the setting sun, Arakan Lodge hints at Arts and Crafts with its quoins of stacked tiles, oversized chimneys, bow windows and leaded panes. Now it was part of a primary school occupied by the headmaster and two other families and with a single storey block of eight classrooms built where lawn and trimmed beds would once have been carefully tended. My mother was pragmatic, generous and concerned for children’s welfare and she would be happy that they were benefitting from her old home. I took photographs to record the current slip from better times and also of the school as a model for ones that I might be able to build myself. Elsewhere around the town, these relics of Guildford’s environs were having something of a renaissance with rich men or military commanders returning them to their previous domestic origins, recognising the value of their superior views, solid construction and practical arrangement.
The in-flight magazine of Yangon Airways carried four pages of cosmetic advertisements that presumably appealed to the ambitions of the hip and cool. They included Super Whitening Foam, White Pore Radiance, Crystal Brightening Essence, Noni Fruit Detangler, Cherry White Cream, Dumb Blond Highlights and Chocolate Head Massive Hair Treatment. The tourist may be fooled and amused by these signs of modernity, perhaps unaware that they are for the privileged minority. The reality is sombre and bordering on the tragic, for the great majority live in poor conditions and carry the burden of an oppressive regime. The challenge for the international community is how to engage effectively with this secretive and opaque regime and, at the same time, act in the best interests of the country and its neglected people. The election promised for 2010 (ten years after the last election when 86% of the electorate voted for Daw Aung San Suu Kyi’s Democratic Party) did not give rise to any optimism for any slackening of control or an increase in transparency, domination and secrecy since these were fundamental to the ruling authorities. As to control, laws and regulations are made without reasons given. In October 2004, 2,000 intelligence officers were arrested or dismissed; a year later diesel prices rose by 900%; in April 2006, civil servant salaries were increased tenfold and in August 2007, petrol and diesel prices were hiked up another 500% overnight and motorcycles were prohibited in Rangoon. As to transparency, the composition of the cabinet (which has ruled since 1962) was unknown, although it could be assumed to be overwhelmingly military or ex-military and of these, reputedly only two were from the 135 ethnic groups of the country. Fifty percent of the GDP is spent on the military. Driving east out of Rangoon through the suburb of Mingaladon you pass the new Gynaecological Hospital for Women of the Army and there is a storage area for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of military vehicles obviously visible from the highway. 80 percent of health treatment is borne by the patient, 86 percent of children do not continue education post primary school (Burma may be the only country in the world whose current generation is less educated than their parents) and this from a country whose education system used to be the envy of the Orient. Inflation is the highest of the ASEAN group of countries in spite of its natural resources of oil, coal, gas, teak (80% of the world’s supply), hydro power, copper, precious stones (90% of the world’s rubies and the finest jade in the world) and vast rice-producing areas. All these made it once the richest country in south East Asia.
Most bizarre of all is the world’s newest purpose-built capital: the remote, mad, gleaming city of Nay Pyi Daw. At 6.37 am on 6th November 2005 (the exact time designated by the astrologer to General Than Shwe, the mysterious and all powerful head of the ruling junta), a convoy of government trucks started to move thousands of civil servants from Rangoon. The new capital was not marked on any map; neither was the six lane, deserted, unsignposted highway that leads to it. In this country of gentle people, all are afraid of their rulers but their rulers are so afraid of their people that they hide themselves away in a crazy capital 100 miles (160kms) from anywhere. The abandoned government buildings, many forming part of Rangoon’s architectural heritage, had lain empty so long that weeds and even trees had already grown out of their upper stories. This great seaport’s heart had become a sort of tropical East Berlin. Whether there was hope in the rumour that some of these ex-government buildings had been sold to Malaysian and Chinese investors remained to be seen. The 100 year old, 100 acre (40 hectare) campus of Rangoon University in the city centre had been empty since the student protests of 1996.
But this is not a piece on geo-politics or socio-economics and certainly not on doom and gloom, for the overwhelming and frankly baffling fact is that the people bore these yokes with fortitude, resilience and even cheerfulness. No doubt Lord Buddha has a hand in this tolerance (and Christ too, for there is a significant and earnest Christian community). With this in mind, the current regilding of the Schwedagon with a ton of gold leaf (at £600 an ounce, about £7.5 million), or the mega project of the world’s largest reclining Buddha at double that, may seem like money well spent. In desperate and troubled times who can blame such a poor people contributing what
little they have to ensure that life in the next world is better than this. Perhaps future salvation can be bought; it certainly will not be provided in the present.
Like a ribbon the colour of moonlight on cream velvet, the beach at Ngwe Sang follows a gentle curve of palm fringed land for nine miles. A few thatched fishing villages are shaded by the palms and a group of sturdy wooden boats ride the surf of the Bay of Bengal while a multitude of little red crabs scuttle to the safety of their sandy dugouts at the approach of a footfall. Here is the epitome of a travel agent’s brochure, the fashion photographer’s dream location and the setting of those romantic paperbacks that seem only to be available at airports. The morning rush hour was between 8 and 8.30 am when four mopeds and four women skirted the surf on their way to one of the three hotels at the Northern end of the bay. For the hour before this commuter activity, this idyll had been mine. Not a soul, a dog, a wandering Crusoe nor a servant Friday. For myself it was perfection but for the country and this seaside community, tragic. Here were three hotels of great comfort, the match of any on eastern sands, which together with a few more modest establishments and a scattering of bungalows stood forlornly empty. Cooled by air conditioning, with cooks at the ready, tables laid, staff alert, crystal clean pools and trimmed grass there was not another guest in sight. Marching monks and a devastating cyclone had scared off the tourists while the more worldly and experienced travellers avoid the heat of March. As the sun sizzled into the ocean and the idling evening breeze gathered a little strength, I made my way to the expectant barmen, the attentive waiters and the table beside the impossibly perfect sand. I turned my thoughts to daffodils, to hyacinths and to tulips, the soil to be tilled, the myrtle to be trimmed, welcoming dogs and loving arms. It was time to go home.
Uganda
October 2009
‘No one realizes how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home to rest his head on his old, familiar pillow’ – Lin Yutang
Thunder rolled around the Mountains of the Moon, the sky was black with menace and lightning cracked an apparent hand’s breadth above our roof. The tumult increased until it reached a crescendo that Wotan himself might have orchestrated and then subsided as the storm sulked its way over to the Congo in sullen abatement and the sun restored peace. Pairs of scarlet-chested sunbirds were nesting in the thatch of our bandana and the crater lakes shimmered pink in the pale dusk competing with the flowering erythrina that glowed with red hot embers; it is not called the Flame of the Forest for nothing. The mountains mark the boundary between Uganda and the Democratic Republic of Congo and the lakes that border Rwanda. Ndali Lodge, shaded by a giant fig tree that drips with the homes of hundreds of black headed and Viellot’s weaver birds, perches on a promontory at the end of a long and sinuous dirt road and looks out on all these wonders.
Kenya Airways – The Pride of Africa – had taken us to Uganda, The Pearl of Africa (there is much jostling for superlatives in these parts) and the drive from Entebbe had taken us through the depressing suburbs of Kampala. Evangelism has found fertile ground here, spilling over from gospel halls to The Hosanna Restaurant, The Blessed Clinic, The Glory of God Primary School, The Light of Christ Correspondence College and The Back to God Salon. We sped by too quickly to discover whether this last one was for hairdressing or downing a pint. St Adolf and St Theresa were uncomfortable neighbours a block down from Paradise Shopping and Desire Hall. For another six hours we passed clusters of pathetic single roomed shacks, built by their owners, judging from the uneven courses of rough bricks. Many of these had succumbed to the offers of cell phone companies and received an external paint job that as part of the bargain, had the company logo stretched across the façade. Drab villages were much brightened by splashes of bright puce (Zain –‘We Care’), sunflower yellow (MTN –‘It’s all about U’) and red and white check (Warid –‘Making Life Better’). Others had caught on to this marketing wheeze so that soap, beer and washing powder manufacturers offered their own bright palettes.
We passed through rolling acres of tea plantations whose leaves were so continually harvested that they seemed close cropped by sheep. They were divided by neat and orderly rows of pine and eucalyptus. Many had English names as did Fort Portal (named after Sir Gerald Portal, a former Special Commissioner). ‘Fort Portal – The Trumpet of Life’, whatever that may mean – announced the sign on its outskirts.
Ndali Lodge had the usual flow of guests that sustain these establishments and dinner at a long table was convivial and lively as views and adventures were exchanged. There was a lean and bearded doctor attached to Medecins sans Frontieres and his girlfriend from Manhattan, a previous rock DJ turned pastry chef who looked a little out of place in her pencil skirt and sparkly blouse. There was a husband and wife team of ex-teachers who had come to find old pupils who had fled their Kampala school during the terrible massacres of the Amin regime, a loud mother in plaits from Idaho with her 45 year old son and a Scotsman from Thurso with his mincing fiancée – a strip of a thing from Basingstoke. M and I seemed to be the conventional social glue around the table. There were also five resident dogs, all related to each other and, some while ago, a Rhodesian ridge-back. The two youngest, Sybil and Polly (of Fawlty Towers), engagingly adopted us and when not sleeping on our veranda, encouraged us to take them for a walk.
The lodge and the adjoining land had originally been the property of a Yorkshireman, Major Trevor Price. His son, Mark, was driven out by the tyrant Idi Amin but coming back following the 1993 Act of Reconciliation to reclaim his property was astonished to find that it had not been trashed by its military occupants. Getting on in years, he left the house to his son Aubrey and the land to a young cousin, Lulu Sturdy. Aubrey, realising the potential of the incomparable views, persuaded 20 friends to invest in building a tourist lodge. Lulu, then aged 30, showing similar grit and entrepreneurial talent, was also determined to make a profitable enterprise from her inheritance. After building a house for herself, she experimented with coffee, avocados, bananas and cocoa before hitting on vanilla. This last experiment, involving extraordinarily time-consuming, labour-intensive and complex manufacturing procedures, proved highly successful and Ndali Vanilla Extract is now sold in major UK supermarkets. We paid a visit to the vanilla farm with Ronald, a local naturalist, together of course with the five dogs. Along the way he pointed out the medicinal qualities of plants. One, he assured us, was used to promote big breasts. “But I prefer small breasts and big bums,” he candidly admitted. Judging from the number of nursing mothers we saw (the population has trebled in 40 years), his preferences seemed thin on the ground.
The chimpanzees of Kigali Forest were an unpredictable bunch (maybe all chimps are). Displaying all the conventions of an unruly and dysfunctional family, they crashed around the forest sometimes stopping to rest, to sleep, to eat or, in a sudden explosion of shrieks and cries that sounded as though half were being dragged away for slaughter and much thumping on tree buttresses, they all careered around the treetops, hurled sticks and raced around the ground before settling again in peaceful harmony. Females in season and the establishment of pecking orders were usually to blame.
Moving to the south-west corner of the country where it collides with Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo (known locally as DRC) in a string of volcanoes that had spent their fury (although a few fume on), we came to the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest. The dirt road of our route passed first through the grasslands of the Princess Elizabeth National Park and miles from any obvious habitation, small groups of men and women wielded mattocks in a listless and futile occupation of weeding the verges. The park was littered with termite mounds scattered over the land; some were like the untidy turds of a wandering dinosaur, others were pinnacled like the fantasy castles of Ludwig, King of Bavaria. In between roamed small groups of Ugandan kob (the national animal), baboon troops, elephant and buffalo.
Bwindi Lodge occupied an enviable patch of hillside above a small river that engorged by recent rain, rus
hed over granite boulders and was bordered by arbours of daturas whose flowers dangled in a profusion of white trumpets above the frothy water. From the veranda of each thatched bandana and the sweeping terrace of the main lodge, the forest created an unbroken backdrop – dark, verdant and forbidding and full of the promise of intimidating and mysterious giant beasts. We first explored its mysteries at Ruhija, an hour and a half ’s drive along a road cut through deep forest, which coiled and squirmed its way through small hills scattered with steep cultivated plots of maize, cassava, beans, bananas and yams. After climbing to 7,500 ft (2,300m), we stopped at a remote outpost of The Ugandan Wildlife Service before setting off with our guide Joanne (whose rotund figure we found later belied her formidable fitness), two trackers, two armed guards to scare off any marauding elephants and two porters to carry our bags of wet weather clothes. More usefully, they pushed or pulled our struggling bodies up or down vertiginous slopes carpeted with every kind of vine, creeper and thorn that might catch, snare, tear or entwine. We cursed these obstacles, the altitude, the oppressive conditions, the relentless pace, the flies, the oily mud, the hidden pits of rotten trees and the impossible steepness and then we forgot them all in an instant of wonder as we came upon gorillas.
The Last Blue Mountain Page 29