Storyteller

by Zoe Daniel

  I get home from another long day of wading around to be told of the landlady’s warning. Rowan is away working, so Nisha and I put the kids to bed and then move the outdoor furniture inside, take the art off the walls and bring everything precious upstairs. Rowan and I have collected lots of keepsakes in our travels: rugs from Pakistan; paintings and drawings and sculptures from all over Africa and Asia; timber furniture from Cambodia. None of it is particularly valuable in a monetary sense, but it can’t be replaced.

  Upstairs is full. Downstairs I stack everything, apart from the couch and the TV, on top of the dining-room table. Nisha and I sandbag the front terrace and the back door, and the front gate that faces the khlong.

  Another big issue is bottled water. We drink it as a rule in Bangkok, but now much of it has been distributed to shelters. Bottling plants are underwater as are the bottle manufacturers. So there’s very little water on the supermarket shelves – the store at the end of our street only sells imported Evian at insane prices. I buy a filter for the kitchen tap just in case, even though there have been warnings about contamination. We stockpile all the bottled water Ros can source.

  I wonder if we’ll have to evacuate the house for the second time since we’ve moved in. The kids are both thrilled and terrified at the prospect of a flood, and specifically the chance of seeing a crocodile in the garden. I’m obviously not thrilled but I’m certain we won’t see as deep a flood as the people I speak to each day in the outer parts of the city.

  Rowan comes back and cancels a lucrative work trip to the United States just in case evacuation is necessary. Again, he’ll take responsibility for moving the kids somewhere safe while I cover the story. We live like campers around stacked furniture and sandbags and boxes of bottled water.

  A series of high tides pushes the Chao Phraya River to the brink. Water repeatedly spills over and recedes in the old part of town near the Grand Palace and the tourist sites around the Amulet Market. It’s minor flooding compared to what’s going on in the north of the city, but there are concerns that king tides will elevate the level of the river to the point that it overflows in a big way.

  The national government announces a controversial plan to save inner Bangkok by diverting water around the city. That means closing the outer floodgates and using them as dams, forcing the water to the east and west. The government argues that Bangkok’s CBD is the financial and administrative engine room of the country and therefore must be protected. That may be true, but the plan reinforces the sense that those who live in central Bangkok care little about the rest of Thailand. Some condo dwellers in the inner city scoff at the flood coverage, claiming it’s a beat-up. I tell them to drive a few kilometres out of their comfort zone before they make any judgements.

  Others are paying for inner Bangkok’s protection. In the city’s northern suburbs, houses are going under street by street. Areas west of the river, where diverted water is flowing in fast, are completely inundated. On the eastern side, industrial estates are still being submerged. Communities outside the locked floodgates are angry because the water that has flowed into their homes can’t flow out again. Black, stagnant water is contaminating everything they own.

  We visit one such community at Sam Wa in the city’s northeast, where the frustration turns violent. People smash a flood barrier in an attempt to release trapped water and clash with police. They say the water came quickly into their community from the north and is now an unmoving mass because the nearby floodgate is shut.

  The Bangkok governor, Sukhumbhand Paribatra, tells us that if the gate doesn’t stay closed, water will displace hundreds of thousands of people. ‘Don’t be confused – it’s very serious. If the damage is not repaired, the sluice gate is in danger of being completely broken, and if it’s broken a very large part of Bangkok, where hundreds of thousands of people live and work and study, will be affected.’

  It’s unfortunate that those on the wrong side of the floodgates are getting extremely wet for the sake of keeping those on the inside dry.

  A few days later, I get a call from Jum to say that a child has drowned at Sam Wa. The community has asked us to come and film the funeral. It’s a bleak assignment but a real act of trust by the people to invite us.

  Jum, David, Khun Tu and I once again traverse the flood to Sam Wa, driving along streets that are silent save for the slosh of black water. We carry our gear across skinny wooden boardwalks to the mosque, the only building in the area high enough to have escaped the flood. There, the community is gathered.

  Little U Madr, who was nineteen months old, woke early from an afternoon nap. While his grandmother slept, he toddled out of the house and fell face-down into the water. By the time he was found it was too late; he had drowned. The community’s biggest fear had become real.

  When we arrive, U Madr’s still little body is lying on a table at the front of the mosque. He’s fully dressed and covered with a blanket, and he’s wearing a tiny skullcap. Incense is burning nearby. People visit the table one by one, touch his head and face, and pray. Old men stroke his body in anguish; children pat him, wide-eyed with curiosity. His parents and others then take off his clothes and wash him thoroughly in a silver bath. The children look thoughtful as the baby is bathed and the soapy water runs down the plughole.

  It strikes me that this is a very sensitive yet open way to handle death. There’s nothing hidden here, no mystery. It seems healthier than hiding the body in a closed coffin, never seeing the peaceful face of death. The little boy is kissed, then wrapped in soft white cloth.

  His mother weeps as his face is covered and clings to her husband. She tells me what she’ll miss most. ‘The sound of his laughter … there were so many special things about him.’

  His father shows me a series of smiling, laughing snaps on his phone. Little U Madr looks like a typical cheeky toddler.

  Although a deal with the local government was made to release some water through the floodgate and reduce levels at Sam Wa, it didn’t do enough. ‘If the government could better manage the water to make the conditions more normal, this might not have happened,’ says the community leader Chavana Thongthep in Thai, with Jum translating.

  The little boy is placed in an unadorned timber box. A group of men take it out of the mosque and lower it into a small boat bobbing on the flooded creek. His mother, robed in black, her head covered with a scarf, steps into another small craft and they’re rowed side by side towards the cemetery, flanked by mourners who wade through the muddy water. Chanting from the mosque loudspeaker reverberates for miles, like the family’s grief. A wall of sandbags protects a hole in the muddy earth just big enough for a tiny wooden coffin.

  In the end, the water never reaches central Bangkok. It stops just a couple of kilometres away sometime in November. The government’s diversion strategy saves the CBD but outer areas of the city are underwater well into the new year.

  The sandbags hang around for quite a while – no one’s quite ready to trust the experts who say the crisis is over. Eventually Rowan and I dismantle our own flood barriers and put our house back together. I’m keenly aware of what others have sacrificed to keep us dry.

  People are already talking about another flood next wet season. Just in case, David, Jum and I pack up our gumboots and waders and store them in the office, ready for action.

  The family we followed from shelter to shelter has moved back home to Ayutthaya. Their street is dry but clogged with debris. Their house, which was completely submerged during the flood, is a wreck. ‘There is really nothing left,’ the woman says. ‘Anything we collected, right? Anything I loved is gone and I have no idea what to do next.’ She’s scrubbing the walls; mud right up to the roof.

  When we visit again months later, they still haven’t replaced anything.

  ‘No curtain?’ I ask.

  ‘This is because of the flood,’ she says. ‘We covered the window with newspaper because I don’t dare to invest in a rail and curtain and install it. When the w
ater comes again, we won’t be able to remove it in time.’

  At Sam Wa, U Madr’s grave is finally dry.

  The area is barely recognisable with the water gone. Canals have become streets again; the swollen creek is back to a trickle. Behind the mosque, a sports field is exposed, and at the front there’s a small shop – both were invisible in the flood.

  Life is returning to normal, but not for U Madr’s parents, who tidy up his little grave, sweeping away sticks and leaves, clearing debris from the dust.

  TEN

  December 2011

  Finally the sun comes out in Bangkok. The mornings have the clarity that only the early dry season brings; the trees along our Soi are fresh and green, and our garden is lush, still muddy and not yet coated in the dust that will rise after a few weeks with no rain. The kids are about to finish school for the holidays and Bangkok is lit up like a Christmas tree. It’s almost time to pull ours out from under the stairs.

  Then there’s a sudden announcement and I’m on the road again.

  Since our interview with Aung San Suu Kyi in the middle of the year, there have been what US President Barack Obama describes as ‘flickers of progress’ in Burma. He announces that Hillary Clinton will visit the country before Christmas. This is clearly part of a US strategy to engage with Burma, which has previously counted the likes of China and North Korea as its closest allies. Some Burma watchers think it’s too soon to endorse the fledgling reforms, but the United States decides to fan the flickers with a fully blown state visit. Aung San Suu Kyi has met with President Thein Sein a number of times and electoral laws have been changed to allow her and other former political prisoners to run for office. The government has started making the right noises about democracy and change, so in a big symbolic gesture, Clinton will become the first US secretary of state to visit in more than fifty years.

  Until now we’ve been cautious about outing ourselves to the Burmese authorities, but we decide that it’s time. An announcement is made that a few journalists will be allowed in to cover the visit, so Jum sets to work on getting visas for me and David. I’m unsure whether we’ll be granted official permission to enter the country after all the illegal stories the ABC has done in Burma, as well as the fact that David has been banned for years. After a nervous few days and lots of phone calls by Jum, we’re told that we’ll be allowed a few days in the country.

  For the first time we’ll be able to enter Burma openly with all of our camera gear and film. It feels odd not having to hide anything. We get a few stares when we land in Yangon with David carrying a full-sized TV camera through the airport. When we reach Immigration I smirk when my visa elicits a shriek of ‘Journalist!’ from the official and others come running, but the credentials check out and we’re stamped in.

  Pushing two trolleys stacked high with Pelican camera cases, we join a throng of reporters trying to hire mobile phones from a tiny desk in the arrivals hall. There’s no such thing as global roaming here and you can’t buy local sim cards – yet. Changing money is also a drama. The kyat notes are ancient, filthy, wrinkled things like old banana skins, but US dollars are unacceptable unless they’re crisp and new. One mark, crease, fold or tear, and they can’t be used in Burma.

  Phones and money sorted, we jump in a van and hit the road, but this time there’s no need to lie low. When we see something interesting, we stop and film it.

  People watch us curiously. We ask some about the process of change and they’re wary, but they all see Clinton’s visit as a good thing, a sign of progress. It’s liberating to be able to stand in the street and film without fear of arrest. We’re attracting a lot of attention and local authorities don’t know how to treat us. In the past they would have informed on us, but this time we’re legal.

  We head to Naypyidaw, the capital, a vast planned city built out on its own in the centre of the country. We need to get there ahead of the secretary of state, who will be landing in her US Air Force passenger jet along with the White House press corps at Naypyidaw Airport.

  We’re taking the best road in the country. It’s barely used because the tolls levied on drivers are far too high for most Burmese to afford. Made of unusually textured, pale tarmac, it stretches in a ribbon as far as the eye can see. In its centre is a median strip covered in straggly grass and the occasional cactus-like pot plant to prevent U-turns. The gutters are being painted white by long-suffering workers who toil in the beating sun with paintbrushes as we speed past. I presume that by the time they reach the end it will be time to start again at the beginning. The road has been laid in slabs rather than a single stretch, which means bumps approximately one second apart. We will get to know every bump well over the next few months.

  The scenery is largely unexciting but I’m fascinated to see Burma outside of Yangon and I watch hungrily as we eat up each mile. Occasionally we jump out to film some rice farmers in a field or a golden-topped pagoda or a group of villagers in a bullock cart. Halfway we pull over at the only rest stop, a series of small food outlets grouped together on the side of the highway. This will also become a very familiar place. We eat a bowl of the nourishing local noodle soup, mohinga, and then keep moving. We can’t be late for Clinton.

  When we reach the outskirts of the capital, it’s apparent how different it is from ramshackle Yangon, where the grand old buildings are covered in grime and interspersed with cheap shop-houses and leaning shacks. Naypyidaw is a city built for bureaucrats and many of them are only here part time.

  There’s barely a car on the super-wide roads, just the occasional incongruous donkey cart and a few motos. Many villa-style houses are still under construction, along with hotels. Those that are open advertise their services on huge billboards by the roadside with slogans like ‘Your Homely Place’ and ‘Your Perfect Choice’. Behind high walls or up long driveways, they’re collections of upmarket bungalows overlooking gardens and artificial lakes. Getting out to film a few signs and what little activity there is on the road, we’re quickly chased away by security guards. They’re not used to media here.

  We pass a gigantic, kitsch floral fountain on the road to the airport but don’t stop. The empty road is two dozen lanes wide. I start wondering just how long the government’s been planning its reform agenda: for a virtually closed country, Burma seems to be expecting a lot of traffic.

  There’s no more time to reflect on that as we get to the airport ahead of Clinton and her entourage. We’re expecting it to be a madhouse and it is, as Burmese and international media queue up, jostle through security, and then queue up again and jostle through another scanner. We’re herded into a departure lounge that we can’t leave, and there we wait, dozens of reporters with mountains of camera gear, watching the clock and sweating.

  None of the Burmese officials are prepared to give us information on the schedule. The Sydney desk asks via a scratchy line what the timing might be on Clinton’s arrival. ‘Soon,’ I tell them, optimistically.

  When US embassy officials and the secret service arrive, it gets easier. I explain that we want to go live to our 24/7 TV channel, ABC News 24, as the plane lands, and they agree that we can set up our equipment separately to the rest of the media scrum. We’re even allowed out onto the tarmac early to get into position. The secret service sniffer dog gives our gear the once-over and then David pulls out the BGAN. A modern version of a satellite phone, it will send live video to Sydney. There’s some irony in this, given that satellite phones are banned in Burma.

  The sunlight is turning to gold when we hear the 747 rumble. As the airport is just two buildings in a field with a runway, the arrival of the enormous plane is a majestic sight. I get a prickle of being part of history unfolding.

  The jet taxis towards us, stops directly behind me and cuts its engines just as our program rolls its opening theme. While the presenter crosses to me with questions about the visit’s significance, the plane door opens and Hillary Clinton becomes the first US secretary of state to step onto Burmese soil in
more than five decades. It’s a huge moment in the relationship between the countries, but more importantly it’s an act that will bring Burma in from the cold. Although the reform process will be fraught, it’s clear that big change is ahead.

  It’s a big moment for us, too. To be broadcasting openly, live from Naypyidaw, was unthinkable just a few short months ago. ‘It’s been utterly liberating for us to be able to walk out onto the streets of Yangon, to be able to film openly, to openly talk to people to ask them what’s changing in their country.’ I tell News 24.

  There’s a flurry of filing, a few hours sleep and then a crack-of-dawn departure back to Yangon down the same ribbon of road. Hillary Clinton is off to meet Aung San Suu Kyi.

  The new Burmese environment has its costs and benefits. At Aung San Suu Kyi’s house there’s a queue at the gate and a US Secret Service frisk before we can enter. It couldn’t be more different to the way Wayne and I slipped in and out six months ago.

  When we get inside there’s a clear pecking order in favour of the White House press pack. The US reporters do pieces to camera one after the other, all shot by an operator who then elbows everyone else out of the way to claim the centre position on the elevated platform set up for media. The front row is reserved for the Americans. The rest of us, including the Burmese press, are at the back. Such is life in a changing Burma.

  We hold our positions in the boiling sun for hours after Clinton is ushered into the house for a meeting with the Lady. They then emerge for a brief statement and we battle to get our shot as Burmese journalists stand on chairs in front of us to see over the Americans. It’s a forest of hands holding smartphones.

  The women take a walk together around the garden. I notice that the lower level of the house has been painted, roses have been planted and are in bloom, and there’s a lush green lawn. I recall Daw Suu’s disappointment at the state of her garden. I bet she’s pleased to see it slowly coming back to life, like her country.