Storyteller

by Zoe Daniel

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, very hard to believe because things are rapidly changing. We need credibility and we need legitimacy and we need to make trust between the people and the government, also political parties and the government.’

  I think we’re agreed on that.

  ‘It sounds great and I hope it’s real,’ I comment. ‘I guess what the international community is wondering is, is it real or is there an ulterior motive on the part of the government in what it’s doing?’

  ‘Yes, actually real,’ he says. ‘I think that after long years of political stalemate, both sides have realised that this road is not effective … So we have to change the directions and the destiny … to make a betterment of the country.’

  But there’s so much to fix. It’s almost overwhelming.

  ‘Okay, so what about standover tactics against people who have political views, the jailing of people for political activity, forced labour, forcing people to become convict porters in the ethnic conflicts, brutality and rape by the Burmese military – does all that stop now? Do you admit that that’s been happening and is that over? Is that in the past?’

  He looks at me thoughtfully. ‘Okay, actually, yes, it’s like maladies of the old age and according to the situation, the stability and security is the first priority for the previous government, as you know, and they have used such tactics, but now we are democratic, elected government so we try to treat this malady with a very correct treatment of democracy so actually you should divide the previous government and the new government.’

  He’s open and urbane, the complete antithesis of the formerly secretive regime, but it remains difficult to work out what’s truth and what’s spin.

  In Naypyidaw we spend a couple of hours in the ministry of information, sitting on metal folding chairs and filling out forms. They’re added to the files that are stacked against the peeling grey-green walls, rustling in the breeze from the ceiling fans and open door. I wonder how many mildewed files on blacklisted reporters are in this room. An official wearing an open-necked white shirt, a traditional longyi skirt and slip-on sandals clatters on an ancient typewriter. One younger staff member, dressed the same way, hunches over the only computer screen, but the page is open to Facebook.

  The official in charge agrees to take us to the parliament while the house is in session. I pinch myself because we’ve so quickly moved from working undercover to avoid detection by the authorities to openly visiting their seat of power.

  The parliament complex is made up of tapered, pagoda-style buildings set around a gigantic main structure. Steep stairs ascend to the impressive marble halls of the house. We take a peek into the hall where the session is about to begin. Although the junta leaders became civilians before the 2010 election, a quarter of the parliament is still made up of uniformed soldiers. They sit together in a dark-green mass, regarding us and the camera if not suspiciously then at least curiously. We aren’t the only media present: at the front of the hall, a Burmese journalist does a piece to camera in something resembling an evening gown. Then the speaker enters and begins the session while David films.

  Afterwards we take a tour of the building, wandering the maze of hallways as wide as roads and function rooms as big as sports fields. One contains an urn, gold and inlaid with jewels, at least as high as a two-storey house. Massive carved teak doors swing open to reveal a perfect green lawn, flanked by statues. A terrace looks out at a distant golden pagoda. There’s some serious ‘wow’ factor here. I wonder how much it all cost to build.

  We prepare to strike out into rural Burma to discover whether anyone’s yet experiencing the benefits of change. Before we go, we pick up our government minder, a confident young man who speaks good English. We’ve managed to get part of the story shot on our own, and he’ll be monitoring where we go and who we talk to from now on.

  Our new fixer, a Burmese friend of a friend, has arranged for us to visit a village in the west. We hope to spend some time with the villagers and to interview a brave monk who’s willing to talk politics. Burmese monks are famous for their involvement in the 2007 Saffron Revolution that was brutally put down by the military. Some have since been jailed for their actions and opinions.

  We travel west, winding along dusty dirt roads over a mountain range, driving through scrubland and villages of simple houses and farms where ragged children smile and wave as we whiz by. We pass carts pulled by bullocks and a few powered by tractor engines. Many of the roads are under construction, the workers breaking and laying rocks by hand. Some are children.

  We haven’t told the government minder where we’re going, other than indicating that we want to visit some rural areas, for fear that he might stop us. Eventually, after we’ve driven through the mountains for many hours and have finally popped out the other side, he asks. We’re heading for a small village to spend the night, we explain. We’ve brought tents and plan to rough it for a couple of days.

  His first response is simply to tell us that we can’t do that: we don’t have the permission that’s required for foreigners to stay in the village; we’ll have to return to Naypyidaw. We refuse.

  There’s silence in the van as we continue west. David and I get out and film the soft red sun as it slips beyond the horizon into the grey-blue dusk. Jum stays in the car, negotiating. She’s far more patient than me. We return to the news that we’ve been offered accommodation at the village monastery, a plan the minder is prepared to swallow, so we drive on.

  Our fixer and driver have guessed that the journey will take about five hours. They’re both smart operators but neither has been to the village, or at least they can’t remember exactly where it is. It gets darker and darker and after a few more hours, we’re still driving. I start to quiz them on whether they truly know where to go and how long it will take to get there.

  We’ve been shooting and travelling all day and we’re exhausted. When we reach a large town, we decide to stay the night. We stop at a few hotels, some pulsing with neon lights that bounce off mirrored windows, others dark and dank, hidden down winding lanes, but they all refuse us rooms. Foreigners are not welcome.

  So we forge on into the blackness, out of the town, across a river and onto a dirt track that you could barely call a road. None of the communities here have electricity and there’s not a light anywhere. Delirium sets in and I start wondering if we’re truly lost. We lurch along, feeling every bump and rut, for maybe another hour. I’m thinking we’ll be spending what’s left of the night in the van when a monk appears out of the darkness carrying a lantern, his saffron robes fluorescent in the glare of our headlights. Against the night sky I see the outline of a pagoda on the hillside above us. We’ve made it.

  We pull into the monastery and meet the abbot, the venerable Sattka Pala, who has invited us to stay. Several small boys help us carry our equipment into the prayer room. Its floor is carpeted in a wild seventies print, and red, blue and green lights flash around a statue of Buddha. Fans spin overhead, powered by a generator that hums outside. I had visions of us camping in a rustic Burmese village; instead we’re on the carpet with camera cases stacked around our pop-up tents.

  It’s well after midnight. The abbot switches off the psychedelic Buddha and the generator winds down. We all crash hard to the sound of insects and the soft, warm breeze in the trees outside.

  We wake at the crack of dawn to the abbot calling the little boys to prayer – they’re novice monks. The flashing Buddha is back in action, casting coloured lights over the group as they complete their routine. Jum and I crawl out of our tents to watch as we fold up our sleeping bags.

  The monks are off to collect alms from the villagers and we join them as they wind their way through the temple complex to the town. White stone and gold, the 700-year-old pagoda sits on the peak of a hill above dry rice paddies where farmers are already hard at work before the draining heat kicks in. Their bullock-driven ploughs kick dust into the cool morning air. Women work behind them, raking the stubble into pile
s, setting smoky fires and spreading the charcoal back over the earth. Their methods have been unchanged for centuries. We attach a camera to a plough’s rough timber crossbar, providing a modern-day view of traditional life.

  ‘Buddhism is to teach people to be free from struggle,’ the abbot tells me later.

  Life has been a struggle here for a long time. Services are limited and basic freedoms don’t exist. Those who complain are punished for speaking out. ‘People cannot speak like me,’ the abbot says, ‘because for me, I’m not afraid of being imprisoned or arrested for saying the truth. Although villagers know the truth they do not dare to speak of it. Eighty per cent of the people continue to live in fear.’

  Our government minder dozes in the car while we interview the abbot and visit the local village, where there’s no electricity or running water. The people can speak freely. ‘We only have candles,’ the village chief, U Hle Po, tells me. ‘As for water, we have many wells which we dig on our own.’

  There’s no local secondary school so most children finish studying at around age ten. They then start work in the fields. Even for those who continue their education, there are barriers to success. Cho Thae Mar, twenty-seven, is the third person in the village to ever go to university. Five years after graduation she’s still unemployed, despite her major in accountancy. ‘I could only get a job if I had the right connections,’ she tells me. The abbot agrees. ‘Whenever there’s a case between the rich officials and people who do not have power, the rich officials win. There is no justice occurring yet.’

  Before I go, he reads my palm. A monk taking a woman’s hand is unusual, but he does and squints at the lines before speaking carefully. ‘You will travel the world.’

  Well, yes.

  ‘Your life will be long. You will be safe from accidents.’

  Very good to know.

  I’m carrying the strong presence of Paul Lockyer with me on this trip. The ABC reporter, an old mentor of mine, was killed just a few months ago with two colleagues, cameraman John Bean and pilot Gary Ticehurst, when an ABC helicopter went down at Lake Eyre in South Australia.

  I feel a strong affinity with Paul. He was once the Southeast Asia correspondent and lived in Bangkok with his wife, Maria, and their two young sons. Our housekeeper, Monta, and her sister Ubon were their nannies, and are now surrogate grandmas to Arkie and Pearl.

  Paul was working with me in Greece when I was told I had the job in Africa, and his personal style of reporting has always inspired me. I’m making this trip partly in his footsteps, as he reported on Burma decades ago.

  We depart for Bagan, a complex of thousand-year-old temples. It’s already one of the country’s key tourist attractions and will soon be overrun with visitors.

  Our story will open with aerial shots of the temples at sunrise, filmed by David from a hot air balloon. ‘It’s a breath-taking view,’ my script will begin, ‘from an incredible vantage point, above one of the world’s most spectacular temple sites. The tourists aboard these hot air balloons have it almost to themselves, but perhaps not for long. Burma’s been an important story but incredibly difficult to cover. Now the curtain’s coming up and the possibilities feel endless.’

  To be covering a story with such potential is exhilarating, particularly when compared to the disasters and tragedies we’re usually consumed by. Burma could still fall apart, but there’s optimism.

  ‘Here in Bagan we say cheers, prost, salut, campai, chin chin, and chakwa – which is Burmese – and soft landings,’ toasts the balloon pilot, Ian Martin, after a successful flight.

  Cheers to that.

  We end our journey in Mandalay, a place of myth and legend immortalised by the writer Rudyard Kipling and others. Surrounded by historic cities and formerly a capital, it’s now the industrial engine-room of the country, propped up by Chinese money. If reforms continue, it may soon be the economic hub of a renewed nation.

  ‘The train is now leaving. Everybody’s on board,’ presidential spokesman Ko Ko Hlaing claims. ‘So nobody would like to drop out from the train. Everybody knows that the reform must go ahead.’ I desperately hope this is true.

  Coincidentally, David and I board a train from Mandalay to Yangon with our government minder, who sleeps away the day while we film the scenery. Jum follows in the car. Old and rusty, the train is furnished with simple vinyl benches and travels slowly. After so many hours in the car, I enjoy it. The train chugs through urban and industrial Mandalay, its doors and windows open, and then cuts into the countryside. Monks watch from monastery windows and farmers toil, bent double in rice fields. Dirt-smeared toddlers, playing by the tracks, wave and shout hello and chase the carriages.

  At the stations, ponies hitched to carts doze under enormous rain trees, and children run along the tracks to offer snacks and bottled water. Through the train windows, women sell plastic packets of sweets and nuts from baskets balanced on their heads, running to finish their sales as the train creaks into action. Little kids jump on and off through the open doors as it gains speed, and then we’re away.

  TWELVE

  Rowan’s mum is dying. In between all of my travel and his own, he’s been popping back to Australia to see her.

  My parents had children young and are both still in relatively good health. His were much older when they began their family and his dad is already gone, lost to cancer. We never met. Now, suddenly, the debilitating corrosion of his mother’s lungs seems likely to take her more swiftly than anyone was prepared for.

  The children are close to their grandmother – especially Arkie, who was the only grandchild in Melbourne for a while. Rowan’s sisters are all adventurers and they’re scattered across Australia. Rowan’s mum, known as Ba to everyone except the children, who call her Granny, looked after Arkie regularly when he was a baby. He loves her fiercely and she back. He’s a mercurial child, difficult and volatile, but blindingly clever and loving beyond measure. He’s challenging but she respects that.

  Ba’s old Kelpie cross, Katsy, is adored too. In Southeast Asia we’ve taught the kids not to go anywhere near the local dogs because of rabies, and they love having a friendly dog to play with on their visits to Melbourne. On occasion Ba and Arkie have disappeared on walks with Katsy, and sometimes Pearl in the pram. Hours later I’ve been pacing, ready to call the cavalry, when they’ve reappeared, Pearl asleep, the others muddy and exhausted and full of tall tales of their adventures.

  I’m just back from Burma and Rowan is about to head to Pakistan when Ba’s health rapidly drops away. Melbourne’s cool months were always going to be a dangerous time for her: she can barely breathe as it is, let alone with the dreaded flu. We drop everything and fly.

  We land to the red-gold sharpness of autumn. The leaves have fallen in the parks, crimson against emerald green, the sun is soft, and the sky is crystal blue and clear. We don jeans and boots and woollen coats, and I buy the kids beanies and rug them up – Pearl in thick, brightly patterned tights and Arkie in layers of long sleeves. Warm clothes are a novelty.

  We decide not to stay at Ba’s because the kids are noisy and demanding, so we rent an apartment around the corner. We struggle to regulate the heating, which is so unfamiliar, so it’s either as hot as Bangkok or icy. We walk to and from Ba’s little Kew townhouse along the damp, leaf-strewn footpaths, past grand old Melbourne homes and modern, jaggedly designed inner-city boxes. The kids run ahead, their laughter tumbling out with foggy breaths, their bright coats flying as they skip and twirl with excitement at being home, in spite of the reason.

  Ba is on a ventilator now. Her cast-iron bed has been replaced with a hospital trolley. It’s made up with her embroidered white linen but looks wrong in her room surrounded by French and English antiques, framed needlepoint and sepia photographs. A vast table next to the trolley is piled with snaps and bits of paper that Ba’s determined to sort out before she goes. The old dog hides worriedly underneath it, eyes fixed on her fading mistress, grey muzzle resting on her paws.

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bsp; Old-fashioned oval baby photos of Rowan and his three sisters sit on the bow-fronted chest of drawers. Rowan looks like Arkie as a baby, blond and curly with soft, pouty lips. Pearl looks like the girls. They’ve both got more Rowan than me in the looks department.

  Rowan’s sister Marina has moved her family to Melbourne for the duration, and our kids are delighted to see their cousins Arabella and Tilly. The four of them – aged five, four, three and two – clamber onto the trolley and squeeze in next to their granny, drawing pictures and reading stories while she sits propped against pillows writing notes, occasionally looking up to admire their scribbles.

  The family home at Woodend, north of Melbourne, was sold a few years ago when it became a bit too much for an elderly woman to manage, even one with Ba’s determination. When it was time she made the call, moving her horses to a friend’s property and downsizing to her townhouse in Kew, close to where the family lived while her children were at school. Many belongings collected during a lifetime of travel and adventure have been dispersed, in an emotional and difficult parting from a house built brick by brick by Rowan’s father.

  Ba’s townhouse has since become the hub for the comings and goings of four families. We’ve scattered around Australia and the world, but always swing back through Melbourne a few times a year. To lose her will be to lose the heart of a family and a gathering point for all of us.

  At first she rallies and is in good spirits. Rowan spends time at her bedside, asking all the questions he can think of about his family history. The kids and I walk Katsy to the park, where they climb, kick the ball and run in the kind of open space and cool air that they never get in Bangkok. On the way back, they pick leaves and flowers over the neighbours’ fences and bring them as gifts for Ba.

  She and I have had a variable relationship over the years. I joined a family of four strong women as the wife of the only boy. I’m not the grazier’s daughter that Ba had planned for her jackaroo son, and I’ve taken him, and her grandchildren, away from Australia. Journalism is not a profession that she particularly respects, and only recently has she taken any interest in my work. I think that’s fine. I’ve never talked to her much about what I do or why I do it. I accept that it’s somewhere around the level of a used-car salesman in her eyes, and haven’t tried to convince her otherwise.