“No worse than what we do in other countries,” Dwight said.
“What are you talking about?” Moff said.
“Saving people for their own good,” he replied. “Invading countries, having them suffer collateral damage, as we call it. Killing them as an unfortunate consequence of helping them. You know, like Vietnam, Bosnia.”
“Those aren’t the same thing,” Bennie said. “And what are you suggesting, that we just stand around and do nothing when ethnic cleansing goes on?”
“Just saying we should be aware of the consequences. You can’t have intentions without consequences. The question is, who pays for the consequences? Saving fish from drowning. Same thing. Who’s saved? Who’s not?”
“I’m sorry,” Bennie huffed, “but that is not the same thing at all.” The others were quiet. It wasn’t that they agreed with Dwight, whom they hated to agree with, no matter what he said. But they could not entirely disagree. It was like a brain twister, one of those silhouettes that was a beautiful girl with a hat, then a crone with a crooked nose. It depended on how you viewed it.
“Oh God, what can we do?” Heidi said mournfully, still fixated on the fish. “Can’t we say something? I want to buy all of them and throw them back in the water.”
“Don’t look at it,” Moff told her.
“How can I not look?”
The fish continued to flop. Moff led Heidi away by the arm.
“Can fish drown?” Rupert asked once they had moved away from the fish stalls.
“Of course not,” Bennie said. “They have gills, not lungs.”
“Actually,” Harry said, “they can indeed drown.” All eyes except Heidi’s turned toward him. “In humans who drown, the lungs fill with water, and because our lungs are incapable of filtering out usable oxygen, the person suffocates. That’s the cause of death, lack of oxygen. We call it drowning, because it occurs in water or with some sort of liquid.” He caught Marlena looking at him intently. He continued in his casual, confident manner.
“Fish, on the other hand, have gills that extract oxygen, but most fish have to keep moving about to bring in a lot of water to filter enough oxygen. If they were not able to move, say they were caught in a reef pocket at low tide, or stuck on a hook, they would eventually suffer from oxygen deprivation and suffocate. They drown.” He saw that Marlena was staring at him, mesmerized, a look that said to him: You are so incredibly powerful and sexy. If there were a bed right here, I’d jump your bones. Actually, Marlena was wondering why he took so much pleasure in describing how fish die.
Heidi envisioned the panting fish they had just left. “If they can take oxygen from water, why can’t their gills process it from air?”
Marlena gave Harry an expectant look. Harry gladly explained: “Their gills are like two silky-thin arches. They’re suspended wide open in water, like double sails on a boat. Out of water, the arches collapse like a plastic baggie and press against each other, sealing them off so no air gets in. The fish suffocate.”
Vera gave out a snort. “So there is absolutely no way someone can sincerely say they are saving fish from drowning.”
And Harry replied: “No. They are drowning on land.”
“Well, what about chickens?” Vera mused, gesturing toward a cage of chicks. “What benevolent action will do them in? Will they be receiving yoga lessons when their necks are accidentally broken?”
“It’s no worse than what we do back home,” Esmé said with sangfroid matter-of-factness. “We’re just better at hiding it. I saw a program on TV. The pigs are all smashed together, then go through a chute, and they’re all screaming, because they know what’s going to happen. They do it to horses, too. That’s what some dog foods are made of. Sometimes they’re not even dead when they get chopped up.”
Marlena stared at her daughter. Esmé seemed to have shed her innocence before her very eyes. How could her baby know these things? Marlena took her daughter’s new strides in knowledge with maternal angst and sadness. She had loved those days when Esmé looked to her for protection and comfort, when it was expected that she, the mother, would shield her daughter from the ugliness of the world. Now she remembered a time, not too long before, when they had walked together through Chinatown, and Esmé had cried over the live fish after hearing the shopkeeper say they were “for eating not for petting.” Esmé’s hysterical reaction was not that different from the sentiments of the animal activists on the street who were passing out leaflets, encouraging people to boycott restaurants in Chinatown that killed fish and fowl on their premises to ensure the food was absolutely fresh. “The fish have their heads cut off while they are still alive,” she once heard an animal rights protester complain. Marlena had shouted back, “All animals are alive before they are killed. How else do you propose to kill a fish? Let it die of old age?” She thought it ridiculous that people argued for saving a fish’s life. But now she saw things through Esmé’s eyes. It was awful to witness any creature in a fruitless struggle to stay alive.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Walter called. “You may return to the bus now, and those of you who still want to do a bit of shopping or sightseeing, please rendezvous back at the bus in fifteen minutes.” My friends dispersed, Wendy to seek the shade of the bus, Moff and Rupert to wander the alleyways, and the others to find a photo opportunity to record that they had been in this town, whatever it was called.
Off in a corner of the marketplace, Bennie spotted an old woman with the sweetest expression. She was wearing a blue turban, which dwarfed her sun-parched face. He gestured to ask if he might do a quick sketch of her and her lovely display of mustard greens and turnips. She grinned shyly. He did the fast line drawing he used for cartoons, just enough sweeps to suggest the forms and features that captured the subject. Knowing what the features were—that was as much the artistry as executing the drawing. The weight of the turban on her small head, and now a big smile that nearly swallowed her chin. A bunch of loops for the turnips and mustard greens, and fainter squiggles for those in the back rows. After a minute or so, he showed the woman his sketch. “Oh my,” she cried in a language he didn’t understand, “you have turned me into someone else, much more beautiful. Thank you.” She started to hand it back, and he stopped her.
“For you,” he said.
She gave him another huge smile that engulfed her lower lip. Her small eyes sparkled. As he was about to step away, she grunted at him, then gestured to her vegetables for sale. “You like?” she asked in English. Bennie nodded, to be polite. She gestured that he should choose something. Bennie raised a hand and shook his head politely. She insisted. He was dismayed that she was now asking him to buy her goods. Finally, still smiling, she snorted and dumped a handful of fermented turnips into a small pink bag, then twirled it and tied off the top, so that, with the air caught inside, it resembled a plump pink bladder. She held this up for him to take.
What the hell. How much could it cost? He offered her a few bills, the equivalent of thirty cents, which was a fantastically huge sum for a bag of fermented turnips, but she looked insulted and firmly pushed his hand away. He finally came to understand: Oh, a gift. A gift! She gave a firm nod. He gave her a gift, and she was giving him a gift. Wow! He was overwhelmed. This was the true kindness of strangers. This was a National Geographic moment: two people, vastly different, separated by language and culture and a whole lot else, yet giving and giving back the best they had to offer, their own humanity, their cartoons, their pickles. He gratefully accepted the pink plastic bag with its soggy lump, this beautiful token of universal friendship. It was incredible, so warming to the heart. He would keep it forever—or until disaster struck, which would be only a few hours later.
THE BUS ROLLED FORWARD, its wheels now in contact with the Burma Road, a rough-coated two-lane thoroughfare shared by Brahmin cattle of both the wandering variety and the kind manacled to carts. My friends looked at the new scenery. The hills were covered with smaller mounds that jutted out like carbuncles. In the
fields stood shacks on stilts, the walls made of woven rattan, the roofs of thatched grass. The more prosperous homes had the benefit of blindingly shiny corrugated tin roofs. On this warm winter afternoon, the windows were blocked by shutters, sun-bleached and monsoon-washed such that they evoked a history-rich, distressed style greatly admired by Roxanne. Marlena, for her part, thought the buildings were so surrealistically gorgeous they achieved a reverse trompe l’oeil effect, a deception of the senses that made it seem the shutters were not real but painted on.
“Look at all those Christmas plants,” Esmé said. “There’s like a thousand dollars’ worth right there.” Poinsettias, interlaced with bougainvillea, spread along the base of banyan trees, harmonizing with the ubiquitous bushes of panpuia and their lilac-tinted pom-poms.
“They’re not native,” Moff said. “Poinsettia here is actually an interloper, an ornamental native to Mexico.” Heidi asked if the seeds were blown all this distance. “The early ones probably came by boat,” Moff said. “But as gifts from diplomats of another century. Nice ecosystem here for any kind of plant.”
When the bus had gone a mile or two, Walter spoke again. “You are to be congratulated,” he told the passengers. “You are probably the first Westerners to travel this section of the road coming in from China. Last year the road was not passable, and it would have taken me three weeks to go from Mandalay to Ruili. This year, the work is completed, and the journey takes only twelve hours.”
Walter did not tell them that the road had been rebuilt by one of Burma’s tribes, which I shall not name here, but whose résumé includes such feats in past years as headhunting, and in more modern times gunrunning and heroin commerce. At one time, they were powerful insurgents against the military regime. The tribe had fought hard and well, and the military government finally sought a truce so that they might negotiate like reasonable despots of the world. By and by, the tribe signed off to a cease-fire in exchange for a nod to build a business empire, unobstructed by the government and unfettered by competition. The Burma Road and its tollbooths, the major airlines, and some of the hotels my friends would be staying in were under the control of this entrepreneurial tribe. In the corporate world of Myanmar, hostile takeovers mean something different from what they do in the United States.
Shortly after his announcement, Walter asked the driver to pull into a small dirt road off the highway.
“Bathroom break,” Wyatt said, “just in time.” Others agreed.
“This is not a rest stop,” Walter said diplomatically. “If you can be patient, we will make another stop further up the road. The reason I brought you here is so that you can see one of our traditions followed by nearly all, without regard to religion or tribe.” He got out of the bus and, followed by the others, walked up to what looked like a bamboo birdfeeder, decorated with Christmas tinsel, placed in the cranny of a tree. “This is a small shrine for a Nat. . . .” He went on to explain that Nats were believed to be the spirits of nature—the lake, the trees, the mountains, the snakes and birds. They were numberless. But thirty-seven had been designated official Nats, most of them historical people associated with myths or real tales of heroism. Some were martyrs, people who had been betrayed or had suffered a premature and frightful death. One had died of diarrhea and was reputed to inflict that on those who displeased him. Regardless of their origins, they were easily disturbed, given to making a fuss when they were not treated with respect. My friends made jokes about odious people they knew who would make good Nats.
There were also local Nats in villages, and household Nats that lived in shrines in family homes. People gave them gifts, food and drink. They were everywhere, as were bad luck and the need to find reasons for it.
“What does a Nat look like?” Esmé asked.
“Ah, yes. They can be of many forms,” Walter said. “At festivals that are held for them, you can see statues, large and small, created to represent them—a figure on a white horse, or a man who looks like a monk, royal people dressed in the clothing of yesteryear. And some, like the spirits of nature, are invisible.”
“Are they like ghosts?” Esmé asked.
“There is some similarity,” Walter replied. “You might see them, you might not. But as I understand it, you Americans hire people to remove ghosts, or ‘bust’ them, as I believe you say. Your ghosts are only people or possibly animals. And you don’t create shrines or give offerings to keep them happy. This particular shrine is for this tree. There were many accidents on the old road, until people realized a Nat was here. After the shrine was placed here, no accidents have happened.”
“So they’re everything and everywhere,” Esmé concluded.
Walter tilted his head slightly to indicate it was a possibility.
“So what else do Nats supposedly do when riled?” Vera asked.
“It could be anything,” Walter answered, “some mischief, at the very least. A valuable object might be broken or snatched. Illness. And there can be greater calamities, even catastrophes to entire villages. Whatever the misfortune, people might then believe that they weren’t dutiful in propitiating a Nat. But please don’t think that all Nats are bad. If you’ve honored them well, they might be inclined to help you. One of the tourists I guided last year likened them to your concept of mothers-in-law.”
“Do you believe in Nats?” Marlena asked.
Walter turned and smiled. “Educated people generally don’t. But it’s tradition to give an offering. Like presents under your Christmas tree from Santa Claus.” He did not tell them that he had a shrine in his family home, a beautiful one, tended to, and supplied with daily offerings. He now walked up to the tree shrine and, with his back to the tourists, carefully tucked a packet of sunflower seeds inside. A flicker of apprehension ran over his face.
He turned back to them. “If anyone else cares to make an offering—please.” And he gestured that they could step forward. Mr. Joe stepped forward and took a fresh cigarette from a pack and placed this on the shrine’s little balcony.
“As you can see,” Walter said, “our Nats love to smoke, as well as to drink, everything from palm toddy to Johnnie Walker Black.”
Esmé walked up and solemnly stuffed a mini-bag of M&M’s inside the shrine. Heidi gave a packet of daily vitamins, and Wyatt a postcard. Bennie jokingly whispered to Marlena and Harry that they ought to give it Valium or an antidepressant, and all three chuckled. Vera came forward and stuffed in an American dollar. She believed one should honor another country’s traditions, and her offering would show that at least one American had. The rest of them offered nothing. The rest of them didn’t think you had to show respect to something that obviously did not exist.
THE ROAD HAD BEGUN to wind and twist, and soon gave way to hairpin turns. Only Walter was awake. He glanced back at the passengers behind him. Heads lolled left and right, up and down in rhythm with the bumps and bounces of the bus. The jiggling heads looked as if their owners were performing the puppet dance of the dead. He stared out the window.
Cloud shadows passed over bushy hills, leaving dark bruises on the bright green slopes. The Nats lived in nature, in trees and stumps, fields, and rocks. Beneath this visible surface was an earlier stratum of beliefs, the molten core and shifting plates belonging to animism. Some of those animistic beliefs came from China more than a thousand years ago, when sprites and demons headed south, as my friends were doing now. The peripatetic Nats clung like burrs to the robes of persecuted tribes and defeated armies taking a back road into Burma. Were bad-tempered hitchhikers now riding on the tailpipe of the bus, sitting on the bumper? Nats have always been tied to disaster. They were the coincidence of accidents. And they grew with a never-ending supply of tragedy and death. No religion would eject them, not Buddhist or Baptist, not Methodist or Mormon.
Walter faced forward in the bus. While he appeared calm to his charges, he was, in fact, troubled by what Bennie had told him in their morning phone conversation. It is impossible that Miss Chen is dead, Walter thou
ght. I talked to her just yesterday. He tried to rationalize and recalculate how he had known ahead of time to change the documents for an earlier entrance into Burma. Had her death been gruesome? (It was.) Had she been angry that the tour continued without her? (No, I was with them.)
Walter heard Bennie mumble. He had partially opened his eyes to check his watch. “Mr. Bennie,” Walter said softly, and Bennie turned to acknowledge him. “I beg your pardon, but could I trouble you to tell me how Miss Bibi Chen died?”
Bennie bit his lips as the vision of my body sprang into his mind. “Nobody really knows,” he said. “Some say that she was murdered. She was found with her windpipe slashed. She either bled to death or suffocated.”
“Oh, dear.” Walter’s heart raced. For certain, Miss Bibi was a disturbed spirit.
“It was horrible, a total nightmare for all of us. We almost canceled the trip.”
“I see. . . . Was Miss Bibi of any particular religion?”
“Religion? I don’t think so. . . . To be honest, I don’t really know. Isn’t that awful? I knew her really well, but religion wasn’t something we ever talked about. I would have to guess that she wasn’t devout about anything in particular. You know how it is. I’m a lapsed Baptist on my mother’s side. Are you familiar with them?”
“Quite. Many a Baptist missionary has come through Burma. They were successful in recruiting many converts, particularly the hill-tribe people.”
“No kidding. Is that how you learned your English?”
“I grew up with English spoken in the home, along with Burmese. It was part of our inheritance.”
“How do you inherit English?”
“My family has spoken English for generations. My great-great-grandparents worked for the British Raj, and later generations of my family found employment with missionaries, but English was already their public parlance.”