“Certainly,” the man said. “Eleven Americans,” and he gave a decisive nod, a look that was meant to evince both sympathy and solid expectation that all would turn out well. “We will spread.”
And indeed they did. They spread the news like a virus. As the days went by, it led to rampant speculation, assumption, conclusion, then panic all around. “Have you heard? Eleven Americans have disappeared, and the military police are trying to cover it up. Why hasn’t our embassy issued a travelers’ warning?”
You could not visit a pagoda without hearing the anxious buzz. At Floating Island Resort, the arriving tourists were understandably nervous. They would have left if their guides had found new accommodations elsewhere. At the tiki bar, an American businessman said this was probably the sinister handiwork of the military. A French couple countered that perhaps the missing tourists had done something forbidden by the government—passed out pro-democracy pamphlets, or held demonstrations to release Aung San Suu Kyi. You simply can’t do things like that and not expect consequences. Burma is not America. If you don’t know what you’re doing, leave well enough alone. That’s the problem, the French woman said knowingly to her husband, these Americans want to touch, touch, touch everything they are told not to, from fruit in the market to what is forbidden in other countries.
Meanwhile, the Shan people around Inle Lake believed that angry Nats had taken the eleven Americans. No doubt the Americans had offended a few if not many. Of all the Westerners, the Americans tended to eat the biggest feasts. Yet they didn’t think to give feasts to the Nats. A Nat certainly would be offended by that. And many Western tourists had no respect. When they thought no one was looking, they did not remove their expensive running shoes before stepping into holy areas. They believed that if no one saw them, no wrong was committed. Even the ladies disregarded what was sacred and went into areas of monasteries where only men were allowed.
Western news bureaus stationed in Asia caught wind of the story, but no one had any solid information, only hearsay. How could they get to the American at the resort? And what about the tour guide in the hospital? They needed sources, access, interviews, material that was “authenticated.” But from whom would they get these things? No Burmese journalist would dare work with them. And as Western journalists, they couldn’t waltz in with camera equipment and sound booms in tow. Many had tried to do so surreptitiously—an interview with Aung San Suu Kyi was a journalist’s prize—but most were caught, interrogated for days, strip-searched, deported, and their equipment confiscated. Obtaining information was as risky as smuggling drugs, the result being either rich reward or utter ruin. Yet there were always covert sources, a few expatriates, or journalists on tourist visas who brought no fancy equipment and used their eyes and ears.
By New Year’s Day, one hundred thirty international newswires had run stories about the eleven tourists missing in either “Burma” or “Myanmar.” The phones at the U.S. Embassy rang nonstop, and the consular staff had to be careful what they said, since they had to work with the Burmese government to leave Rangoon and investigate. By January 2nd, the top brass at the New York headquarters of Global News Network knew they had a winner worthy of more airtime. Viewers, they concluded via focus groups, were riveted by the mystery of the missing, two of them being innocent children, the romantic angle of Burma, and an obvious villain in the form of a military regime. There was also Harry Bailley, whom middle-aged women found attractive, and whom viewers under eighteen, their most important demographic, liked “a lot” because of his love for disobedient dogs. GNN executives called this “sexy news,” and they were determined to do whatever necessary to get the scoop, to conjure whatever drama and dirt they could to beat out the competition and improve their ratings.
BY THE TIME Harry’s tale of woe had made the rounds at all the resort hotels in Burma and Thailand, a young, wavy-haired tourist from London named Garrett Wyeth arrived at Floating Island Resort. He was an independent videographer for low-cost adventure travel shows, and he wanted to break into serious documentaries. He had come to Burma with a modest, tourist-type camcorder to gather footage for a documentary that he was calling Oppressed and Suppressed . He hoped to sell the edited footage to Channel Four, which several years earlier had funded a story, The Dying Rooms, in which Western reporters posing as charity workers revealed how orphan girls in China were being systematically killed. That program had inspired him. It was brilliant what those disguised reporters had done—infiltrated the system, duped those cretins into talking openly about all kinds of problems. The hidden cameras captured it all, amazing footage of terrible scenes, gory-awful. It was a huge success piece, creating splashy waves of international outrage and condemnation of China. Huzzah for the journalists! Prizes all around. Of course, some deedah always has to go and make a bloody ding-dong over “negative consequences.” What controversy doesn’t have them? So China slammed shut the doors to its orphanages for a while. No more adoptions, cleft palate surgeries, or pretty new blankets. That lasted for—what?—a year at most. Sometimes you have to accept a few scrapes to clinch the race. Then everybody wins. In any case, his story would have nothing to do with dying babies, and it would yield, he was sure, all good consequences, absolutely, and at the same time, it would secure his credentials as a hard-hitting journalist who could do real stories. How freaking brilliant was that?
In Harry Bailley, Garrett saw an unanticipated but lucrative opportunity. He would persuade his fellow countryman—and Harry was British by birth—to give an “excloo.” He would go to Channel Four and present this tantalizing tidbit, a taste of things to come. And if they turned their noses up, he would then sell the piece to the first network that offered him top whack. Global News Network was a possibility, not his first choice, however, because it teetered on the sleazy side of journalism, but when it came to scoops and scandals, the people there knew how to stack the banknotes and fan them in your face. Ah, the smell of success. This bit with Harry Bailley could be worth a quick thousand quid or two. And if the tourists died—well, let’s not go there.
“I don’t know if that’s a prudent idea,” Harry said when Garrett first approached him. He was confused and tired, having slept only in snatches the entire week. “I don’t want to make things worse for my friends. The military government here, well, they seem rather strict on how one does things. The fellow who runs this place thinks it safer to remain mum.”
Garrett realized that Harry had no idea what had already been broadcast on international news. Floating Island Resort was an information wasteland—no satellite TV, no BBC, CNN, or GNN, nothing but two Myanmar government-run channels forecasting good weather. He had to play this close to his vest, so Harry would not get too confused as to what to do and whom to turn to. “Listen, my friend,” Garrett said, “you’re right to think of your friends as top of the list. But that bloke Herr Heinrich is just watching his own back. He doesn’t want to scare away the customers. Can you trust what he says? Bloody no. He’s a blag artist, first-rate. What you know in your heart and your gut is what’s right. It trumps all else.”
“But the military—”
“Bah! You aren’t cowed by them, are you? You’re an American! You can do what you bloody want. Freedom of speech! It’s your right, and pardon my being blunt, it’s your responsibility.”
By freedom, Garrett, of course, was referring to American civil rights, not international law, as he led a befuddled Harry to think. The truth is, Harry had as much right to express his views freely as did any Burmese citizen, which is to say, none at all.
“Your words will reach millions and millions,” Garrett told him, “and that’s precisely the pressure you want—for those shitheads to know everybody’s watching, and for the U.S. Embassy to feel the heat to do more to find your friends.”
“I see your point,” Harry replied. “But still—well, I just don’t know. . . .”
“All right,” Garrett said patiently, “I know you’re also wondering, ‘Say, how a
m I going to keep my own skin out of the fryer—’”
Harry broke in. “That’s not it at all.”
“So let me ask you this,” Garrett said. “Who’s the biggest opponent of the Burmese military? Right, that woman Aung San Suu Kyi. She’s been telling them to bugger off, in a manner of speaking, for the past ten years. And what do they do? They don’t lock her up and throw away the key. They confine her to her house. Why? Because they know the world is watching. That’s the difference. It’s column inches, airtime. The media makes it happen.” He held up his thumb in conspiratorial agreement with himself, then added in a low voice: “That’s how news determines what happens in the world!” He nudged Harry. “But it starts with you.”
Harry nodded, nearly convinced. “All I want is to do best by my friends.”
“Believe me. This is the very, very best you can do. And you needn’t say anything unflattering about the military government. You simply explain in a factual and completely unbiased way that you want your friends back. Honest and heroic.”
“No harm in that,” Harry agreed.
Garrett recorded while his girlfriend, Elsbeth, conducted the interview. She was a lanky blonde who would have been beautiful had she not had misshapen teeth further marred by tea, nicotine, and the British tradition of dental care. They were in Harry’s bungalow, where no one could see them. “Dr. Bailley.” she began. “Would you care to tell us what happened the morning of December twenty-fifth?”
Harry sighed noisily and stared out the window to his right. “I was sick that day. Food poisoning ...” As he conveyed the story, Harry reminded himself never to smile or appear overly friendly with the camera. Nothing worse than seeing a grinning newscaster reporting on tragedy. When he finished he looked wistful, slightly hopeful. It was not simply playacting.
Elsbeth turned sideways toward Garrett. “Is it enough?”
“Ask about the others. Get him to describe them for the viewers,” Garrett said. There had already been some pieces broadcast showing photos and giving backgrounds, but Garrett wanted the personal touch, how these people really were, according to one heartbroken man. “Yeah,” he told Elsbeth, “the personal touch. Let’s make them cry their eyes out and want to see the poor souls saved.”
Harry overheard Garrett’s instructions. Yes, of course! That was the point, wasn’t it? He needed to help get them rescued. As Garrett said, the media could make this happen. A wonderful opportunity—far better than photos on milk cartons. He assumed the thoughtful look, looking slightly away, envisioning the perfect combination of words to create an outpouring of sympathy. Thank God for his expertise as a television personality. Come on, work the camera, bring up the emotions, keep the buggers from pushing the remote buttons. And then out rolled “The Voice,” as his producer called it, as smooth as thirty-year scotch. “We’re all very good friends, you see, from San Francisco or thereabouts.” He played with his hands, the sensitive man abstracted by worry. He looked back up at the camera. “In fact, one of them is my oldest, dearest friend from childhood, Mark Moffett. He runs one of the largest and most successful plantations specializing in landscape-architectural plants. Bamboo, mostly. Sterling reputation, and what a heart of gold.” He snorted a wry, wistful laugh. “Always wears safari shorts, no matter the season. He once ascended Everest, and I’d wager he was wearing those safari shorts then as well.” He laughed sadly, the way one does when giving humorous anecdotes during a eulogy. “His son, Rupert, well, what a good all-around lad he is. Makes friends easily with other kids from other lands, plays basketball, shows them magic tricks—he’s quite talented at that and attracts quite a crowd. . . .”
And so Harry went on to describe his compatriots with broad superlatives, inflating their moral character, providing instant makeovers in their appearance, adjusting their age downward and their fortitude upward. They were well educated but down-to-earth; deeply in love and happily married; brave and adventurous but not careless; altruistic and considerate, with never a concern about their own comforts; naive people who loved native people. . . .
Harry saved the best for the last. Again, he fiddled with his hands, rubbing them, finding it difficult to speak of heartbreak. “There’s also a very, very special lady, Marlena Chu. She’s amazing, truly, a purveyor of fine art—de Kooning, Hockney, Diebenkorn, Kline, Twombly—I’m an ignoramus when it comes to modern art, but I’ve heard those painters are rather good.” Bosh. Harry was making up the list. He’d always memorized the names of artists, poets, musicians, and the presidents of various African nations, knowing that knowledge came in handy at the various parties and important functions he attended. His best shot was reciting “The Dying Light,” a poem about a soldier who finds the light dimming at dusk as his final moments dwindle. Almost without exception, it caused women to become teary-eyed and want to wrap their arms around him, as if to safeguard him from death, loneliness, and beauty of thought without an appreciative ear.
“You were close to her?” Elsbeth prompted.
“Yes. We’re very, very—” His voice broke, and Elsbeth patted his hand. He took a deep breath and continued bravely in a whisper: “I’m devastated. I should have been on that boat ride with her.”
Harry’s emotion was true, for the most part, but his delivery was laughably clichéd. Elsbeth and Garrett gave no indication that they thought so.
“How old is she?” Elsbeth asked gently.
“She’s—” Harry began, but realized he had no idea what the answer was. He punted and gave forth a little laugh. “Well, if this is going to be televised, she would hardly want me to reveal her age. But I will say this: Like a lot of Asian women, she looks not a day over twenty-nine. Oh, and she has a daughter, a girl of twelve, standing about this high. Esmé. Terrific kid. She’s quite precocious, fearless, and dear. Has a little white dog, too, a puppy, about six or seven weeks old, a Shih Tzu, with a herniated umbilicus. I’m a veterinary doctor, you see, so I notice such things. By the way, have you seen my show, The Fido Files? No? We’re actually negotiating for UK programming. Oops, you better edit out that last comment, since it’s not a done deal. But dogs are my love, besides Marlena, and if I had the means, I’d arrange for a team of trained search-and-rescue dogs to be sent on the next plane. . . .”
ON THE NINTH DAY of my friends’ prolonged stay at No Name Place, a GNN report came out with this: “Eleven Americans, two of them children, have been missing for a week in Burma, the country that the military regime renamed Myanmar just before it overturned a landslide democratic election in 1990. The Americans were on a carefree holiday when they went for a boat ride from which they never returned.” Photos of the missing came up, replaced by an image of stern gun-toting soldiers.
“Since the military coup, Burma has been plagued by civil unrest and has often been cited for human rights violations. A GNN exclusive last year reported on the systematic rape of ethnic women by the military. Equally horrific abuses occur in unseen areas of the country—from the abduction of men, women, and children who are then forced to carry loads for the military until they die of exhaustion, to the outright razing of entire villages suspected of hiding supporters of the National League for Democracy.” Footage of boy monks and smiling girls appeared.
“This is the atmosphere in which the missing Americans find themselves. The Burmese military and U.S. Embassy officials in Rangoon say they have no leads. But some speculate the tourists may have been imprisoned for unknown offenses to the regime. One of the missing is suspected of being an activist and supporter of Nobel Peace Prize winner Aung San Suu Kyi, the popular leader of the National League for Democracy, who is now under house arrest. In the meantime, tourists in Burma are leaving the country as fast as they can. One man, however, remains optimistic that the Americans will be found—Dr. Harry Bailley of the popular TV show The Fido Files. He is a member of the tour group whose other members are missing. Because of illness on that fateful day, Dr. Bailley stayed behind, while his friends left for a sunrise boat r
ide just before dawn on Christmas Day. GNN spoke with him firsthand in an exclusive report filmed at an undisclosed location in Burma. Coming up next on World Hot Spots with GNN—making news in how we report the news.”
IN THE ANTIPODEAN WORLD of San Francisco, Mary Ellen Brookhyser Feingold Fong was awakened one morning by a telephone call from someone with the U.S. State Department, informing her that her daughter, Wendy, was missing.
Thinking the male voice was Wendy’s landlord, Mary Ellen said, “She’s not missing. She’s in Burma. But if she’s behind on her rent, I’m happy to handle it.” It had happened before.
The man with the State Department explained once again who he was, and twice more, Mary Ellen’s mind refused to budge from the notion that Wendy was not missing, she was merely irresponsible, for to give up this illogic meant accepting a reality that was beyond her comprehension.
In Mayville, North Dakota, Wyatt’s mother, Dot Fletcher, received a similarly confusing call. She, too, was certain that her son was on yet another expedition in an area without adequate communication. It happened all the time. He would be in the middle of the Indian Ocean, the engines out and the boat stuck in the doldrums. Or he might be trekking in eastern Bhutan, seven or eight days’ hiking distance from the nearest phone. He was not missing. He was simply not reachable by phone. And in that respect, she was correct.
And so the calls continued to be made: To Moff’s ex-wife, since she was Rupert’s mother. To Marlena’s ex, since he was Esmé’s father. To Heidi and Roxanne’s mélange of parents and stepparents. To Bennie’s mother, though not to Bennie’s life partner, Timothy, since he was not officially listed as next of kin. The calls came at odd hours, when the recipients were sure to be at home, when even the first ring heralded disquiet, and even before GNN made its broadcast of breaking news. My friends’ families watched in shock as a smarmy man with a British accent spoke of their loved ones in terms normally reserved for eulogies. As Garrett watched the story in his suite at the second-best hotel in Bangkok, he regretted that he had not asked for more than fifteen thousand U.S. dollars.