February 5th, 2013
I decided to dedicate at least one day to Mytkyina and its
surrounding area. For the first time ever, I was on the boarder of disputed
territory. People with juxtaposed ideals were forcibly laying claim to common
land. Fighting was sparse, and confined to the hills which surround the city. I
felt safe enough.
The only place of interest to me was the village of Mison,
some 30km north by road. I rented a motorbike of noticeably flimsy Chinese
construction, and took off just after breakfast. I cruised around the city to
get a feel for the tiny scooter. Sufficient confidence gained, I importuned surprised
locals for the general direction of Mison. Scooting to the curbside, I discharged
my inquiries in the universal language of hand gestures and pantomime.
Using my most quizzical tone I said “Mison” with raised
eyebrows and a finger pointing along the road. A group of passerby’s nodded in
agreement with the direction I had chosen at random, announcing with
declarative inflection “Mison”. I’ve traveled enough to know that, out of
politeness, people may simply affirm whatever it is you ask. Hence, it is
important to confirm by negation. I pointed in the opposite direction, and,
using the same quizzical tone as before said “Mison.”
“No, no, no!” they clamored, legitimately concerned for this
dimwit on a scooter. Pointing in the original direction, they emphatically confirmed
“Mison”. Some even added additional cues. There were crooked hands indicating a
left turn at some point. Some elaborated that gesture with rolls of the hands,
clearly indicative of length, and then left. Perfect! Three rolls of the hand
and then left! There really is an art to everything.
There was only one road to Mison, and I found it easily (apparently
one roll of the hand equals about half a kilometer). Unlike in the city, the pavement
was in good shape. With a top speed of 40mph, I still managed to pass most
traffic. Lining the road were church grounds that seemed built to house and
educate locals. The churches varied in external appearance from out of place
stone built structures, to more modest places that agreed with local styling’s.
I came upon what appeared to be road barriers, and slowed. I
putted between them and nobody seemed to mind, until two armed men in uniform
sprung forth from behind a roadside tree waving their hands and saying “stop,
stop” and “no, no”. They were smiling, and so was I. We seemed to understand
each other. Nevertheless, the sight of a Kalashnikov’s is bound to raise the
pulse a bit. I was directed to a small desk which sat under the shade of a tree
on the opposite side of the road. A lone military officer with brandishing only
a smile asked me, in broken English, for my passport. I handed it over, and he
marched it into a small compound enclosed by a brown bamboo fence with
sharpened ends. It was a small military outpost with obvious barracks, administrative
buildings, and watchtowers, yet the atmosphere was calm.
After some time, another official came out side to say
hello. He engaged me as most civilian locals would have. “Where you come from?”,
“What is your name?” etc. Other guards looked on curiously as he continued to ask
some officious questions like where I was born, and what I wanted to do in
Mison. Everything was very polite and relaxed. It was clear that people were
surprised and even delighted by the presence of a foreigner. I asked if there
was any danger in the area; he shook a smiling head, no, no. I may use
different metrics to measure risk than he does, but I nonetheless decided to
continue on.
Soon after the checkpoint, I had to turn onto a rocky road
to Mison. After thirty minutes I happened upon a riverside pagoda, a regular occurrence
in this country. I stopped for a breather and happened upon a lone, aged, monk.
He didn’t display too much surprise in seeing me, and attempted to engage me in
conversation. Quickly understanding that I didn’t speak his language, he
watched as I took some pictures, and even obliged to stand presentably in one of my photos.
As I put the camera away, it was he who began talking the
universal language. He motioned as if he wanted me to eat; or perhaps I was
supposed to drink tea. I was hungry and this is a fairly common custom, so I
nodded in agreement. He led the way out and pointed down the road. I pointed to
my motorbike and motioned for him to get on the back. Although the store was
only a few hundred yards away, it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. He
climbed on the back, and off we went, me and an old Burmese monk riding a
flimsy Chinese scooter through my day on the edge of nowhere.
We entered a local store typical of the developing world:
the mini-bazaar. Batteries from the 80’s, dish soap, rope varying length, water
bottles filled with gasoline, snacks, bulk rice, nail clippers, and even
clothing are all arranged in semi-logical order in these dirt floored lean-to’s.
The people inside were happy to see a foreigner. Extra plastic stools were
placed around a low table. The monk said something and a cup with hot water and
some sweet bread was brought out. They gave me packets of both tea and coffee. I
chose the tea, and the monk, somewhat surprisingly, had an energy drink. The
predecessor to red-bull, Lipovitan-D comes in a 4 oz. faux-medicinal glass
bottle. I've given it a try and it makes red bull taste like ambrosia. To each
their own.
I drank my tea, ate my bread, and we stared and smiled at
each other. I got up to leave, and motioned to pay, but everyone waved me off. It’s
a tough call when someone who likely makes less than $1000 USD per years offers
to give you something, even if it’s only a few pennies. Do you insist on paying,
which necessarily prevents their kind deed, and may offend them? Or, do you go
with the custom, and accept graciously? To these situations I take a pay-it-forward
attitude. I graciously accepted, and left with a strong determination to pay it
back to their countrymen with considerable interest. To me, it creates a
situation to do far more good.
On the way home I stopped at a church that has signs in
English. I wanted to talk to the local people about the area, and what they
thought about the war, life, missionaries, modernization, and Westernization. I
pulled inside the church compound and parked, not quite knowing what to do. I
faffed around for a bit until someone pointed my into a small building on the
edge of the property. I walked over to find four men enjoying tea and snacks,
and, in perfect English, they asked me to join them. They seemed totally unsurprised by my presence, and started with the normal questions about where I’m
from. There was one older gentleman and three well-dressed younger lads in
their twenties. They were all theological students and spoke great English. The
older man had traveled extensively, and had family in the USA. The others had
hopes of emigrating to the US same day. The conversation naturally progressed
to the topic of the war, and its effect on the people.
“We are tired of the fighting. 100,000 people have been
displaced. Let the people of your country know about
it.”
They were not despondent, or ignorant of worldly affairs.
They could face their reality, but sought greater peace and stability in life.
Who could blame them? The worst of the fighting had passed, but it left its
mark. And for all they knew, it may return.
I'm glad to be of the lucky few, and I try and develop my wisdom every day.