A Poem Called Karma

Copyright © 2012 by J.T. Cross.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011960177

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-9341-8

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4653-9340-1

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-9342-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Dedication

This fiction is dedicated to the people of Myanmar who will always be remembered for their hospitality by those who encounter. We hope that their homeland embraces a speedy recovery from all it has suffered.

Acknowledgements

This novel would not have been possible without various people who all know who they are. I would also like to thank my travel buddies worldwide—for sharing their ideas and experiences, and of course all those people in Myanmar for their outstanding kindness and great tasting food!

Diary Entry 1

Here I am again, another flight, another border, another passport control. Feel bad for me.? I didn’t think so. I don’t blame you; I can never express how lucky I know I am. It’s been a hell of a ride so far but I don’t really know what to expect of this one. People say China is amazing and beautiful, they talk about how mystic Thailand can be, how hospitable the people of Laos are, how frightening the dizzy traffic of Vietnam is and even how the glorious neon lights in Japan all add to Asia and its culture. But here . . . nothing. What do you ever hear of Burma? Myanmar? A broken aftermath, a political war zone, a tourist death trap; personally I think it’s all media fed bullshit. There is a country here, one of the biggest and most cultured in the world. I’m just not one to be told, I have to go and find out for myself. I met a guy in Thailand who had seen a Rambo film and took it from that point on that he knew everything about the place. Sure it’s gonna be different, if they didn’t want a difference, why the fuck did they leave home?

This is my last stop before home. I’ve got 15 days here and I left nine months ago. It’s going to be weird going back to western life but in the meantime I’m still intrigued to know the truth about this fascinating place. I like to rough it but geez, charity begins at home. I need a shower.

Chapter I

Destination

Day 1

A mild state of confusion washed over David as he sat back in his seat—row 13 near the window of the plane. The feeling came free with the severe fatigue and discomfort that he felt caused by the major traffic and movement in Hong Kong. He had caught bed bugs from the dire room of the hostel but hadn’t told anyone except his mum on the phone as he transited at Bangkok overnight.

The sleep in the airport was rough, the hard seats were the only option as the people just flowed through the place night and day. He expected it of course, everything except the bedbugs that is and he had felt a lot worse along the way at certain points, a lot better too.

Calling on his protective dragonfly he was now about to land in Myanmar, Burma. It was his 15th country this year including the odd transit countries like Chile and the USA in order to get to the other destinations he had seen. His delusion was broken and he was forced to get back to a tired reality by the beeping of the seatbelt sign lighting up when they then announced that the place was about to land. The attendant who walked by placed one hand on his shoulder gently, and asked politely if he could turn off his iPod. He now had no distraction as to what he was heading in to; the iPod was a big barrier to the world. As much as he lusted for travel he still had to create scenarios for his mind to play with what he was seeing as if it were a scene out of a movie. With the places he had seen it was an easy task. Half of Asia, along with some of Australia and Oceania. He sat up and took a puff of his asthma pump. Holding his breath he felt the cold gas enter his lungs—he had felt it work so much more out here, being tired most of the time made his chest so heavy.

If he had infinite funds he would never had stopped, he loved travelling, it seemed that all he had feared and thought of before about being alone was now blown to dust. He now enjoyed his own company. A lot had happened for him to get to this conclusion but he was absolutely certain that someone would come along again. Finding out who was always the fun part.

The plane started to come down shaking like crazy as it always did. He gripped the arms of the seat. He still hated the landing, even after 30 flights this year. The plane taxied on the runway for a short time and lined up for arrival at the terminal building. When everyone got off they were greeted by no-one. Just cold floors and colourless walls dotted with armed guards followed by the passport control desks. He filled in the steadying his hand and got in line. It looked like this was the only flight due in, all the other people here he recognized from the plane he was on.

He spotted the toilets as the passport officer did the paperwork and hoped he wouldn’t be too much longer as he was dying for a piss. Collecting his bag from the conveyor belts afterwards he turned to face the bright sun decorating the exit.

The terminal building was bland and run down as soon as you got through customs, they didn’t have scanners but they hand checked bags instead. He walked up to the two female officers who gazed at him in amazement due to his height of over six feet. Slight hesitation crossed his smile before they let him through without checking. He exhaled in relief happy as a result he wouldn’t have to explain the bed bugs. He still wasn’t sure how bad the infestation was due to not having enough space to pack properly back in Hong Kong. He just threw everything back in unaware until Bangkok when he could feel crawling over his skin in certain places. He had the crawling feeling before when he was tired and run down. This was different though, this was disgusting he thought as his smile faded to a grimace. An arranged transfer was waiting for him outside with a very polite English speaking young man who asked for his name. He waited a couple of minutes as he had two more people to transfer. Two Thai women came over smiling, the language barrier was much stronger with them though. They got in the 1990s’ Toyota minibus along with him.

Yangon was not a pretty city. He had read up on all of the terror and destruction it had faced from several forces of man made and natural disasters over the last ten years, but this still didn’t prepare him. Ruined colonial buildings scattered the streets, weeds growing though the cracks of the derelict ones along with stained pavements where they were intact and roads that were jammed with beaten up cars dating as far back as the 80s polluting the air with relentless fumes and horn beeps.

David’s analysis of the new location was interrupted along with the two Thai women when the driver started to turn the key and pump the gas. The bus had broken down, it looked like the alternator had gone. It just cut out as they stopped at the lights.

The driver was wearing a Longyi, traditional dress for the Burmese. It was a sarong-like garment worn by both men and women. Women had what looked like yellow face paint across their cheeks in different formations which acted as a natural perfume. It also contained a chemical which made it mimic a strong sun block, it was known as Thanakha paste. This was like another world, even after all of Asia that he had seen it just wasn’t quite the same, tradition was everything, corruption was nowhere and everywhere at the same time from what he had been reading.

The driver tried starting the vehicle again and again but nothing. They had blocked traffic in the right hand lane solid. People seemed to be quite patient in the queue though. Another driver got out and started to help, but to no avail.

‘May I?’ asked David as if he knew what he was doing.

The driver moved over to let David into the drivers seat which turned out to be as hard and uncomfortable as the passenger seats. These vehicles were falling apart and scattered with rust. David was used to looking at brand new cars back home in England ‘straight of the rack’ as he would describe, but he wasn’t one of these pretentious characters who got in a huff about what he was driving around it. If it moved then in his eyes it did the job, no matter how rough. He could see the driver had flooded the engine by frequently slamming the gas as he turned it over so David just did the opposite—started it after a couple of minutes letting it cool off and it fired straight off, he then held the accelerator down to get the rpm up. The two Thai women emitted a sound of surprise that the ‘American’ guy knew what he was doing, as did the Burmese men. It was a short lived triumph as the engine slowly died again, not even revs kept it going for long. After several more attempts it soon wouldn’t even fire and a taxi with a few holes in the floor of the chassis and minimal suspension was the only option into city central.

David had once been a complex and deep thinker. Going away made him simple, more chilled out. A lot had occurred to change his state of mind, especially travelling alone. If someone were with him now it would have been very different, although he was so tired of thinking about what could have been he had now pretty much given up on it and was about to spend the last 15 days relaxing and doing something different to what he had been up to, different even compared to the last nine months he had spent running away, which he now faced was what he did.

The room was basic as expected but luxury compared to where he had been and cheap at only seven US dollars a night. He had booked in for two at the moment with a strong possibility to extend depending if he wanted to travel further north. He slung his bag into the wicker chair in the corner and raised his right eyebrow in surprise at the portable TV by the window. The generator for the electricity curfews which ravaged the country was above the window. He was then tempted to check the view and opened the straggly curtains which presented a view through misty and distorted glass to a brick wall of the next building.

‘Hmph.’

He tilted his head to see through the tight gap of the alleyway it faced. There must have been less than a foot of a gap between the buildings of which pipes and rubble lined the base.

He had an en suite bathroom and a shower; impressive. He tested the water flow and it was warm too.

‘Luxury,’ he said to himself.

He was distracted by a knock at the door. He turned off the tap and saw to it—it was the owner. He seemed like a nice guy, very polite, apologizing for not seeing him in with the driver as he was busy with his brother or something similar. David was too tired to concentrate on details at the moment. He gave his blessing and said they could sort out all the details after he had slept a while—passport, money and so on. In his 50’s, full head of hair and wearing a longyi, he was a man of tradition and said he ran the place with his wife and daughter. If David needed anything he said to contact any of them at reception. David thanked him with a smile, but mentally thanked him further for leaving as all he wanted to do was crash out. He looked at his bag as he closed the door sneering as he remembered the itchy feeling of bedbugs. It caused him to actually feel it again not sure if it was his body’s senses playing with him wondering how bad it was inside there.

‘Fuck it,’ he said carelessly.

He left it all packed in there, would sort it out later. He headed for the shower and then the sheets for a few hours.

He awoke to the sound of the generator kicking in around 5:30pm. The lights cut out outside and then reappeared after a few seconds in fewer places than before. The emergency light was bright enough to illuminate the whole room. After one more shower he sorted out his clothes in his bag that were infected and handed them all in to the laundry service. One step outside was like opening the oven door back home, a wall of heat that hits you. He loved it though, the heat was a big favourite over the cold. England was not his idea of paradise but then everyone goes away to look for something different, everyone healthy in his opinion anyway.

The restaurant was like a barn. The staff were so polite even though they spoke very little English. A first meal in a country was never an easy choice, so much to choose from, so much that was new to try.

Day 2

The next morning he left his iPod dock on for a while whilst getting ready before taking a look around the city. He got up in time for breakfast which was included in the price of the room, just eggs and toast with coffee and orange juice. It was all that was expected though, sometimes more, and it was much nicer now that he had been eating much less over the time he had spent away. He had noticed for real now at how thin he was, he left way back in January at a decent weight for his height, now in September he was about a stone lighter, and felt half the man he used to.

The driver guy brought out the breakfast but he heard another voice in the kitchen which was almost opposite his room on the ground floor. She then appeared from around the closed edge. She stood a stunning young girl, maybe around 23 years old, long dark hair and a figure which was probably too noticeable even whilst wearing a longyi. She smiled at David as she asked the driver a question in their native language. He replied with a laugh, it appeared that they were talking about David being the only one at the table but he couldn’t be sure. This language was so very hard to work out even compared to some of the others he had come across. David could only smile back obliviously as she turned back towards the cooking area. When he had finished he grabbed his daypack and changed up his US dollars for Myanmar Kyatts at the front desk. The owner’s wife came to serve him—she was a petite woman with long dark hair but more pronounced face make-up. It looked quite striking to him, maybe a little intimidating, completely the wrong effect of the idea. She touched her right elbow with her left hand holding it in place when she handed over the cash, this was another tradition of respect he had not seen.

The city was demoralizing, but not exactly depressing. The people were vibrant, it had of course been through so much wear and tear due to both natural and man made disasters since the early 1990s. He was stared at just like he was in the other places he had been but not in a rude way, they more glanced and then looked away back at their business; it was a mere shock of seeing someone so different on their rugged streets. As most of his clothes were in the wash he only had a vest and his hoodie to cover his torso and shoulders. It was frowned upon here to bare shoulders, especially in temples. The last thing he wanted to do was offend. It made the walk around so damned hot, he would have been sweating just from walking around in a singlet. He didn’t let it show though. As he stepped across the broken pavements and fuming crossroads he passed market stalls of all kinds selling a wide variety of food, only some of which he recognized. A myriad of smells and life flowed around him, the rush of the central locations were now all the same, he had to give it a full tour the first time to break himself into the place, still finding it overwhelming was the thrill of travelling.

A new daypack was in order. His current one had ripped and was very droopy in the way the material was stitched, the stitching had also started to come away. He had been sold it in Shanghai for about 120 Yuan, which was much better than what they originally asked for it but still not worth what he had paid considering how quickly it had fallen apart. A man approached him while he was scanning around one of the many bag shops which were not much wider than alleyways scattered off the main drag near Sule Paya. He introduced himself with quite good English as ‘Maung Win Zaw’ and he was definitely not staff at the shop. The young girls who did work there looked at him as if he was making them loose their customer already as they took a bag down from the high racks above with a broomstick for David to check.

Although he seemed very friendly, David kept the passive and polite approach. He glanced at him and smiled before turning back to the bag to inspect it further.

‘Looking for a bag my friend? I can help you with that, you don’t want to pay these prices,’ said the man.

David checked the tag, 25000 Kyatt. The black market offered 1000 Kyatt to the US dollar, the bag itself was worth more than that, it all seemed very cheap.

‘You’d say this is expensive then?’ David replied.

‘Ah, yes, all of these central shops will be. I can get you one for nearly half the price, or just fix your own one for much cheaper.’

He thought about it a bit and handed the bag he was inspecting back to the young girl. He felt bad already about not buying it from her reaction; she didn’t speak English and therefore couldn’t contend with this intrusive guy.

‘Yeah I’ve heard that before, China can rip you off the worst in some cases.’

‘Yours is from China?’

‘That’s right,’ David said turning slightly to show the ripped seams.

‘Ooh, not good, you come, I show you around. What is your name young man? And what brings you to Myanmar?’

He wished he could answer that. Lying through his teeth wasn’t an enjoyment but had become somewhat of a habit over the past couple of years, not just to people away but to people at work and back home too. He preferred to think of it as a concealment of the truth with most cases. Out here people were much more direct and therefore were sometimes countered with a direct lie, just like this one.

‘I’ve always wanted to come here, to see the temples and your amazing culture . . . and I’m David by the way.’

Maung Win Zaw took him around town for a bit. He was a strange guy, short and in his fifties, skinny and almost toothless. He coughed like he’d had a brush with tuberculosis. He found him a decent bag made in Myanmar which was much more solid than any he had previously—at 16000 Kyatt it was also borderline stealing. He then took him to a balcony which was a restaurant and bar in the Chinese quarter of town. David walked up to the edge and leaned on the rail looking down at the smoky carnage of where the Muslim quarter joined the Chinese quarter. The two houses were at peace now, they traded regularly and had remained friends for years. You would never see the divide unless informed of it. They were both as rammed with people as each other. The only difference was that one side had bars, the other had tea houses.

‘What would you like sir? Any food?’ asked the barman who came to their table. They seemed pleased that an Englishman had entered their joint.

‘Just a beer please, and one for my friend . . .’

‘Just a coffee please,’ he cut in. He then switched back to Burmese ordering some cakes of some kind. ‘Why do you drink that stuff?’

‘Sorry, it gets the best of westerners sometimes, said David forgetting that Maung Win Zaw was Muslim.

‘My brother fell to alcohol, he was a good man but nothing could save him.’

‘That’s a shame, how old was he?’

‘Ah, a long time ago, before your time.’

He asked all the regular questions: ‘How old are you?’, ‘Where are you from in England?’, ‘What are you looking for in life?’ and so on. Funny how all these questions were suddenly getting harder to answer each time he heard them.

The cakes and the beer came along with a chat about what Maung Win Zaw had really scoped him out for, he started to talk about the government and the Junta. The military regime had been enforced since the late 80s and he was already aware of most of the history since then but he listened to him anyway, to hear it from a victim face to face was what introduced the reality. David acted dumb for quite some time, he also tried changing the subject twice. He wasn’t going to get involved with this conversation this early. He wanted to learn more but didn’t want to be thrown in on his first day. It seemed after a while Maung Win Zaw realised this too, so he backed off.

He reached into his jacket pocket which was a bit tatty and didn’t really allocate a sense of professionalism. He pulled out a small book, like a dairy, that taught David the numbers and language of Myanmar.

‘If you’re wanting to know how much things are here you will have to get used to the numbers. They are not like the characters used in English, the markets will fool you otherwise.’

He started writing down the symbols which at first were confusing but then suddenly made sense after a few minutes study.

‘Geez, I had no idea about any of this,’ he said, which was true.

‘Ah, there are many things you will learn whilst here my friend. A country is only the outside, there is much more on the inside with these people here,’ he said raising an arm as an invite to look around at all the people glancing over at them. They looked away as soon as David made eye contact.

‘They have seen much terror over the years of your life young man.’ He then started coughing and spitting into the bin under the table, from the contents it seemed to be the norm to do this.

‘I can’t imagine.’

‘I like to check on my family myself, they live in Mandalay, that’s where I’m from.’

‘What are you doing in Yangon?’

‘I run my shop, the work here is more, make more money.’

‘Really? But I thought Mandalay was just as big as here.’

‘It is, but there are less traders in what I do down here. The weather is not good though, too hot.’

‘What do you do?’ David asked, squinting, somehow he expected something much more sinister than what he said.

‘I carve puppets and can make anything out of wood.’

‘Ah, a chippie?’

‘A what?’

‘That’s what it’s called back home.’

That comment brought a broad smile to Maung Win Zaw’s face, he tried to go into what David did back home but David didn’t really want to get into that one. Shadow puppets were highly sought after, especially Burmese produce. They were found in