Saving Fish From Drowning (44 page)

Two women brought jugs of cool water and soaked cloths in

them. They placed these on the crown of Younger White Brother’s head and under his neck where the hot pulse runs. And then the twins’ grandmother tried to feed him a tonic, but Vera ordered her to stop. She examined the bowl and sniffed the strong odor of bitter herbs and alcohol.

The twins’ grandmother made everything perfectly clear. It is very good, all pure, I cooked and fermented it myself. This tea comes from the leaves of a bush that grows in the forest. The first time we ate those leaves it was only because we had no food. And do you know what? Those who were sick grew well. And those who were well never got sick.

Of course, Vera understood not a word. She shook her head and put the bowl out of reach. The women tried to persuade her, but she stood firm. “No voodoo medicine.” And so the ladies of the jungle 3 1 3

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sighed and took back the bowl with the special tea that could save a life. Never mind, the twins’ grandmother said. They would wait until the black lady fell asleep. And if she continues to interfere, put some of that other kind of leaf in her food, and then each night she will sleep a little more.

It must be done. If they die here, their green ghosts will be stuck in these trees. And then we’ll be stuck trying to get them out.

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13

OF PARTICULAR CONCERN

Harry, who was decisive by nature, now wavered. He wanted to leave Floating Island Resort to look for Marlena, yet he did not dare leave for fear he would miss her return. He did not know whether to trust Heinrich, and yet there was no one else to turn to—no one else who spoke English, for that matter. He pictured Marlena lying, like Walter, unconscious in a crumbling temple, then saw her at a much classier resort throwing back her head with a laugh, as she told a horde of handsome men: “Harry’s an ass. Serves him right that we left him marooned at that horrid place.”

Harry walked around in circles, trying to use logic and common sense. On the second day after his friends had disappeared, the twenty-seventh, he had managed to get a boat ride to Golden Princess Resort so that he might find someone who knew how to make a telephone call to the U.S. Embassy in Rangoon. He finally located an A M Y T A N

American expatriate, but the man was not encouraging. “Tricky business,” he said. He explained that anyone from the Embassy had to have permission from the junta to travel outside Rangoon. So if an American fell into trouble, the Embassy staff would be stymied for God knows how long. Christmas week was also a bad time to get anything done promptly. The Embassy might not even be open. That was probably why they didn’t answer when he called. “Tough luck,”

the man said. “The U.S. calls Burma ‘a country of particular concern.’ That’s overly diplomatic, in my opinion.”

In the afternoon, another group of pleasure-seekers arrived at Floating Island. They were Germans from a middle-class suburb of Frankfurt, and Heinrich spoke to them in their common language. Harry was soused, sitting on a stool at the tiki bar on the verandah, eyeing the newcomers with a glum expression. When Heinrich brought them over for the obligatory toast with “bubbles,” he introduced Harry as “a TV

star in America and now in our midst.”
“Weltberühmt,”
he concluded—

yes, so world-famous that the Germans had not the slightest idea who Harry was except an example of another American infatuated with his
fünfzehn Minuten
of fame. Heinrich explained that the others in Harry’s group had pressed on to do a few daylong tours, while he had remained behind because of illness.
“Nicht ansteckend,”
Heinrich assured them, then leaned over and mouthed to Harry, “I explained you were ill but not contagious.” This was Heinrich’s subtle way of letting Harry know he had been discreet about his hangover.

Harry nodded at the Germans and smiled, then said in English:

“That’s correct. Food poisoning is not contagious. Not to worry.”

“Dear God!” Heinrich sputtered. “Whatever are you saying? It was
not
food poisoning. The idea! We have never had such problems.”

“It
was
food poisoning,” Harry repeated. He was drunk and being horribly naughty. “But don’t worry. I’ve nearly recovered.” This exchange caught the ear of a few of the English-speaking Germans, and they translated for the others.

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“Perhaps you had a tummyache,” Heinrich grumbled, “because

you have been so nervous.”

Harry agreed: “Having my cottage nearly burn down the other

night did not help matters.”

Heinrich laughed with hearty falseness, and then said a few jolly words to the new guests,
“Ein berauschter und abgeschmackter
Witz,”
to inform them that Harry was just a drunken fool. By now half of the new guests had folded their own brows into frowns, and the others were asking for more details. Even if the American was only joking, what kind of drunken madman had they been saddled with at what was supposed to be a first-class resort? Heinrich excused himself and departed to sort out passports and dinner arrangements.

Harry went up to the German who had done most of the translating. “Where in Burma are you coming from, may I ask?”

“From Mandalay,” the man said evenly. “Very interesting city.

Beautiful and very many histories.”

“Did you happen to see a group of Americans, eleven of them, by any chance?” And here Harry paused to think how best to describe them, by their most distinguishing characteristics. “A very pretty Chinese lady and her daughter, twelve years old. And a black lady, quite tall, who wears long stripey caftans and walks like an African queen. Also there was a teenage boy, looking rather Asian, which he is by half, and the others, well, sort of what typical Americans look like . . . tall, wearing baseball caps. Have you seen them? Yes?”

The man translated briskly for his group. “He is asking if we have seen Chinese tourists, women and children, American in style.” And they all returned the same answer: No.

“Thought not,” Harry said. He was quiet for a moment, then said to the designated interpreter, “Would you be so kind as to ask your friends to be on the lookout for my friends? If you happen to run into them while you’re sightseeing today or tomorrow . . . Well, you see, they’ve been missing since Christmas morning. All eleven of them.”

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“Eleven?” the man repeated. “What do you mean, this ‘missing’?”

“The fact is, no one’s seen them, haven’t heard from them either.

Anyway, you’re on holiday, and I didn’t meant to trouble you. But if you could be good enough to spread the word, I’d be most obliged.”

“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 3 1 8

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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 3 1 9

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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?

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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.