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Behind bars in Burma
It was a holiday that went terribly wrong. Two travellers cast into a prison in a far-flung corner of Myanmar. Features editor Andy van Smeerdijk was one of them.
- By Andy van Smeerdijk, features editor
- Published: 00:08 July 2, 2008
It was a holiday that went terribly wrong. Two travellers cast into a prison in a far-flung corner of Myanmar. Features editor Andy van Smeerdijk was one of them.
Our guards only referred to him as the Colonel. A overweight man, whenever we were led from the prison to his office, we found him slouched behind a desk, preoccupied with a mouthful of betelnut.
There was never any paperwork on the desk, only a smouldering cigar. Sweat trickled down his forehead while the armpits of his ill-fitting uniform were also drenched.
"You will never leave Myanmar," he told us in a hoarse voice. "It's hopeless for you now. Steve, Andrew... you will never see your country again."
Towards the end his voice reached a childlike pitch, like an whining bicycle wheel. His forehead creased and his bulging eyes almost appeared sympathetic.
Then erupted into blubbering hysterics, which quickly subsided into a coughing fit. Our guards stared at the wall throughout.
Things were grim. For two weeks, we'd been in custody in Muse, a dusty trading town in northeast Myanmar near the China border. The bridge at Muse is Myanmar's lifeblood. Trucks laidened with Chinese consumer goods head into the country while teak logs are hauled back into China.
Some of the prison's inmates told us that vast qualities of heroin and gemstones also entered China via this borderpost. And they certainly would know; many of them were smugglers.
So why were we in a Burmese prison? Well, in 1991 China's Yunnan province opened new areas to foreign visitors adjacent to Myanmar. My university friend, Steve, and I were backpacking through China and got wind of this new frontier. Two days of bus travel later, we arrived at Ruili, the Chinese bordertown opposite Muse.
There were few signs of the nearby international boundary, asides from the cultural mix: Indian, Bangladeshi and Burmese traders were everywhere in Ruili.
The next morning we set out to explore the area and after walking through the countryside, we came across a
broad river. A man with a pontoon offered to punt us across for a small fee and we agreed. Ferried to the other bank, we hiked along a dirt road, which wound its way to a small town on a hill.
As we approached, a Buddhist temple dominated the skyline. The people appeared southeast Asian, not Chinese, and all of them stared at us. Near the temple an old gentleman in a waistcoat approached us and informed us we were in Myanmar.
He had a clipped English accent and seemed delighted to meet us."The last European I spoke was not long after the war," he said. (World War II, that is.) Since then, Myanmar had been caught in a timewarp.
A young man then burst upon the scene. "The soldiers have seen you; they're coming up the road this minute. Quick, this way," he said, shepherding us off the road and into the farmlands.
Keeping our heads low, we scampered through rice paddies and headed for the treeline. Pumped on adrenaline, it was terrifying but strangely exhilarating. Once we reached the treeline, the man pointed the way back to the pontoon and left us. "Please my friends, hurry."
We jogged along but as the terrain thickened we were forced to use the road. After a glance back and forth, we sprinted towards the pontoon landing and beckoned the ferry man. As he slowly polled across, my heart raced. Steve and I looked at each other and cracked up.
Then there was a metallic click behind us. We swung around to face three men in ragged military fatigues. "You CIA! You CIA!" one yelled. He had a gun.
* * *
There was a long, silent ride in the back of a creaky van. An absurd interrogation in a musty room filled with piles of forms ("What school did your eldest brother go to?" and similar questions). A long wait for the bureaucrat to finish stamping the forms. Then another ride.
When the doors swung open we were led to a single-storey building. Escorted to a room, we were told to remove belts and hand over our passports and backpacks. (By then, we had stuffed our wallets under our jeans.)
We were shown to a large room almost completely filled by a huge wooden cage. Dark, solumn faces stared at us through the bars.
"In here. Go," said a warden, pointing to a small cell adjoining the cage. As we squeezed in, a gate slid behind us then another opened. Beyond was the most raw, exposed experience I've ever had. We staggered out into a writhing carpet of arms, legs and faces.
Indians, Chinese, Burmese... hundreds of eyes fixed upon us. Finding a bare patch of floor to place our feet was difficult and we slowly made our way across the room.
A burly man with tattoos beckoned us across to an area near the wall and room was made for us. He and a man in a leather jacket, both Burmese, did most of the talking. We told them our story and they asked a few questions, but mostly just listened.
At the end, the tattooed man, whose name was Shwe, reached over an put his hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry my friends," he said. "You will be out of here soon. I promise." And so we found our place in the jail, on the eastern wall.
After chatting for a while, we took in our surroundings. There were 97 men in an 11 metre by 7 metre wooden cell. The floor consisted of polished wooden slats and in the corner there was a cubicle with low walls that was clearly the toilet.
Although the cage occupied most of the room, there were corridors around it. Guards walked along the perimeter but there were none of the stoney faces you'd expect of a warden. They chatted with inmates, shared cigars and laughed.
After a while, a gong chimed and the bodies parted. Several large pots were brought to the centre of the room and a reddish rice gruel was ladelled out. The guy who distributed the food was a nasty, petty character.
To some, he doled out large portions while to others (notably the Indians), he gave meagre portions. If they protested, he smacked them with his spoon.
The man in the leather jacket, Aung, told us not to join the queue. "We have some dinner for you." A woman passed rice, curry and various condiments through the bars, all in plastic bags. This was doled out onto metal plates, two of which were passed to us. Thanking our new friends, we wolfed it down.
After mealtime the gong chimed. The pots and plates were disposed of and again the inmates parted. As they did so, three inmates scoured the floorboards with rags, slowly working their way across the room, the prisoners parting as they went.
Another gong sounded and about 20 men gathered together, led by Shwe. On cue, they prostrated and chanted, presumably a Buddhist rite. Soon they dispersed, all very pleased with themselves.
After this, a dozen men gathered around Aung, who had opened a Bible. He read from this then they said a prayer together. With this complete, the gong chimed and everyone returned to their places. This was the bedtime gong.
The lights dimmed and everyone spread across the room, like cigars in a tin. There was just enough room for all of us to sleep lengthwise, providing we lay on our sides. Steve and I were given blankets and we settled down for the night, backs facing each other. "No handies," said Steve.
* * *
That night, we didn't sleep a wink. Every hour, just as I was getting drowsy, the gong chimed. "To remind us of the passing of time," Steve would say.
The next morning, our second day of gong-induced routines began. As we got more familiar with our surroundings, we met other inmates.
Some were smugglers, others had hard-luck stories but the one group that really caught our fancy was a band of ruddy-faced rebels from Kachin, Myanmar's northern province.
They spoke little English, but were clearly hellraisers.
My bladder held out until midday, when I finally approached the latrine.
A group of Indians occupied the area around the toilet, clearly not the most prized position. The stench was rank and I held my nose as I squatted and did my business. Glancing up, I saw two Indians staring at me.
After a few days, townspeople started visiting the prison to meet us. Several local ladies came, bringing us noodles and other home-cooked dishes. (At this, our fellow inmates winked at us and laughed.)
We were also regularly visited by two friendly immigration officials, who apologised for our detention and assured us the situation was being dealt with. Then came the local baker, monks, school teacher... and so on.
One day, a 12-year-old boy appeared at the bars. After speaking to me for a while, he asked, "Please sir, I'm wondering if you could help me with my English homework?" I took his book and studied it. It asked the reader to dissect one of Shakespeare's sonnets. Clearly, the English colonial legacy lived on.
Conversations often turned to Myanmar's political situation and the tyranny of the military junta. No one said anything scathing; they merely stated the facts.
The refusal to hand over power to a democratically-elected government, the backward state of the economy, the corruption and the brutal suppression of students, minorities and rebels.
After several days, we were granted permission to roam outside the building under armed guard. The two immigration officials accompanied us too. Sometimes we had to visit the Colonel, who swung from paranoid to manic in our company.
Other times, we simply walked around town, drunk tea and chatted to the locals. The officials said it would take a while to clear our status. A message had been sent via bus to Lashio (a three-day journey), where it would then be sent by telegram to Yangon, the capital.
The return journey was just as slow, providing that a decision was made. One afternoon, they brought us to a restaurant and treated to us to the local firewater. After a few glasses, one official turned to me and said, "Government... no good!" He giggled uncontrollably then shot a nervous glance at the waiters.
* * *
After a week, the wait started to weigh on us. Steve moaned about never getting out. Our friends remained confident, but their own situations didn't inspire confidence. The prison was in fact a holding cell for people awaiting 'trial', not a jail per se.
Yet most of the inmates had been there for at least six months, some even 18. The thought that we'd be forgotten hadn't eluded us, yet somehow I remained naively confident.
One morning, the immigration officials arrived with broad smiles and called us out. Our friends beamed and said their farewells. As we embraced, we slipped them wads of money, which they tucked away. The gate slid behind us for the last time.
After we left the building, however, we discovered we weren't free: we were to be taken to another holding area. This turned out to be Muse's electricity compound, manned by a Burmese family.
Our hopes were dashed, but our beds proved far more comfortable. Watched over by a guard, we were also free to roam around the compound and play football with the children.
For several days we stayed there, but were now unable to tour Muse as we'd done before. Our hosts were lovely but they could see we were despondent. Then once again, we were taken to the Colonel, who spluttered betelnut at us, telling us that our plight was hopeless.
"No matter what, I will never let you leave. Never." Spirits were low.
When the next day dawned, the immigration officials appeared. But instead of wearing their drab uniforms, they were spruced up like five-star generals. Brimmed hats, medals, shiny shoes. Something was happening.
"Today you go back to China. You are free, friends!"
Packing our bags, we thanked the family and were off. Driven to the border in an open vehicle, we waved at many familiar faces along the way. Even some of our prison guards waved at us.
Arriving at the bridge, we were made to fall in line with a group of officials. They marched (and we sauntered) up to the middle of the bridge where a white line divided Myanmar and China. On the other side, an assembly of Chinese officials faced us.
Representatives from both sides made brief statements then saluted, none crossing the line. A camera appeared, brandished by a Chinese official, and we were asked to pose.
Steve and I obliged, arms raised triumphantly. I often wonder what became of that photograph. We said farewell to our two friends and crossed the line.
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