Saving Fish From Drowning (59 page)

Harry remained in the room with the Embassy staff and watched GNN unfold the next batch of scoops. The updates continued hour after hour throughout the day. Policymakers in those countries that had not announced boycotts in previous years were now meeting in special sessions to discuss doing so. ASEAN was calling an emergency meeting to determine how to handle this situation that was so damaging to their joint reputation. This was a very delicate matter, for according to their rotation plan of shared leadership, Myanmar would take over as the chair of ASEAN in the not too distant future.

Perhaps it was time to apply more forceful guidance on the country.

Trade restraint, a delay in that pipeline construction, no more sales of arms, the withholding of development aid, even a suspension of membership in ASEAN. Yes, the other member countries would look into all these measures as friendly encouragement.

THE DRUMS AND GOURDS were sounding in No Name Place. The

flutes played like morning birds. The Karen people were performing a dance, enacting the arrival of the Younger White Brother and the 4 2 7

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overthrow of their enemies. Meanwhile, Heidi and Moff were improvising a jig, Wyatt and Wendy were doing a do-si-do, linking arms and skipping one way and then the other. They had all watched TV coverage of the international rallies supporting them and honoring the Burmese dead. Black Spot said to Marlena, “Miss, I am sure telling you, everything now is good. It is a miracle.”

On January 15th, after days of international rallies and denunciations of the military regime, plus some confidential arm-twisting from ASEAN members, the government of Myanmar issued a statement composed by its newly hired image-consulting agency based in Washington, D.C. It was broadcast on television around the world.

“The State Peace and Development Council of Myanmar is concerned that other nations have been given incorrect information. We do not persecute any ethnic minorities. We welcome and treasure diversity of all people, including tourists. Even with tribes that have created unrest and unstable conditions, we have offered truces and signed peace agreements. We have several tribal leaders who can testify to this. . . .” TV screens showed a lineup of smiling ethnic-costumed actors behind the spokesman.

“Lies! Lies!” Bootie shouted. “Bo-Cheesus will punish you and you and you.”

“Unfortunately, some tribes in the hills have not heard of these truces. They live far away and have not come down in many years.

Some of these people did step on land mines, it is true, not as part of any jobs forced on them, but because they trespassed into restricted areas with mines planted by other ethnic hill tribes years ago, maybe even their own. In the interests of safety to our people, we closed off those areas and marked them with big danger signs. Perhaps they could not read. Illiteracy is high among those who live in remote places, and we are working on educational development as well. So we give our heartfelt sympathy that they were wounded. And if these Karen people come to our new modern hospitals, they will receive 4 2 8

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free care, even though it was their fault for trespassing and injuring themselves.”

“Lies! Lies!” Bootie shouted.

“But most important of all, today, we are showing the Karen tribe in the jungle our true sincerity. Today, on this television broadcast throughout the world, we are signing an important agreement. It guarantees the safety and freedom of the Karen tribe and the Americans who are with them.

“Of course, the Americans should not have gone into the jungle when there are so many other beautiful places to see that are safe and comfortable. In these places, bridges do not fall down. So when the Americans return safely, we sincerely offer them a special getaway package to Bagan to visit its two thousand two hundred monuments and experience the aching splendor Dr. Harry Bailley has made so famous. We think our American tourists will be pleased with the excellent roads, the world-class restaurants, the eight-star hotels with private bath. They can even take advantage of bonus bungeejumping activities, provided by our friendly military air force.

“For our Karen friends, we have agreed to give them their own land, the place where they are now, wherever they are, and the outlying areas of that, up to ten thousand acres. They can decide what they wish to do with it—they can clear the rainforest and plant crops, sell the teak wood, whatever they wish.

“These are the things we promise—deluxe vacation getaways for our American friends, ten thousand acres for our Karen family of Myanmar. And now,
with the entire world watching
, we will sign this document, and to show our sincerity and honesty, we have a special person to bear witness, our good friend and TV star, Dr. Harry Bailley.”

So that was the third miracle. The fourth happened only hours after that. After the dance and the pounding of drums, a similar spirit of ecstasy overcame my friends and the Karen people. They were 4 2 9

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feeling quite fond toward one another, when suddenly Salt ran through the camp, yelling, “Miracle! Miracle!” Black Spot translated what Salt said. “The bridge is resurrect, risen from dead!”

Sixty-four people ran to the ravine and saw that it was true. Grease ran across the bridge and jumped on it to show that it was sturdy. My friends screamed in joy, and many cried. The Karen people shouted:

“
God is great!
Praise be the Younger White Brother!” When they returned to camp, the Karen came up to Rupert, who had gone over to the TV with my other friends. They bowed deeply, telling him in the Karen language, “We thank you for coming. We thank you for bringing us the miracles, for bringing peace to our people, the end of our suffering.”

“Why do they keep doing that?” Rupert complained.

“What! You still not knowing who you are?” Black Spot said. And he bowed and said, “Our Younger White Brother, Lord of Nats.”

Once again, Black Spot told Rupert about the man who had come more than a hundred years before. He told them about the Holy Signs. Loot held up Rupert’s playing cards. Bootie held up the black book of Important Writings. Truly, the Younger White Brother had made them strong. Surely, he now knew who he was.

When Black Spot was finished, my friends looked at one another and spoke silently with their eyes. Should we tell them? What difference will it make if we do?

But it was Rupert who decided. “I’m not anybody’s white brother.

I’m an only child.” He turned over the pack of cards. “See this?

Cathay Pacific. That’s how I got here. Not through reincarnation, through customs, like everybody else. And this book is a paperback I borrowed from a guy in my class. It’s called
Misery
, and it’s not a history of your tribe. It’s a made-up story by a guy named Stephen King. See? Here, take it, read it yourself.”

Black Spot took the book. “We are treasuring it forever,” he said.

“Thank you.” He had understood almost none of Rupert’s jabber of 4 3 0

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words except for “King.” But it was evident that the Younger White Brother was still confused. One day he would know who he was. He would remember that before he came, no one knew of the Lord’s Army and their suffering. No one cared. They used to hide, now everyone knew them. They had been given land. They had a TV

show with number-one ratings. What other proof did they need to know the Younger White Brother was among them?

My friends were at last able to leave No Name Place. But how would they walk down the mountain to the truck? “Not far,” Black Spot said. “Walking, it is taking only one hour most.”

“I can try,” Bennie said. He was still quite weak from the malaria, as was Esmé. Obviously, neither of them would be able to walk even a hundred yards. Perhaps a few could go down and bring help? But the idea of being left behind frightened Esmé, who cried: “What if you can’t find your way back? What if the bridge falls down again?”

“Maybe we can telephoning now and asking people for help?”

Black Spot suggested.

Telephone? Was he daft? “I forgot telling you,” he said. “There is so many miracle.” Black Spot went off to the edge of the camp and into the bamboo stands, and when he stepped out, he pulled from a satchel an oblong of blue plastic: Heinrich Glick’s satellite phone.

In their elation, in their desire to leave in whatever way possible, the Americans did not question how this phone was manifested.

“Who should we call?” Marlena asked.

“Bear Witness Hotline,” Black Spot said. “We are telling them we see ourselves.” He put the phone in the satchel, stepped into the loop at the base of a teak tree, and like a frog, leapt to the top, above the canopy, where there was a clear view of the sky.

4 3 1

• •

18

THE NATURE

OF HAPPY ENDINGS

On January 16th, Global News Network broadcast the dramatic

rescue of my friends and the Lord’s Army by a brand-new

Mi-8MPS helicopter generously supplied by the Indian government. Most of the tribe could have walked down, but after the twins said they wanted to be airlifted by the giant sling, everyone else did, too. Why not? It made for great TV visuals, all day long.

And so fate—if you can call it that—changed course over the rainforest canopy, and kindnesses and miracles poured like quenching rain after a drought. Such is the nature of happy endings.

Before going their separate ways, my friends, a few of whose personalities had clashed, decided they were as close as kin and promised to meet for a “Celebration of Life” once a month, in addition to the annual Thanksgiving reunion. They would share potluck dinners of rainforest recipes, spiritually deepening discoveries, survival A M Y T A N

health tips, and support during personal turmoil. But they enthusiastically agreed that they should buy native drums and gourds to recreate the communal heartbeat and elation they had shared on that incredible night. That experience had opened them to possibilities beyond their Western-acculturated senses. Immersion, however, into their American lives soon restored them to a more rational view. The more they looked into it, the more they saw that simple causal forces had led from one thing to another. It was this and this and this—a cascade of events combined with a good wallop of sidespin. Nonetheless, the drumming was amazing, wasn’t it? They agreed they should still do the drumming at their gatherings.

Speaking of drumming, Dwight had actually purchased a drum

and had to smuggle it past both Burmese and U.S. customs. He found it in a shop in Mandalay that promised “genuine antiquities and rarities.” The yellowed tag described it as: “Circa 1890, from the bankrupt estate of Lord Phineas Andrews, human skull drum, produces a sound like no other.” The shop owner believed it was a holy instrument brought to Burma by a visiting Tibetan priest. Although one tribe in Burma was famous for having been headhunters, they were not very musical. The shop offered other odd items: fans made from the feathers of now extinct birds, a tiger-skin carpet, elephant-leg stools, and the like. But Dwight passed on those.

The tide also turned for the tribe. Just as was hoped, a film studio demonstrated interest in their starring in “the greatest reality show of all time.” Fortunately, the studio owned a subsidiary in Burma, a clothes-manufacturing company that had been doing business before the sanctions. And through various loopholes and exemptions, plus a dose of lobbying, the green light was granted. As Harry would say, On with the show!

One minor change: The show would not be called
The Lord’s
Fittest
, as Black Spot had hoped. The studio “execs,” as Black Spot and his friends learned to call them, had conducted a focus group in 4 3 4

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Fallbrook, California, and concluded that this title would not play well with Muslim audiences, which could be plentiful in some countries, or with Christian conservatives, who might object to putting their Lord in the same company as the Lord of Nats and the Younger White Brother. Most disappointing of all, the name received loud boos from the studio’s target audience, boys between the ages of twelve and nineteen. For a better title, the studio execs went to shopping malls across America, and soon they had their name:
Junglemaniacs!
—the peppy exclamation point capturing the excitement of watching the real perils of real contestants in a real jungle, where elimination by real and excruciating death was always a possibility and might even occur live during broadcast.

Thanks to friendly negotiations lasting several hours, instead of the months of squabbling that stalled most deals, the tribe members were told they would receive a generous share of the profits on the

“back end,” with “points over net,” which would be subjected to strict accounting by expensive lawyers, and not to worry there, those fees would be paid entirely by the film studio, for which the tribe was grateful. The profits were certain to be huge, given how popular the tribe had become, and because they would likely get millions of kyats, no money would be paid up front. This was a tradition, in fact, known as “standard for the industry.” Was this satisfactory with the tribe? “God is great,” chanted the twins. “It’s a miracle,” cried their grandmother.