Backdoor to Burma

Trekking into Burma reminds me of hiking the Blue Ridge Mountains. Moist air feeds the lush wilderness. A noontime shower is always possible.

However, any similarity to my native Carolina soon disappears as a crater cuts my trail in two.“Mortar fire,” the guide explains. “There’s an army outpost nearby.”

Moments earlier, my team of Americans exchanged diesel-fueled SUVs at the Thailand border for backpacks and hiking boots. Our guide stares at his handheld radio, anticipating the call to abort. It never arrives.

Caution must guide us, for we have entered one of the most oppressive countries in the world. Our presence is unofficial. Our mission covert. We’re not in the far east on a joy ride to buy souvenirs at government-controlled storefronts. We’re here to document war crimes committed by the Burmese regime against its’ people. Quietly, we side step the crater and move deeper into the unofficial jungle.

Ascending from the jungle floor, I spot a series of huts on poles rising from the mud. A thin dog stares at us, too lean to bark. Mud cakes my boots. I peek into dark huts. The hospital must be close. Ragged clotheslines hang limp in the breeze. Another thin dog. Then I see them.

Little eyes have been following us since we first left the jungle floor. Now faces appear from behind the cracked bamboo walls and hollow doorways. Some boys race down the trail. Everyone wants to see our guide (their good friend) and his fat white visitors.

A small girl hips a naked baby and watches us pass. I peg her being no older than eight, but her mature eyes reveal she could help deliver a baby, sharpen a machete, hoe a field, and knows how to watch for an approaching enemy.

We’re ushered into a makeshift school building. More bamboo walls. Dozens of children wait patiently, stacked in rows from shortest to tallest. The I realize, the crater in the jungle trail was a misfire. The mortar was aiming for this school, perhaps the hospital next door.