Village Adventures
As part of my role as ‘project advisor’, one of my ‘jobs’ is visiting the projects in the villages. The adventure begins after worship. The ADRA car is working today, so we ride in comfort to the warehouse, past kids playing on road, who run out of way at the frequent sound of the car horn; past trishaws and motorbikes, though we have to wait our turn to pass, as the roads are too narrow for even bike and car to pass. The urban quickly morphs into rural, buffalos replacing shop fronts, set against a vivid backdrop of electric-green and aqua blue. We negotiate the narrow paths intersecting water-logged paddies, and arrive at a large green-blue warehouse, where ADRA stores rice, jerry-cans, generators, hygiene kits and other assorted goods.
Newly decked out in my ADRA t-shirt, rain-coat and fluorescent orange life-jacket, we set off in a bright red rubber speed boat: Nu Nu, who is the distribution co-ordinator for the jerry can and clay pot delivery; Ka Baw Htoo, the pond fencing co-ordinator, and his assistant, and the boat driver. We say goodbye to the dirty docks of Labutta, and start on the adventure of visiting villages in the delta to check on progress of the distribution and make continued assessment for the pond fencing.
Before long, we leave the main river-road, into a maze of narrower canals. Palm fronds poke through the water like bulrushes, making me think if Moses were born in Burma, his basket would have been made from bamboo and hidden amongst these fronds. Our watery road is sunken a foot below grassy fields that spread out above the muddy bank,and mangroves appear in scattered patches.
The sky is a tangle of white clouds and aqua patches of sky, and the sun is warm, though thankfully not hot. As we motor our way past other boats, I bounce like a beach ball on my rubber cushion, holding on over the waves they leave in their wake.
A speckling of colour appears on the right, hidden through trees, and I attribute the colour to the blue and orange tarpaulins that hug many of the palm-thatched bamboo huts.
The river widens, and after wondering at the floating water containers, I notice another village on the left. Boats are docked in a confusion of colours, and bamboo huts squat on the muddy river bank. The village looks sleepy: I see no sign of life save a dog on the jetty, and just at the far end of the village, I notice a lone fisherman.
The watery road opens out into what appears like a lake, the merging of a maze of canals. It is rougher here in the open. The noisy chug of an approaching boat reminds me at the last minute to hold on, but not before I fly through air.
In the distance, I notice a flag blowing in wind. It belongs to a wooden boat with a tall pointy bow. As we approach, I notice it is a Mercy Corp flag, bearing testimony to the strong NGO presence still in the delta. A tanaka faced boy waves from a stationery canoe, and I wonder if he is fishing? I hold on as a green and blue boat passes.
I relish the fresh feel of wind in my face, and enjoy the patterns of the ripples and the sparkle of the sun in the grey-brown water. The lake has now become a vast expanse of water, land on the other side of the river a mere sliver on the horizon. I am awed by the size of rivers in real life; the blue snakes on a satellite map reveal nothing.
On the right we speed past another multi-coloured village, huts resplendent in blue and orange tarps, before steering away from the safety of the river bank, and head towards the ominous grey clouds in the distance. The temperature has become cooler, the sky darker, and there is the distinct feel of rain in the air. I can almost hear it. It will not be a matter of if it rains today, but when.
I turn around and grin at my orange-vested colleagues, listening to their happy natter. As I hold on over the waves that have gotten significantly larger, Nu Nu laughs at me and says ‘This is nothing.’ She tells me stories of times they have crossed this river when the waves have been as tall as the driver, the rubber boat tossed about like a cork. The boat is merely the size of a cork now in comparison to the expanse of water we are crossing. Palm trees in the distance are like tiny lollipops, the land a narrow wafer on horizon.
After a while, the land in the distance looks almost like a tropical paradise, with a narrow band of lighter water evoking images of sand. The coconut trees sit on a slight angle, like limping soldiers. The fronds look like birds ready to take flight, frozen in place in fright, reminding me of the warning mothers give their children that if the wind changes when they pull a face, it will stay that way.
Nu Nu comments that the population of this part of the delta has increased since Nargis probably largely as a result of the high level of NGO activity in the area. We pass a dozen or so logs placed in strategic locations, and Nu Nu tells me they are nets for fishing. The water, now we are in a protected cove, is a dark, rich pool of chocolate milk.
We steer into a narrower canal, perhaps only 20 metres wide. Once again grass and palms rise up in the water, along with the odd tree. Every so often a lone hut sits as a sentential on the flat plains. We glide round a U bend, and I feel the first drips of rain. Monks in vermillion robes wave from their dug-out canoe against a backdrop of green foliage and orange flowers with such a sweet, fresh scent, mixed with the smell of rain.
We approach another muddy, dirty village set on a bank high above the river, fishermen standing on the jetty. I wonder if this will be our first stop, but we speed past. Just as we pass a man asleep in canoe, about 50 metres up the river, we suddenly turn around, and I feel a thrill of anticipation.
We pull up at a rickety jetty made from jungle wood. I climb out of the boat and up the sloping jetty, stepping over fishing nets. My first view of Nga Phone is of bamboo huts lining either side of a mud path. A mother holding her baby and an older child grin from behind a large blue 40-gallon plastic water container, a vivid reminder of the vital necessity that clean, drinkable water is.
Thatch huts sit over irrigation/drainage canals full of muddy water, narrow wooden planks bridging the drain into huts strung with washing. Every house has some form of water collection system, the most common being tarps or rusty tin roofing acting as an ingenious catchment from roof run-off into glazed clay pots below. As testimony to the lack of water storage containers since Nargis, anything that will hold water is used for storage; even broken pots are not discarded. Water lies all around, but very little is drinkable.
This village has already had 123 jerry cans distributed to its 29 households. Our job here is simply as follow up, checking the effectiveness and use of the containers, and to provide photographic evidence of the effects.
I have the camera, and at the direction of Nu Nu, poke my head inside the darkened doorway of a quaint hut as she points out ADRA jerry cans, full of water, clearly valued. I hold up my camera, my finger poised, when I notice movement to the left of the cans. I don’t know who is more surprised: the woman who rolled over to discover a camera pointed in her doorway, or me, to realize the hut was occupied! I involuntarily jump backwards out the door, hitting my head as I do so! Nu Nu quickly steps forward and explains what we are doing there, and while the sleepy woman arranges the cans for a photo, I rub my sore head, feeling like an intruder!
The other huts aren’t so intimidating: grinning housewives smile in appreciation, happily showing us inside, despite it clearly being meal time in some huts.
We walk past a building site, men busy shifting red bricks. Nu Nu tells me it will be a school. She points out the old school, little more than a tarp tent. Curious, I go inside. There are hardly more than a dozen students sitting in front of a green black-board, the tan of the tanaka smeared on their faces a stark contrast to their olive complexion and black hair. As I take in this scene, I am startled to find the Seyama wrapped in a soaking wet sarong, taking a bath!
I make gestures to ask if I can photograph the children, and they nod in agreement. But as I point the camera, the air is pierced with the cry of a child in the arms of one of the older girls. I’m not sure whether to laugh at the realization that he is petrified by me and my camera, or to sneak out of the makeshift school. I wonder if he’s ever seen white person before??! I take the photo, and show the children, but the child screams even louder, and hides his face in the shirt of his sister! I am torn between feeling bad for the child and laughing at the hilarity! The other children also think it is funny! I leave the school unable to stop giggling.
As we leave the village, we are trailed by the school children, and I am reminded of my carefree childhood days in Papua New Guinea, when we would abandon school at the arrival of the mission plane. The whole village turns out to wave us off, standing at the jetty.
It’s only 5 minutes in the boat, and we arrive at the next village: Kwin Kone. I have to watch my step to avoid falling through the missing planks in the coconut and jungle wood jetty. The village is similar: huts squatting above water-logged fields on either side of the path. As we approach the first house, I am intrigued by two things: the coconut-tree ‘bridge’ spanning the space between the hut and the path, a muddy pool below, and the tumeric-yellow face paint on the woman standing in the door way. Tanaka I know, but bright yellow? As we balance across the log, Nu Nu advises me that there is a new baby in this house. Before I am able to question Nu Nu on this, another yellow-faced teen-age girl heads towards the house. Nu Nu tells me she also has a new baby – she knows because of the tumeric powder thickly applied to their face.
The Village leader is so welcoming, he wants us to see in every house! We go into another hut. On finding a mother rocking her baby to sleep in a hammock, I feel a bit intrusive, but the mother is so welcoming, so grateful. We pass a broken down house, clearly the results of Nargis, and stand talking with the Village leader while Ka Baw Htoo checks on the state of the pond. Men squat in a wooden frame that will one day be a hut, fixing ancient machinery for tilling their rice paddies. The houses are further apart in this village, the vibrant green of the rice fields a picturesque backdrop. I notice a kitten in the grass, and while I am patting it, I am shocked to realize a child is feeling my bum!
Ka Baw Htoo returns, and we head back to the boat. Moments later, we are out of the narrow canal and back into wide river. We pass a man standing in his canoe, and I feel the splash from the double oars. Another jetty appears, and I notice bamboo-hatted women leaning over strange looking contraptions in their canoes, pushed up to the muddy bank. Nu Nu tells me that they are crab nets.
The village, Kwin Chaung, is not immediately visible, as it is set off to side along another canal. A neat red brick-and-crushed stone path follows the smaller canal, the result of an ADRA ‘Food for Work’ program. I can only imagine the challenges of reaching the village before this path! Fishing nets are strewn along the path and hung from verandahs; crab net are stacked in high piles on bamboo porches. The village looks industrious, but very poor, and very under developed, with much to learn about cleanliness and hygiene.
Along with the distinctly fishy smell is the very distinct sound of pigs snorting. It takes a bit of looking: I eventually find the culprit on the bank of a pond: a rain-water pond where the villagers get their drinking water! I am very happy to hear this is one of the ponds we will fence!! I also notice later a pink, sick looking pig wallowing in mud beside a hut.
We first visit the Village leader’s hut, and are invited inside. Nu Nu and I sit at the table in the higher part of the hut, while an assortment of women, babies and men sit lined up on the lower step at the entrance to the hut, watching. I join the watching, and make faces at the fat baby on the lap of one of the women, while Nu Nu converses with the Village Development Committee, and Ka Baw Htoo assesses the pond.
It is customary to remove your shoes before entering a hut. Most Burmese wear ‘slippers’ (flip-flops), so when I put on my sandals as we are leaving, the watching-committee stare at me as if I am some sort of curiosity from out of space! Time stands still as I fiddle with the Velcro!
Back in the boat, we have time for a quick snack of bread as we zoom across the water. I am still eating as we arrive at the tiny village of Pan Nyein, sprawled across the muddy river bank. Women peer in curiosity from their doors where they are doing their washing.
As we pull up to the dock, I wonder how we will get up to the jetty: no sloping ramp leads to the waters edge, and a wooden canoe is docked where it might otherwise have been possible for us to land. There’s nothing else to it other than to climb into the canoe, and from there, up the steep, crude ramp the villagers make for us from 2 pieces of drift wood. They grab my hand as I climb, and I reach for both hands: a good move, as I slip. They hoist me up on to the jetty, and I immediately give the village my own name: Crab Village. Strewn all over the jetty and inside the canoe are the carcasses of white crabs.
I look around the village as I wait for the others, who are being helped onto the jetty. Mud is all around, and the only access I can see to the village is either through the Village leader’s house, or along a narrow piece of jungle wood precariously positioned in the middle of thick mud. I’m not sure I would trust it not to either snap or be sucked into the black quagmire. Underdeveloped is an understatement.
We enter the house, and are ushered onto bamboo mats. Ka Baw Htoo continues through the back door to check on the pond. I notice empty whisky bottles beside the centre wooden post of the hut, and wonder if this has anything to do with the situation. The village men gather on the floor, about 10 of them who sit cross-legged on the wooden floor, with their longyis knotted over their bellies, smoke from their cheroots (long green cigars) billowing from their noses in 2 plumes like dragon breath.
The bamboo hut is quite spacious: a ‘kitchen’ is at a sunken level to the rest of the dwelling, and there are bamboo poles overhead acting as both rafters and ‘planks’ serving as storage space for a bag of rice, bamboo rice sifters, a guitar, and the ‘life savers’. The twisted speckled wood serving as the corner pole strikes me as beautiful, and lining the bamboo and amber-tarped walls of the hut are wooden chests locked with padlocks, topped by folded blankets. A grey mosquito net hangs on right wall, a hammock is slung in the middle of the room, and towels, and longyis hang from the wall. Further along the right wall is a niche in the wall, containing vases with green foliage, and faded pictures of Buddha on either side.
Nu Nu informs me that this village has a distribution problem: it has 2 parts, and the second part didn’t receive the cans, so Nu Nu is here to mediate. My initial thought is that the village leader is greedy – I see at least 8 jerry cans besides the 5 that ADRA distributed, and as I look above me, I notice 5 more cans still tied together, clearly unused. Nu Nu effectively manages meeting. She pauses to explain to me that there is a misunderstanding. As there are 2 parts, it has not been decided who is leader. She also explains that this village also includes the ‘lone huts’ I have noticed on the side of the river – rural villagers. The man she is talking to lives in the house, and many villagers come and stay with him, hence the appearance that he is ‘hoarding’ jerry cans. Via translation, he explains that many of the villagers see a dual purpose in the cans: not only are they water storage containers, but also life saving floatation devices, hence the reason many of them are unused in the way intended. There are lots of ‘no’s’ and ‘hokays’ and nodding heads indicating agreeance, and Nu Nu leaves satisfied that the distribution problem will be solved.
Leaving this village, we turn almost immediately up another channel, which twists and turns and connects to so many other tributaries I am glad I am not in charge of navigation. (I notice later that they are using a GPS navigation system, which shows the rivers and canals in detail.) The river bank has flattened out, and hundreds of white and bright red crabs scuttle across the mud flats. It feels and smells much more coastal down here. So much water all around, but none of it suitable for drinking. I can just imagine disaster of a storm, and I push aside images of bloated bodies, washed up amongst the speckled white and brown stems of palm fronds growing in the water, by thinking of what ADRA is doing to make a difference now, bringing hope to many.
A grove of coconut trees indicate to me there’s another village soon. Sure enough, brown thatch huts peek through the grass as we round the corner, but we steer up a narrow tributary, and follow it around. People wave from an overloaded long boat, covered by tarp. It looks like it would sink if it carried even another kilogram! Around a few bends, past more boats: this is clearly a busy canal. The jetty appears, though it is barely visible for the vessels docked around it: canoes, slow long boats, protected by makeshift roofs, smaller boats with long rudders. Our driver docks our rubber boat next to a long boat, and we step over the bow to disembark. I have to give over a copy of my travel permit papers.
On exploring the village further, I can understand why. It is a very expansive village, and I discover afterwards that it is actually 3 villages that over time have grown so large they appear to have merged together – Bo Thin Kone, Chan Ther Aye Kone, and Sar Chet, home to over 10,000.
We are met by a contingent of women and babies. The paths are wide, and the village is so neat and clean, especially compared to the previous village! I can’t get over how established it looks: bamboo fences, flowers and hedges surrounding neat yards make me ask how affected this village was by Nargis. Nu Nu replies that over 80% of the houses were destroyed, and it was covered by up to 6 feet of water. She point out clumps of bamboo still mangled that give an indication of the damage, and explains that the coconut trees strewn across the village were cut up and used as the fence posts neatly lining the paths.
NGO presence in these villages is clear, even without the signage: Unicef, WFP, Save the Children and Merlin are some of the ones more familiar to me, as well as others I have never heard of. ADRA presence is very strong in this area. Every few blocks, Ka Baw Htoo points out an ADRA wells, and proudly explains that he was in charge of the building of over 200 wells in that project! These 3 villages have nearly 50 of them. I also notice ADRA wash areas, and a new waste storage unit still in the process of being built – this is part of one of the projects I am working with. It makes me feel proud to be part of such a busy development organization.
Not only is the village clean, it is clearly industrious. The wood from coconut palms fallen during Nargis have been used for fences, and also cleverly constructed into a cyclone shelter. Piles of bricks lay beside a partly finished building that I discover will be a church, bamboo scaffolding surrounding it. The unmistakable chatter of children draws nearer, and I am surprised to discover a child care centre! Dozens of preschoolers play on a makeshift playground under a tarp shelter. I guess their parents are busy in the nearby rice paddies, or maybe employed as laborers in an NGO project.
As we walk past a house, a woman runs out excitedly to greet us, carrying a gorgeous one-month-old baby boy, face powdered with tanaka. The translation of her excitement is “I have twins!” I giggle internally, and ask his name. Just as she is about to tell me, he creates a yellow rainbow, and 2 kids watching nearby giggle with hilarity.
After walking about 20 minutes in the now-hot sun, I am very grateful to find we are stopping. We are at the second village now, at the Village leader’s house. They are so hospitable, and hand out soft drinks, palm sugar toffee and sweets. My drink is so fizzy it squirts all over my bag. I notice a tiny kitten, and as I ooh and aahh over it, one of the men hands it to me. It is so soft, and curls up on my lap, purring like a well-running motor. Women squat on the floor while we talk and drink.
Nu Nu translates some of the discussion, which is about the jerry cans. The villagers have many ideas for how to use them. Some are saving them, so if a storm comes, they will fill them with rice and bury them, remembering the severe food shortage. Others intend to use it as a life jacket. Some even had the idea of combining these ideas, and filling it half full with water, and using the air remaining to help them float. Ingenious ideas.
The babble of children grows louder, alerting me to our imminent arrival at a school. What I am not prepared for is its condition. A blue tarpaulin structure, walls falling down, barely larger than a volleyball court, is school for over 200 children. A lone teacher in a green longyi and white elbow-length blouse points one other colleague working with her in the crowded room. Children sit on inch-high benches at foot-high desks, aqua-blue Unicef school bags taking pride of position next to them. A smattering of green amongst the sea of colours indicates some students have uniforms. I see 2 blackboards, if they can even be called that – so well used are they that the chalk which will not rub out renders them almost white. I feel ashamed about the times I complained about my class size, about the size of my classroom, about the ‘lack of resources’. While I don’t have the language to communicate to the Seyama, I hope my body language and look of disbelief and awe conveys to her both my empathy and respect.
Feeling like I’ve disrupted the school too much already by my mere presence and the fact that 50 students are standing at the rear of the tent, curiously staring and smiling, we leave. I notice then a large sign that reads ‘I love Myanmar’ in front of a new school being constructed next door. Nu Nu tells me that a Myanmar couple from America started this NGO in memory of their infant daughter who died. The school is one of their projects, as were the identical wooden houses that line the sides of the road. I am grateful to know that NGOs are helping schools recover, though I’m certain even more is needed. Buildings are only one part of a school. There’s chairs, desks, black boards and books just at a bare minimum. The SWISS project I am also helping with is helping to build toilets for students, and seeing the blue-tarp make-shift structures, I realize how necessary that is.
We stop in to see the village leader of Sarchet, the third village. His wife informs us that he is down at the jetty, so we set off on another 15 minute walk through the last village, and along a path, created by the WFP ‘Work for Food’, to the jetty. The myriad of logoed-sand-bag stepping stones, while in reality only a makeshift solution, aid in solving the access problems caused by the monsoonal rains.
We find the wizened village leader at the jetty at the end of the path, and after an animated conversation, we prepare to leave. I am surprised to find the boat is waiting here for us. As we motor down the canal and join a larger river, I look up and notice grey clouds pregnant with rain. It is clear that it’s gonna rain. Before long it starts to spit, so I store away my camera and bags away, don my rain coat and brace for the inevitable rain. We motor back past areas that I vaguely recognize, and after another few minutes, arrive at Tar Lu Pat Taw village with no significant downpour.
Children swimming by the jetty greet us with laughter. As I climb up the jetty slope, I am struck by the orderliness of this village. A wide, main road is lined by coconut posts, bamboo fences and identical wooden huts, donated by ‘I love Myanmar’.
We stop in at a large tarp building on the left, about 20 m from the jetty. Nu Nu tells me it is the ADRA camp, where field workers stay. Looking at the roof, I’m not sure I’d like to sleep here in a monsoonal downpour. We rest a while. I’m surprised to discover it is only 1 pm.
After a few minutes, we head to village leader’s house for lunch. As we turn the corner, we pass children giggling under umbrellas, wearing aqua blue Unicef school bags. This street is also neatly lined with identical huts, and I am surprised at cream new school that appears on the right, so clean and new.
It begins to rain now, so I share my umbrella with Nu Nu, and we laugh at the ADRA boys walking in front of us in matching rain jackets.
Arriving at the village leader’s house, we shed our jackets, and are invited to sit on wooden ‘lounge’ chairs, surrounding a coffee table in the middle of the sparsely decorated wooden building. The only other piece of ‘furniture’ is a triangular wooden stand nursing a clay water pot. Part of the wall to the right is covered by pink-and-white plastic, and as I am pondering this, Nu Nu translates that this is because there was not enough wood to finish all the houses, so this house missed the last part of the wall. A black-and-red snake of wiring winds its way across the wooden beam, connected to a tiny fluorescent light.
Now comes what I think will be the adventure of going to the toilet. But apart from negotiating the mud puddles and piles of wood (complete with corn leaves for good measure!), it is an easy experience – concrete steps to climb, a clean, plastic latrine with clean water – especially compared with some of the other villages, where I have to balance along narrow wooden logs to reach a latrine squatting over the river, a tattered piece of tarp that doesn’t close properly the only ‘door’. On our way back inside, I notice tarpaulin ‘swimming pools’ that act as water storage tanks.
When we arrive back inside, I notice they have spread a pink plastic tablecloth over the coffee table, and beer glasses beside a water jar grace the tabletop. Several ladies bring in green plastic chairs, and are busy spreading and wiping down a blue tarp under a low circular table that is also spread with a plastic lace tablecloth and lemon soda. We are served coconut juice in whole coconuts, straw sticking out like a candle in a birthday cake. Apparently 1000 kyat (approximately $1US) will buy 15 coconuts! As one of the men sticks a straw into one of the coconuts, I am covered by the juice as it squirts out with the release of gas! We are also served coconut flesh, slimy, slippery, but oh, so tasty!
Both men and women are busy around the table, bringing dishes, folding serviettes (worth noting, as usually the ‘serviette’ is in the form of a toilet roll in a plastic cylinder!), serving rice, shooing flies. As they spread bamboo mats on the tarp, we sign the guest-book – a piece of paper with J00@ written at the top, the Burmese way of writing 2009.
‘Sa’ is the call to eat, and we sit cross-legged around the table laden with dishes of steaming rice, fried egg, cucumber, noodles in clear soup, chicken and the ever present chili-fish paste. The village leader and his wife fan us with bamboo fans as though we are royalty, with the rest of the ‘staring committee’ watching on. I am grateful for the practice of serving yourself, though the practice of using the communal spoon to slurp the soup before dishing it into your own plate does gross me out a little! I am a little dismayed when the village leader serves me chicken, so I pick at it to be polite. (At another village, where they served prawns and crabs, they just laughed at me when I said ‘Ma Sa Boo’ – I don’t eat! But it got me out of eating it!).
On finishing our meal, we retire back to the ‘lounge chairs’ while the next round takes their place, and I become the ‘staring committee’; the ‘table manners’ of the Burmese still amazes me: mixing the chili-fish paste into the rice with fingers before stuffing it into their mouth, talking with full mouths.
It is time to leave. We are transported back to the jetty on the trailer of an old tractor that putts slowly and noisily. Back on the speedboat, it starts to rain again. As the stinging rain pelts my cheeks, it makes me think that the field workers are the real heroes of ADRA, going to the villages to implement the projects, day in, day out, rain, hail or shine. And in this country, that can mean definite discomfort!
We arrive at the next village - Theik Pan Kone Gyi, and it is still raining. I am ‘umbrella-escorted’, down the path lined by more identical wooden huts, by a little old Burmese lady, her green-and-white outfit indicating her status as a teacher. However, as we are heading to Pha Yar Lay Kone, the next village which is about a 20 minute walk away, Nu Nu tells her we will be ok – I actually do have an umbrella!
Our walk takes us through long wet grass, along narrow paths separating electric-green rice paddies, and past a cemetery that is being reclaimed by the same nature that claimed them in the first place. A lady helps direct us. Even in the short interaction, like many survivors I have met, she tells us about the death of her family. Only her daughter is left. My heart feels as soggy as the ground I am walking on, and the drips from my umbrella could well have come from my eyes, except I can’t cry. My heart is numb.
We arrive at Pha Yar Lay Kone. I will remember this village for its vibrant colours: emerald-green rice paddies, rainbow-oil mud puddles; and for the cute tanaka-faced baby with a Mohawk haircut! The village leader is asleep – our knocking awakens him from his siesta, and he sleepily takes us to several houses where jerry cans were distributed. Many of these villagers have still not used them – they are so scared of another storm that they are saving the cans as a floatation device, just in case.
Our walk back to the boat brings a plethora of smells: fresh rain, wood fires, afternoon kitchen smells, mixed with all the smells of a developing village: pigs, stagnant water, mud.
Back in the boat, we wait for Ka Baw Htoo, who went to check on ponds. The sun is now shining, and I pick out grass seeds from my soggy pants. The sing-song chant of a crowd of children in the distance reaches my ears, and knowing that the Burmese style of learning involves a lot of noisy rote chanting, I assume the noise is a learning noise. However, judging by the colourful trickle of children that begins to stream past our boat to the waiting ‘school boat’, I realize that the noise must have indicated the end of school. I take in the variety of styles of green-and-white uniforms: longyis, skirts, pinafores, dresses, shorts, breeches, trousers. Each child has a knee-length shoulder bag strung over their shoulder or head, an embroidered tapestry of colours – red, purple, blue, brown, mustard. The detail on each bag is so intricate. One hand holds an umbrella, the other, a silver, 3-tiered circular ‘lunch-box’. They call happily to each other, and regard me with shy curiosity as they walk past. Some venture to greet me. As we pull out of the small bay, I smile and wave at the waiting ‘school boat’, and they regard me as with the same curiosity.
Our last stop is Da Ye Phyn Lay, where we are checking up on the progress of distribution of huge clay water jars that the villagers use for water storage. It takes a while to get there, as it is in a different village tract. We zoom back up the wide canal. The sky has cleared, and blue peaks through fluffy clouds. The bright reflection of the sun on the river turns it into a black-and-white striped snake, and I am extremely grateful for sunglasses (though it renders me a sunburnt panda!) We once again negotiate the confusing maze of watery roads. A jumping fish brings a moment of excitement, reminding me of seeing pink dolphins in the Amazon river. The colours in the late afternoon sun are almost painfully beautiful.
There’s much more to write, but my senses are overloaded! As we surf the waves caused by tidal variation (up to 6 feet!) on the 5 km wide river, I can’t imagine doing anything else! Yes, there’s pain and sadness. And I hurt. There’s days in the office that I wonder what I am doing, days that I feel overwhelmed, bored, frustrated by paperwork and policies. But there’s also exhilaration, freedom, adventure. And the satisfaction of helping others, of knowing that I am part of a team that is ‘Changing the World, One Life at a Time’. It makes me proud to be part of ADRA.
