Our Adventure in Yangon
by Teddy

Ian and I are sitting across the street from the National League for Democracy headquarters.It is early April in Burma.It is dreadfully hot. We are sipping tea and watching the entrance to the headquarters. Occasionally people walk in and out under the giant red banner bearing the group name. A guard sits casually in front of the front doorway nodding at those who pass by. We do not know it, but spies are sitting at every table in the small cafe

We are wearing traditional Burmese longyie dresses so as not to attract attention.Once we walk into the headquarters, no disguise will stop the government from noticing us.

"OK, I am going in," I tell Ian.Then, putting on my best Ace Ventura, "if I'm not back in five minutes . . . just wait longer."

As I cross the sunny street my heart begins to pound.By the time I make my way to the entrance my entire torso is filled with adrenaline. There is no going back to being Joe Schmoe tourist.I walked up to the guard and introduce myself, "Hi. I am an American."

He stands up slightly startled and leads me inside to a dilapidated room with lots of people having conversations and lecturing around classroom desks. Pictures of Suu Kyi and her father adorn the walls, as well as instructional posters for dental care and water filtration.The guard motions me to a bookish looking Burmese man in his early thirties. "Hi," I introduce myself again, "I am an American journalist and I would like to do an interview . . ."

"With Ma Suu Kyi?" he interrupts with happy eyes.

"Uh, sure, if that's possible," I reply, "but any NLD leader is fine."I do not want to overreach myself.I am not completely ready to interview the Nobel laureate, and the truth is I am not really a reporter. There is no need to get excited because Suu Kyi is not available until the following day. The chief of security informs me that the Vice-Chairman of the league is available for now if I would like to meet with him. I agree.

Ian is still sitting in the spy-infested cafe across the street.I go to the front door and signal for him to come over. At that moment my beckoning is being recorded on video and camera shutters are clicking as intelligence agents take photos of the curious new visitors to the democracy headquarters.

Ian comes inside and we sit down at one of the little school desks.We joke around while the rest of the crowd continues with their lectures and debates.

After about ten minutes, a man in his sixties with jet-black hair emerges from the upstairs.He walks over to us and greets us with a firm handshake and a smile. He sits down next to us.

"So?" He says as if to prod us into the interviewing process.

"Uh, right." I hesitate while trying to think up an introduction, "we are two journalists from the University of California. My associate, Ian (deep 'hello') would be taking photos but we left the camera at our guest house.

Well, lets start first things first.What is your name?"

"Ou Tin Oo," he replies and helps me spell it.

"And what is your role at the League for Democracy?" I ask.

"I am Vice Chairman," he answers.

I probably should know this.

I go on to ask him about the Massachusetts law boycotting corporations that do business with Myanmar.I also ask about jail time he has served and other political/economics questions.

He is an extremely genuine and friendly man, quite in line with the character of most Burmese. He comes off as gentle grandfatherly figure, wise words laced with wry humor. Much of the interview is a rehash of information we already know. His English is infinitely better than my Burmese is, but sometimes it is not completely clear what he is getting at.I am loathe to blame the Natives for not speaking perfect English when I am visiting their country, and so I am glad just to be in the company of this gregarious veteran dissident.

At the end of the interview he assures us that we can have an interview with Suu Kyi the following day. I have a feeling that this first interview has really been a litmus test to see if we were really journalists (we pass!).

We thank Vice Chairman Oo profusely and set out for an unpredictable twenty-four hours until our interview with The Lady.

Ian is visibly nervous as we leave the headquarters, as am I.We have been hearing from various backpackers about a Swiss girl who has been in jail for six weeks for meeting with Suu Kyi.We put our heads down and cross the street and grab the first cab we see.

Ian tells the cab driver to take us to the Kaba Aye Paya, a large golden religious monument close by our hotel. I tell Ian we should take the cab all the way back to our hotel, but he is worried that we might be followed.I tell him he is being paranoid and giving the inept government too much respect.

It turns out he is right to be worried. Just as we get close to the monument we notice two men with Aviator glasses trailing us in a white mid-1980s Toyota Corolla. We agree to meet at the stall where we had eaten breakfast that morning, get out of the taxi and set off in opposite directions.

I try to lose my trail in the crowded sidewalks. When I get to the rendezvous point Ian is not there.His route was much shorter so I imagine that he must have returned to the hotel. I decide to go back as well, I figure I have lost my trail with my loop de loops while mingling in the Burmese crowd. I am wrong.

On my way back I stop by a religious icon shop and buy a cheesy shrine with a photo of this monk with an incredible Afro. I also get some biriani rice to munch on. I continue on oblivious to the spy who had been tracking me the whole time.

When I am about five houses away from the hotel I glance behind me just in time to see a short guy in a longyi, white button up shirt, and aviator glasses look the other way. A few moments later I turn again and this time he is looking right at me. 'OK,' I think in a panic, 'you are definitely being followed by military intelligence. Cannot lead them to your hotel with your belongings to look through.You have not gotten rid of you lists of contacts in Burma.'

Any person whose name I had written down would be in a whole lot more trouble than me in if the military got their hands on it. I have to lead them away from the hotel. I hope Ian has done the same.

I walk right by the hotel and turn a corner onto a busy street.The spy is about thirty feet behind me and I can easily just duck inside a shop and hide in the back.But something stops me.It would be incriminating and cowardly to do this, plus it would endanger the owner.

I want to make sure this guy is really following me. I stop and perch myself on a stairwell. The afternoon heat is making me sweat like a madman. It is 106 degrees in the shade.I start shoveling spoonfuls of rice into my nervous mouth as the suspected spy casually walks by. He turns a corner and disappears. For a moment I think I could be wrong. But sure enough his dark menacing glasses pop up from around the corner, and I know he is simply waiting for me to move again. 'Fine,' I say to myself, 'if he wants to follow me, then at least I will let him know he's doing an awful job.' I close my container of rice and walk right to the corner he is hiding behind.I turn and face him.

"Hi," I say with a big shit-eating grin on my face and contempt in my eyes, "I am leaving now, would you care to join me?" I gesture an 'after you' and he stands there nervously smiling.His teeth are crooked and stained dirt red from betel nut juice. He mimics my gesture as if to say "no, no, go ahead.I am fine right here."

I immediately begin walking, and he continues following me, although now there is no more need for pretension -which I hate.

The US Embassy is just a few blocks down the street, and he and his goons could try to detain me before I get to the safe haven. I dart through busses and cars, looking back to make sure my companion is making his way safely. When I cross the street to the Embassy the guards hold up their hands and tell me I am not allowed to walk on the embassy side of the street.

"American," I say in my best John Wayne as I point at my chest. The government spy cannot pass and he is forced to go back to the other side of the street.

I enter the Embassy after showing my passport to prove that I am indeed an American.I go through the metal detector manned by a cherubic Burmese guard I had befriended registering at the Embassy the day before.

"Back so soon?" he asks.

"Yep," I reply, "I need to talk to an American counsel."

He directs me to the visa section in back.

Through the bulletproof glass of the visa control I ask a young man if I can speak with an American. I tell him I am a journalist and I am being followed. He goes to the back of the office and brings back a stout blond lady from Texas.

"And what exactly is your situation?" she asks.

I explain that I had just been inside the NLD headquarters and that military intelligence officers are following me and that I am not sure what to do.

"Well doll, you did the right thing in coming here," she said in a medium twang softened by law school, "Why don't you just sit down here in the waiting room while I fetch Andrew, our political officer."

I wait a good while perusing Vanity Fair. I have never found it so meaningless. Page after page of plastic women and 'society' articles.Life really goes on oblivious outside of Burma.

Finally a blond American guy in a shirt and tie appears and takes me into the inner realm of the embassy. We proceed by marine guards who buzz us through heavy metal doors and pass by porky American office workers.Suddenly, I am in Dilbert-land.

I tell Andrew that I am a journalist for the Daily Cal and it turns out he is a Berkeley Alumnus. Just an aside-but can you imagine how wonderful a transition it is to go from being chased by government goons to relaxing in the sanctity of a fellow Bear? Small world. Go Bears!

Andrew's office is covered with pictures of Suu Kyi. Many have him side by side with her. I can tell where his sympathies lie.

I fill him in on the details of the afternoon and inform him I am not sure of Ian's whereabouts. He warns me that the government's law regarding tourists/journalists who visit the headquarters is arbitrary.There is no written law and it is possible that they are in a period of clamp down. "All I need is a safe place to lay low for the next twenty-four hours," I say, "the risk of interviewing Suu Kyi are acceptable but I have to have a chance to see her before I am deported."

I assure him that my family's political connections (read political activity) would probably shorten any jail sentence I received.

Kristin, the blond Texan, offers to put us up for the night. Her house is in the diplomatic enclosure of the American section of town.

"First we need to go find Ian," I say.

We have been trying to contact him at the hotel but the line is not connecting.We decide to just go to the hotel and get all our possessions before the government does.

A chauffeured Cadillac is waiting and we hop in for the six-block ride.We pull up in front of the hotel and three military intelligence agents are outside with dark glasses and walkie-talkies.The manager of the hotel is outside and he sees me through the partially tainted windows and winks "do not come in."

But we have to get our bags. If those names fall into government hands it could ruin quite a few people's lives.Kristin and I get out and walk right by the agents into the hotel.

Ian is sitting in the lobby, covered in a healthy layer of sweat. "Are you OK?" I ask.

Ian is fine; he has been followed around a little but has not been interrogated yet.I introduce Ian to Kristin, and we both go upstairs and pack our bags in a rush.

As I am leaving the room I notice the dark skinned Indian maids huddled up on the stairway.'Jesus,' I think, 'they must be frightened from the spies we brought back with us.'

One of them walks up to me cautiously and whispers,

"Thank you. We love Suu Kyi and you must tell the world."

I promise her I will and say good-bye.

Downstairs the Cadillac is waiting. Government agents are hounding the chauffeur, trying to determine who we are, but he is feigning ignorance.We put our backpacks in the spacious trunk and leave. The ride to the diplomatic residence is pretty uneventful. No trail this time.

We pull up to the entrance of the compound. High stucco walls protect this collection of colonial era houses surrounding a lake in central Yangon. Kristin tells me that the aging military dictator Ne Win lives on the opposite side of the lake.Guards wheel a heavy metal fence to the side and salute us as we pass.

Suddenly we are in a little slice of America. Plenty of space, perfectly manicured lawns, there are even geese waddling around the garden.We pass a softball field, tennis & basketball courts, a swimming pool and an officer's club. We roll up to the driveway of the extravagant white manor and are greeted by the yapping of a small white dog. The kitchen maids come out to see the new company.

"Kids," Kristin calls, "come out and meet our guests."

A fifteen year old boy with his eyes glued to a Pokeman gameboy game grumbles a "hello" and his little thirteen year old sister stops her guitar lesson to greet us.Real American kids, without any worries and everything they could want in the world. I go through a miniature reverse culture shock.

Ten minutes later I am leaping into a swimming pool and escaping the intense Yangon heat. Bliss.

Soon enough we are showered and dressed in clean clothes. We sit down for an eclectic dinner of pizza, fish curry and brown rice. It was pleasant to be able to eat with abandon.

After dinner we sit in the living room with the ceiling fans twirling above and a beautiful collection of Buddhist art and Chinese furniture. I recount the story of my parents meeting in Saigon and their honeymoon in Burma. The conversation passes effortlessly from politics to art to pets.

At about half past ten Kristin and the kids go to bed. Ian and I say "good night" to each other but we both have trouble getting to sleep. After all, tomorrow we are going to meet Aung San Suu Kyi!

Kristin wakes us up as she is leaving for work. We confirm our plan for the day. "We will give you a call at 5 PM," I say. "If you don't hear from us by 10 PM assume we have been detained by the government."

We have until the afternoon before we take a cab back to the headquarters.We take a swim, do some reading, play Tekken3, wash the little dog, talk with the maids about Burmese politics and take a short nap.

Finally 2:30 PM comes around and our taxi is waiting outside. The maid hands me my pen and notebook and wishes us good luck.Ian takes his camera in an inconspicuous plastic shopping bag.

We have the cab drop us off a few blocks early. The walk to the NLD headquarters is made in a nervous silence.We are in full Burmese disguise, yellow make-up, checkered longyies, and button-up shirts tucked in at the waist.We want to make sure we can get into the building without being recognized from yesterday. We will worry about exiting the building later.

We enter without any problems and just like yesterday the office is filled with Burmese having discussions and planning. We go to the back of the office and tell a couple of guys that we are journalists from California and that we have an appointment to interview Miss Suu Kyi.

They have us sit and wait. I notice most of the people in the office have stopped what they were doing and are looking at us.It is not every day that foreigners get to meet Suu Kyi. I sheepishly look down and initiate some games of tic-tac-toe with Ian.

The chief of security comes to fetches us and leads us to the stairwell up to the inner office. We climb the rickety stairs and just as I reach the top I catch a glimpse of Suu Kyi. She is in an office with Vice Chairman Oo, who we interviewed yesterday. He is announcing our arrival. Suu Kyi appears calm and centered, and strikingly beautiful.

Vice Chairman Oo exits her office and sets up two chairs. He shakes our hands and introduces the president of Burma.

"Here is Ma Suu."

And out steps the graceful lady. She walks over with a warm smile and shakes our hands. I am calm on the surface but a nervous wreck on the inside.

"Hello," I start out."We are two journalists from the University of California. Let's begin."

My mind is drawing blanks and I have to rely on my notes to keep the questions coming throughout the interview.

At first she appears a little nervous when I ask about her stance against foreign investment.She has to watch her words to deliver the appropriate measured answer. As the interview continues she gets more comfortable as I lose my senses. Sweat forms on my brow. Adrenaline and a feeling of inadequacy blur my thoughts. Do you remember in "Wayne's World" when Wayne and Garth go backstage and meet Alice Cooper? (Kneeling before Cooper)

"We're not worthy! We're not worthy! We suck!We're scum!" That is how I felt after talking to this political and spiritual guru for two minutes. While my sense of awe increased so did my layers of sweat.

By the end of the interview she is as calm and as dry as could be.I have sweat-pouring rivulets down my face.I notice that where my arm had been resting on my leg a dark pool of liquid, not too unlike a urine stain, had formed.I feel lightheaded and silly in her presence.I excuse myself and leave while Ian takes portrait shots of the lady.

As I exit the stairway the chief of security notices both my sweaty disposition and faint look and asks if I am OK. He has me sit down and gets me a soda. Pretty soon Ian joins me and we get set to go. We hide the notes and film in my underpants. Vice Chairman Ou Tin Oo come downstairs to bid us farewell and we thank him for the interviews. "Don't go to the right," the Chief of Security warns us, "the military

intelligence is waiting for you there.Take a left and get in a taxi as soon as you see one."

We follow his instructions and hop in a cab untouched. We tell the cab driver to take us back to the American diplomatic housing.

Once we get started we notice a guy following us in a car labeled "Star Agency."He is fiftyish, dark hair, wrinkles and sunglasses.I tell the driver to stop by the side of the road so we can buy some water. The Star Agency guy passes.

We wait a while and continue on back to the American residence.The trail is nowhere to be seen.The taxi drops us off and we are back in the safe enclave. No arrests, no interrogations, no deportations.

Our last three days in Yangon are spent in the sanctity of a business hotel.The staff thinks we are suspicious characters, arriving with an Embassy escort and sending out garbage containers full of shredded papers. We live like hermits, occasionally one of us leaves to fetch food but most of the time we read books and watch cable television. Elian Gonzales, Tiger Woods, and Conan O'Brian became our closest companions.

After three days of frying our brains out in our air conditioned room it is time to fly out of Yangon. The government knows we had come in through the airport and knows we are going to go out that way.They have our flight itineraries, they are waiting for us. I hide my notes and two of three floppy disks in the bowels of my backpack. I duct tape the third floppy disk to my thigh, and cover it with toilet paper so it cannot be felt. Ian hides the film from the interview in his shoe.

The taxi ride to the airport is hot and dusty. All the windows are down but it makes little difference in the intense afternoon heat. Finally the air control tower appears in the horizon. As we near closer to the air strip our meeting with the military intelligence looms closer.

As we are checking in I notice an older man looking at us through dark aviator glasses.It is the man who had followed us from the NLD headquarters in the Star Agency car. He disappears after I stare at him for long enough. Minutes later we are going through departure customs and are told to bring our bags over to the customs counter for inspection.

A polite lady in her late twenties unzips my bag and begins to sift through my possessions at random. She only manages to find my collection of music cassettes and two rolls of film from Vietnam and Cambodia.She confiscates the film and the tapes and tells me to go on through the security check. Her management in packing leaves much to be desired.I cannot rearrange my belongings in front of the customs officials because they may notice my book collection that went by undetected.Somehow I manage to zip up the bloated carcass of my bag and I wait as Ian protests the seizure of one hundred rolls of unshot film. "How am I supposed to take pictures if you guys have all my film?" he asks in despair.

"You two have brought suspicion on yourselves," the lady replies. "That's all I can say."

We finally concede defeat and leave our cassettes and film with the officials.They still do not have the notes or film from the interview.

At the security check the army guy in charge of the station looks as though he has been expecting me.As I pass through a metal detector I set off a loud beep.

"Stand Still!" He orders. "Spread your legs and extend your arms."

He searches my clothes with his hand detector and then frisks me. He feelssomething in my inner thigh.It is my floppy disk with notes from the interview and an articles I have written about Burma "What are you hiding here?"He asks spitting excitedly.

I had prepared a cover up and produced a box of Altoids from my pocket.He saw right through this decoy and felt again at my thigh.

"Now what's this?" he asked referring to the disk.

"You want me to take this out of my pants?"I asked in a vain attempt to shy him away from the disk.

He waited.

I unzipped my fly, reached into my pants and pulled out the floppy disk.He snatched it from my hands and gave it to his superior officer."We will just look at this to make sure it has no illegal material." The officer informed me.

In Myanmar it is illegal to criticize the government. Violators are subject to stays of up to ten years in prison.On that disk was enough criticism to keep me in jail until the next millennium. That hour spent in the international waiting area was a long one.

When the gate for our flight out was announced, I was the first one on the tarmac and up the stairs. Only when the plane had taxied to the runway and we were in the throngs of takeoff did I look over to Ian with relief, "YES! We made it out!"

Ian took off his boot and brought out our coveted film. We were headed to Bangladesh, and I have never felt as free.

* * *

As I write this last paragraph, I am safe in a metropolis of the biggest democracy in the world. While I am savoring my freedom Ma Suu and her companions continue to struggle to free their people from a despotic government. It would be selfish of me to savor my own liberty while forgetting the desperate situation of the people I met in Burma. I am going to do something about it, not just spread the word with this website, but instigate action that will put pressure on the regime. I miss the place tremendously already but I will only return once it is a democracy, and I will work to make free Burma a reality as soon as possible.

This story was printed in a two part full page article in The Statesman in India.