The Little Burmese Tout in Training

by Amy Dapice

I was an easy target, strolling happily towards the temple outside Inwa, Myanmar. The little Burmese girl chose me as the unwilling object of her relentless sales pitch. Clinging to my side she chanted loudly, “Lady! Lady! You buy my earrings? Buy my earrings! Lucky money! Lucky money!” She recited these words over and over in exactly the same order, a mindless loop of singsong, all the while holding up a selection of cheap handmade jewelry. My polite refusals were completely ignored or perhaps she simply didn’t hear me. She absentmindedly stared off into space while repeating her jingle, daydreaming of being someplace else, any place else. She was clearly bored with her job but needed the money. 

As a seasoned traveler, I’d seen my share of touts. Overly aggressive to say the least, they will do just about anything to make a sale.

I learned long ago to avoid eye contact. Keep walking. Say nothing to encourage them. But from the moment my plane touched down in Burma, I felt no need for such guardedness. I walked unaccosted on the streets of Mandalay and met with nothing but curious glances and wide smiles. Cut off from the world for so long, the people still possessed a kind of cultural innocence. Respect and courtesy towards visitors still reigned. I felt welcome.

So the unwanted attention of this little tout-in-training threw me a bit. She was especially tenacious for one so young. I guessed her age to be no more than ten. The picture of innocence, she wore a colorful dress and a bow in her hair. I took it personally that she didn’t bother to look me in the eye. It quickly became a battle of wills between us. I didn't want to be unpleasant but I also wanted it to stop.  

I knew just what to do.

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Bhitarkanika Sanctuary: An Indian Getaway Into the Wild

by Neelu Agarwal

It isn’t very simple for most Indian girls. It isn’t like we pack our bags and head to where our heart says to go. Between notifying some and seeking permission from others, my trip got finalised. Most of the arrangements were being made by someone else to whom I had given full reign to decide, because as far as I was concerned I was simply happy to be going. But little did I know at that time that it would be a revelation of sorts and a sheer joy to visit what I understood to be Bhitarkanika, the land of crocodiles.

Our little trip was comprised of more than one destination. It took some time to wind things down in Puri, the beach-temple destination in Orissa, but by the evening we were on our way to Bhitarkanika. Our commute took about four hours of moving cautiously through the difficult terrain during the last leg of the journey. We reached Chandabali from where it was going to be a boat ride into the Sanctuary Park. It had been nothing to write home about all this while, but what lay ahead of me jolted me completely.

The darkness of the night and the troublesome roads were worrisome, and at first it was a relief to get out of the car, but then the destination itself proved to be a scary proposition. Our ferry in the moonless night looked sinister. And when we thought about the fact that we had entered the terrain of ferocious crocodiles, the scene in front of me seemed straight out of the famous Anaconda movies. The lone lantern lighting the boat and the stillness of the water around us felt menacing. At first, most of us laughed to ward off our fear.

And then none of us spoke. Did we fear waking the reptiles? I do not quite know for I had become too numb to think coherently. Do not mistake me; I am not one of those who succumbs to fear very easily. But when it came to the prospect of being eaten by crocodiles, my mind became my own worst enemy. I kept repeating to myself that the creek was full of salt water crocodiles and I kept replaying the visuals of the Anaconda movie. In retrospect, and with objectivity, I can say that the boat ride was actually peaceful and serene.

Finally, we arrived on land, where another jeep waited for us to take us to our accommodation-- Swiss tents.  Excitement coursed through me, for we were indeed inside a forest! I couldn't wait for morning when we would be able to explore more of it. My tent was much better than I expected. Equipped with all the modern amenities, it felt like a five star accommodation. And the extra layers of mosquito netting, kept us from thinking about the unknown varieties of hungry insects in the wild.

It was a bright, misty morning. A strange noise arose from inside our tent compound.  For a moment I could not make sense of it, but when I, with the other guests, walked towards it, we were delighted to see a flight of ducks being herded from one tent to the other by our hosts, and the loud quacking cacophony served as an alarm sound for tourists to wake up. What a delightful idea! All of us gathered to take a good look at our surroundings. It was nature at its very best, lush green vegetation, clean effervescent air, the slight chill in the air and the promise of wild life which we were yet to experience.

It was again by boat that we reached the salt water crocodile project at Dangmal. We were told that Bhitarkanika is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The success of the first phase of the project was evident; over 1500 crocodiles had been reared and left in the wild. The endemic mangrove forests that enveloped the region helped to sustain the endangered crocs and other wild life like water monitor lizards and Olive Ridley sea turtles that migrate to Gahirmatha, another adjacent marine wild life sanctuary.

And then we embarked on a croc-spotting adventure. The guide took us to all the probable spots where we could spot them basking in the sun. They posed there, listlessly and lifelessly, but, perhaps not surprisingly, any slight stir or movement on their part was enough for us to sit up and say our prayers. It was safe, of course, to view them from a distance, but there was always a "but” lingering in the air. Meanwhile, the guide prompted us to take our binoculars out for we would soon be in an area where some very elusive birds could be seen.

Birding involved watching out for eight different varieties of kingfishers that could be found in the area. And while the guide kept pointing out where they were-- sometimes exasperated that we weren’t quick enough– I nodded mutely and joined the game, although at first I really wasn't interested.  It was only the crocs that intrigued and terrified me. Time passed and the horizon was painted with reds and oranges and every fathomable shade in between. The atmosphere made me thoughtful and I began to realize how much more there was to the world than the little window I usually view it from.

We returned to our fashionable tents where a bonfire awaited us during dinner. And as we ate some of the limited cuisine options, my mind kept drifting back to my urban habitat, where none of the pristine beauty of the wild touches me. I was grateful to experience this unique ecosystem, where the crocs rule.  Their mute but towering presence clearly indicates that Bhitarkanika belongs to them. We rode back towards home in silence and in awe, having experienced the magnificent creatures whose presence asserts their power, and we were grateful for their magnanimity in allowing us to experience their land. 

Neelu Agarwal is a freelance writer at Pen India and contributor to www.realbharat.org

Driving in France

by Aysha Griffin

On my first trip to Europe in 1978, I landed a job driving a cheese delivery truck in London. I was too young and enthusiastic to be afraid of a right-hand drive minivan with no visibility or negotiating the "other side" of the road while deciphering the phonebook-sized "A-to-Z" map of London streets to locate stores awaiting chunks of cheddar and rounds of Roquefort. After six weeks, I moved on.

It was one of those jobs I've never known if I should include on my resumé to illustrate gumption and nerve, or never mention for its irrelevance. I submit it here as evidence of my behind-the-wheel experience and competence, and also the lack of clear direction in life. 

I've often taken the "next road" because it appeared, rather than plotting and staying a course. I like to think this has made for an "adventuresome" life, which I must value or else negate the roads I've taken. It's a journey that has often required me to debunk a sense of security as "illusion," although that illusion can be mighty sweet and comforting, deserving of appreciation for as long as it lasts.

I know of no happier sight than sunflower fields, so I smiled my way from Provence to Dijon along two-lane roads dotted with sunflowers and vineyards. Caption and photo by Aysha Griffin.

I admire those born with a sense of purpose and a clear path to satisfying lifelong careers and relationships. But I've discovered they are the exception. Most of us bumble from interest to opportunity, taking wrong turns, getting lost in detours, and sometimes spending years on roads that lead to disappointment in dead ends. 

I have learned to accept that life, for me, is not a clearly marked thoroughfare but a mix of toll roads where I speed along thinking I'm getting somewhere fast and not counting the cost, freeways where the landscape of time rushes past from the comfort of my driver's seat, winding country roads that meander and demand patience, and even bumpy tracks where I'm forced to get out and consider if I have the clearance and will to press on, or good sense to know when to change course. 

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Fogous and Creeps in Cornwall

by Elyn Aviva

Pendeen Fogou wasn’t a very prepossessing site. To reach it, the three of us—my husband, Gary, our guide, Cheryl Straffon, and I—had to unfasten three rusty metal gates to venture ever deeper into a farmer’s cattle yard. The broken concrete beneath our feet was covered with several layers of dried (or drying) cow manure. Cattle were lowing and resting in their own muck in the nearby pens. 

Our goal was a six-foot-tall stone structure with tall grasses and weeds growing out of the top and a yawning opening in one wall. Before we could enter the site, we had one more obstruction: a detached farm gate, which the three of us hauled over to one side. 

Bending low, we followed Cheryl down a steep, stone-lined passage deep into the earth. I was grateful I had my hiking staffs to help keep me from slipping. At the bottom, the rocky passage leveled out. My flashlight illuminated moss-covered granite walls and ceiling, the large stones carefully placed to construct the fogou. Pronounced “foo-goo,” it’s a Cornish word that means “cave,” and it refers to a human-made underground cavern.

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In Search of Quiet

by B.J. Stolbov

Deep in the barren Sonora Desert of Southwestern U.S, three days away from the last person I saw, I was hiking alone, in search of quiet. The desert has always been the one place that spiritual seekers, saints, and sinners have gone in search of quiet. 

Sonoran Desert, Prima, Arizona. Photo by Ken Bosma via Flickr CCLExcept that, in reality, the desert was not quiet. Its incessant winds whistled by my ears and rumbled up through my feet. Dead and dying grasses tumbled and rolled by.  Snakes slithered, lizards clicked, and hares scurried across the sand. The winds sang beneath the wings of hovering vultures and under the claws of lingering thoughts.

There, hiking alone through the desert, reveling in my own silence, late in the afternoon on a tranquil summer’s day, I suddenly came upon a rattlesnake, which startled me with its rattle, louder than any rock concert I had ever been to.  I stopped, the snake did not strike, we stared at each other, and then we both quietly went our separate ways. 

Sound and silence can come in unanticipated places and at unpredictable times. 

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Mama Arli’s Due Date

by Anna McDonnell

“Na! Na! Hurry; let’s go to the market! Ayo!” Mama Arli’s raspy voice bellows below my kitchen window. 

Mama Arli is my neighbor four houses down from mine, and she is always yelling at me. She’s pregnant with her third child, though hardly showing. Arli is the name of her firstborn son, and his name replaced her own once he was born. All mothers are called by their firstborn’s name without exception.  

Her house is sturdy, also on stilts, and she is fortunate to have a deep well located just a few feet from her kitchen ladder. It is November in Indonesia and this means its coffee-picking season for those in our Sumatran village. Mama Arli and her husband aren’t home much; instead they are occupied with the daily task of harvesting beans, and then drying the beans on tarps beside their home.  

Her eyes are close together, always furrowed but betrayed by her ever-constant grin. Her hair, when I first met her, was a strange bowl cut. Now her hair is long and always pulled back, framed by blunt bangs she likely cuts herself. She wears baggy clothes and occasionally borrows her eldest son’s shoes when she doesn’t feel like looking for her own. Maybe her son had worn hers by accident; she casually explained the one time she caught me looking at her toes spilling out of her young son’s plastic sandals.  

“Na! Ayo!” She is still waiting for me. The more she calls, the louder her voice rises. 

She doesn’t simply speak words; she spits them out loudly and playfully. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was mocking me, but instead I have learned this is the way women here talk. Most are loud, boisterous, and rarely whisper unless they absolutely must, in the company of men or when their gossip is extra juicy. 

I grab my wallet and my woven basket and rush down the staircase to the patch of grass where she is standing. We link arms and begin the walk to the market a few villages away. 

“Can we stop in the next village, Na? I need to see the midwives,” Mama Arli asks, though her tone of voice indicates it’s going to happen whether or not I agree. 

This is the first I’ve heard of someone visiting the underutilized midwife clinic in the area and so I am intrigued.  Women in this region give birth on the floor of their homes, most often with the help of a female family member.

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