There, political troubles seemed far away. Time moved slowly, punctuated by sunrise over the Irrawaddy River. In the countryside of Burma, there are virtually no cars or buses. The only sounds are the putt-putt of fishing boats chugging up the river and monotone chants floating from behind monastery walls. The air is scented by wood cook fires and the dung of bullocks tied outside woven bamboo huts.
Children carry earthen water jars on their heads, smiling sweetly.
Monks wrapped in burnt orange robes walk barefoot down dirt roads, eyes downcast, carrying round alms bowls. But even in this timeless atmosphere, the reality of oppression intrudes. Soon after I left the village, a National League of Democracy member hung himself in his jail cell in Rangoon, using the traditional longyi, or sarong, that Burmese wear. The Tatmadaw Shall Never Betray the National Cause. I suppose Rachel Goldwyn and James Mawdsley fell in love with the gentle Burmese people, as I did.