Since the rest of the party moves like a glacier, and because I wander off without regard, I soon became separated from the others and didn't know where in the village I was or they were. Behind a weak bamboo fence was what was obviously a mini military compound, because it was painted. I saw a truck in there that looked like ours, so, well, they must have driven in and be waiting. There is a compound guard in a little thatched gazebo at the fence, with an MK balanced on his lap. When I walked in, surely the first blonde in months, he looked at me, and I looked at him, and neither of us admitted anything was unusual. There's an army troop truck inside, and a set of flags, so it's a place for some important person.
After moseying around long enough a woman motioned me in to one of the hot, dark houses, or offices, or whatever. Inside was a man sitting crossed-legged on the raised floor, obviously eating his lunch—rice and dark brown stuff and dark green fluid with black mounds of stuff. He looked at me and I looked at him. I said hello. He said something authoritative to the women, who showed me to sit down, and scurried off. A walkie-talkie buzzed on the table in a corner of the room, which was heavily decorated with maps of Burma and pictures of military processions. I sat down across from him and we looked at each other.
His English was laboured, but he was the only one around who could speak it, and the only man about the place. “What country you from?” “Canada.” “Hm. Canada.” A woman came with a bowl of rice, for me. “Nam nam nam!” he said, and she returned with a glass of water. I spooned the broth from the black stuff onto my rice, which made whoever this guy was laugh. It was strange him being here, since word was all the village men had left to work in the fields. “Yum, good. Thank you.” “You are medicine?” “Medic? No.” “No medic?” He looked at me sideways and I hesitated and looked at him sideways. “I'm...a...journalist. Newspaper.” He raised his eyebrows and frowned and looked at my camera. Then he laughed but not a happy laugh, rather a slow laugh. “News. How you come?” “Someone brought.” “Who brought?” We stared at each other. I shook my head. “I don't know who.” “Sai Sam?” “No. I don't know. You medic?” “Ha ha!” “You're a soldier?” “Hm, yes soldier.” The walkie-talkie buzzed intermittently, and I accidentally looked at it every time it did. The woman brought another dish, of green and red crusty stuff, and another bowl of rice. “For you, I can't eat more,” I told him, but he shook his head and waved me to load up. “OK, you're big, I'm small.” “Ha ha!” “I take half, you take half,” and I did. “You SSA soldier?” “SSA...You come Dr. Myron?” “Dr. Myron?” then I breathed relief. If he knew of Myron then whoever he was it was probably OK. I told him yes yes, with Dr. Myron. He asked how many of us came, whether we were staying the night, how I liked his food. I ate as heartily as I could to ease the long pauses between our exchanges. He told me Myron was coming to the compound, and I knew I just had to bide my time and so on. Of course, the reason this man was still in town when most others had left to farm, was because he's the regional rebel commander। He's running the place। Jeez, I'm glad he liked me, because eating with him even before I knew who I was with was a bit of a pickle.By the way, he gave me an SSA 2009 calendar.
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