To avoid startling the Burmese at the ticket window of Rangoon Station I asked about the train to Mandalay. There were two men at the window. The first said there was no printed timetable I could buy. The second said, 'Yes, we have no timetable.' It seemed to be the practice in Burma to have two men at each job, the second to confirm whatever the first said. Instead of a timetable, and like Ceylon, there was a blackboard at each station with the arrivals and departures chalked on it. But both men were certain about the Mandalay train.
'Departure, seven o'clock. Morning time.'
There was one class, they said. I was to find this to be the equivalent of Indian third class – wooden seats, broken windows, no berths, no bedrolls, no dining car, none of the complex comfort of Indian Railways, involving retiring rooms, dinner coupons, bedding chits, invoice for upper-class luggage, ticket vouchers, and morning tea.
'I'd like a ticket to Mandalay.'
'Sorry, the window is closed.'
But the window was open. I mentioned this.
'Yes, it is open so to say, but it is closed for selling.'
'You come at six o'clock, morning time,' said the second man.
'Are you sure I'll get a ticket?'
'Maybe. Even much better come at five-thirty.'
'How long does it take to get to Mandalay?'
'Twelve hours. But it breaks down. You might arrive Mandalay at eight.'
'Or nine?'
They both laughed.
'Or nine, but no later!'
I walked over the bridge to the city, and I was in a large crowd of Burmese when a hand reached out and grabbed my wrist in such a powerful clamp of fingers I couldn't shake it off. It was a Buddhist monk, holding on and yapping at me. Small, monkey-faced, with a shaven head, he was half my size and seemed angry as he repeated the phrase 'Blum chyap…blum chyap.' I overcame my surprise and stopped struggling, assuming he was asking for money, and finally I fathomed that he was begging, saying, 'One kyat' (about twenty cents). This gripping seemed an extortionate way to beg, so I gave him half a kyat and when he released me to take the money I ducked into the crowd. There were other monks in the mob, looking sweet and benign as they cadged money from strangers.
Further on, a Burmese with a telescope urged me to have a look. I paid my fee of 25 pyas (five cents), but the star I saw through his instrument looked slightly smaller and less impressive than it did with the naked eye. I walked aimlessly, speeding up when a man sidled over to me and offered a Chinese girl ('Come!'), slowing down at temples where children – still awake at eleven at night – wove ropes of flowers and laughed before Bud-dhas. Older people knelt in veneration, or set up displays of fruit, balancing a melon in a hand of bananas on a temple shelf and sticking a red paper flag into the melon. Elderly women leaned against flower stalls, the smoking cheroots in their hands giving them a look of haughtiness and self-possession.
That night I dreamed I missed the Mandalay train. I woke up breathless at five-thirty and had breakfast, then ran to the station. Once before, on a morning like this, I had set off for Rangoon Station and a woman had jumped out of a bush, where she had been sleeping, and tried to tempt me by undoing her sarong and showing me her yellow thighs. It was before dawn; I hadn't seen her face, but her squawking echoed on the road. She had chased me all the way to the station, her feet slapping on the pavement. That was in 1970, and what I remembered of the station were the rats, hopping on the tracks to sniff and chew at wastepaper; the hawkers, selling fruit and paperbacks, putting the rats to flight and treading in the pools of excrement; the heat and flies at dawn; and Burmese boys jeering at their departing friends.
But Rangoon Station had changed. There were no rats or hawkers and the tracks were clean. There were two barbed-wire fences on the platform and barbed wire ran along each of the four tracks. The only food being sold was in lunch boxes, cardboard cartons filled with cold damp rice and pieces of sinewy chicken. The station was orderly, like the high-security prison it strongly resembled, and the barriers separated well-wishers from passengers.
I asked the conductor about the fences.
'To stop the smuggling,' he said. 'Also to stop people crossing the line. Also to stop incidents.'
'What sort of incidents?'
'Bombs. Last year some fellows threw a bomb. They threw it at the train. It was the "45-Up" – very many people. It stopped the train and there were three casualties. For these reasons the fences were put up. I think it is a good thing. Now we have no troubles.'
A Buddhist monk went by, smiling broadly. He was a fat man and he carried his umbrella like fasces, a Roman senator in an orange toga. I was glad it was not he who had twisted my arm the previous night. I bought a lunch box and two bottles of soda water and boarded. It is pleasant to leave Rangoon by raiclass="underline" the train goes around the city and five minutes from the station you are in the country, a low swampy rice-growing area beside the Pazandaung Creek, where in the courtyards of the monasteries the monks are at prayer, and crossing the fields are processions of people – schoolchildren with satchels, office workers setting out in white shirts, farmers with mattocks – the early morning march in the tropics to the tune of temple bells.
There was music inside the train as well. This was new. It was piped through loudspeakers and never stopped once in thirteen hours. To a background of oriental music-hall melodies – gongs and saxophones vying with a wheezy harmonium – a reedy complaining voice gave a Burmese rendition of 'Deep Purple' and then 'Stars Fell on Alabama'. The music prevented me from reading, the cramped bench kept me from writing, and the rest of the passengers were asleep. I went to the door and watched Burmese pedalling their bikes along country roads, under giant peepul trees. The distant hills were blue with teak forests, but we were travelling along the flat plain known as the Dry Zone, moving north in a straight line through the heat that drugs the train passenger into thinking he is disappearing down Burma's gullet. At a well near the halt of Indian Fort a Burmese girl was combing her hair. She was bent forward, all her hair down – so long it nearly touched the ground – and she was drawing her comb through it and shaking it out. It was such a beautiful sight on this sunny morning -that cascade of black hair, swaying under the comb, and the posture of the girl, her feet planted apart, her arms caressing her lovely mane. Then she tossed it and looked up to see the train go past.
The whistle at the station at Toungoo is a dinner bell. Toungoo is halfway exactly, and until then no one in the train has touched his food. But when the whistle sounds, lunch boxes are thrown open and tiffin tins spread over the seats; rice tied up in palm leaves is passed through the windows with crawfish and prawns reddened with pepper, apples, pawpaws, oranges, and roasted bananas. The tea seller and water carrier appear, and the eating and drinking goes on until the whistle blows again. Then the bundles are retied, garbage is dropped on the floor, and scraps are thrown out the windows. Pariah dogs leap from nowhere to snarl over the leavings.
'Why don't they shoot those dogs?' I asked a man at Toungoo.
'Burmese think it is wrong to kill animals.'
'Why not feed them then?'
He was silent. I was questioning one of the cardinal precepts of Buddhism, the principle of neglect. Because no animals are killed all animals look as if they are starving to death, and so the rats, which are numerous in Burma, co-exist with the dogs, which have eliminated cats from the country. The Burmese – removing their shoes and socks for sacred temple floors where they will spit and flick cigar ashes – see no contradiction. How could they? Burma is a socialist country with a notorious bureaucracy. But it is a bureaucracy that is Buddhist in nature, for not only is it necessary to be a Buddhist in order to tolerate it, but the Burmese bureaucratic delays are a consistent encouragement to a kind of traditional piety – the commissar and the monk meeting as equals on the common ground of indolent and smiling unhelp-fulness. Nothing happens in Burma, but then nothing is expected to happen.