The Paths We Are Drawn To Travel

When I graduated high school in 1986, I was greatly relieved. I grew up in the suburbs of Manhattan, where the goal for most Jewish girls was to become a J.A.P. (Jewish American Princess).  Nails done, makeup, gaudy jewelry, new clothing. And of course, a nice Jewish boyfriend who could one day became a husband to support the manicures, makeup, 14k jewelry and clothing. 

These were all things I detested my entire young life but made permanently clear in high school. My 15th year was quite a significant one. Great Creator guided my choice of diet (have been a vegetarian since): I started the steps to eventually getting clean and sober; I found my community of Dead Head hippies where I could shake my bones all night long. Thus, it was not surprising that I would not follow my peers into the NYS University system or go to Michigan like a handful of others. I would take a year off, go to small Ramapo College, take some classes and then head to Prescott College, where their orientation of three weeks backpacking with strangers (including a 3 day solo vision quest), was much more my speed.

One of the classes I took was an Anthropology course, taught by a SE Asian professor. While his name is way deep in the recesses of my brain, I remember vividly when he talked about Burma and it's culture.  The way my professor spoke about the history and culture of Burma resonated deep within me. On that day, in  1987, my heart knew that one day I would plant my feet on the soil there.

An ancient pagoda outside Mandalay, photo taken 2004

Fast forward to 2004. Yes 2004, when I felt the call to finally make my first trip to SE Asia. I had spent my 20's and 30's spending extended periods of time in Jamaica (almost a year at one point). During grad school I expanded my horizons. I traveled to Central America, Hawaii, the South Pacific and Australia. Yet Burma was always calling. There was no rush. I long learned that everything has it's own divine time. 2004 seemed to be that time for me to get myself to SE Asia.

I packed my bags in December of that year. I headed first to Bhutan and then to Burma with Thailand as the final leg of the journey. My time in Burma (now called Myanmar, but she'd always be Burma to me) would be just short of a week but it felt right. I landed in Rangoon, visited the auspicious Shwedagon Pagoda, walked the city streets and then got dinner (a  Lonely Planet recommended place). I called it a night at a low budget place somewhere deep in the city. In the morning I took an early flight to Mandalay where I had no plans except to see what I saw. It was not long into my second day that I realized my first meal, at the end of my first day in Burma, may have made me sick. 

Not one to get caught up by a travel bug, I proceeded forward.  Fortunately, I was initially only suffering  periodic mild stomach cramps which did not stop me from venturing out into the countryside.  I hooked up another solo traveler, a European woman, at the small family run hotel I was staying. It was a bare bones, $8.00 night room. Clean but simple.  Together this new friend and I (I don't recall names so she is back in my brain with my college professor),  we rented a tuk tuk guide and headed for the village of Amarapura. Along the way, we visited a silk weaving factory, a workshop where wooden marionettes were made and visited century old villages. The village of Amarapura was a lovely, peaceful place. So beautiful it inspired the name of my future daughter.  Yet all the while, my stomach cramps got slowly but surely worse and worse. 

Burmese man, village of Amarapura 2004

By the time we arrived back to Mandalay, many hours later, I knew I was is trouble. The stomach pain increased and soon I was unable to hold myself up. The pain so severe I found myself crying. Thinking I could get something at the pharmacy, I managed to get hold of some over the counter meds, made my way back to my room and crawled in bed.  Not long later, I realized that I needed medical attention. Unfortunately it was now way past dark. I was in northern Burma, with no internet, cell phone, all alone, sick as heck and not sure I would be able to make my flight the next day to Thailand. What the heck was I going to do? I was scared. Scared, sick and alone.

I somehow made my way downstairs to reception. There the manager (who I thought was the owner) and another man (who I thought was the manager's father) saw my dire condition. I inquired about seeing a doctor and they took me straight away, via rickshaw to the nearest hospital. That was some ride in excruciating pain but the manager stayed by my side while the other man rode on his own ahead of us.

I can not recall if we spoke much or at all during the ride or even at the hospital. I just remember feeling so vulnerable. These were the days before the internet (it was the early days but I was in a remote, closed off country) and I was a young, female traveler who did not speak the language. Thankfully, the manager spoke some English but it really was not necessary.  All I could do was curl up in a ball on a table, in the dimly light, old school hospital. Yet when I started to heave (and heave some more), this kind man, whose name I did not know, held a plastic bag (because that was all that was available to me) while I emptied what little contents there were in my stomach. His compassion was strong and it touched me deeply. I was moved at how patient and kind he was with this strange foreigner, sick in the middle of the night.

Eventually I had an IV put in; with some meds and hydration I was soon feeling better. When a cockroach  ran across my legs, my new friend flicked it off calmly and silently. His peace was welcoming, healing. Several hours later, I was given the okay for discharge.  When I realized I did not bring any money or my ID, the father paid the twenty-five dollar bill. That was a lot of money for Burma in 2003. I was touched at the generosity. Of course, I immediately reimbursed him when he reached back to the hotel but that he took my expenses on, without the blink of any eye, after waiting for us for hours, I knew in my heart, that these two humans were good people. Truly good people.

Taken the morning I left, 2004

The next morning I woke feeling like a truck hit me but well enough to get packed and able to go to the airport. I took my new friend to get tea, took a photo of him and he sent me off in a cab. I was much younger than. I did not think to get his name or address. I was just relieved to be heading to Thailand where I knew things were much more modern and where I would be able to get further care if needed. But I never forgot my friend. And as the years past, I told this story many times. I had wished all of America could know the story of the two men from Northern Burma, who post 9/11 (by just a few years), helped an American woman out.


When I was nearing my fiftieth birthday, I knew I wanted to return to SE Asia. I wanted to take Amara to her namesake village and I wanted to see the men who helped me out. I had to say thank you in person.  Especially the younger man, who held that plastic bag for me. I wanted to meet his family and I wanted him to meet mine.  Don and the girls long knew of my cockroach hospital experience and the gentle man and his father who came to my rescue. I had no name, no hotel name but I knew the area of Mandalay that I had stayed. Yet I knew I could find them again.

The temple, which was a landmark for me to find my friends.

When we got to the city I asked our driver to pass the the Krishna temple. The hotel was close by but it had been fourteen years. I had my friends photo but we could not find the hotel. After some time, I had to give up. The next day I went out looking again. I was sadly disappointed when we did not luck out yet again. 

On the third and last morning in Mandalay, I got up at just past 6 am. It was my last chance.  I had to find my friends. Amara woke up with me. She wouldn't let me go out alone. She was as determined as I. Our tuk tuk driver was also determined to help our mission. We drove up and down every block around that Krishna temple, asking multiple people if they knew the man in the photo. Finally, finally, someone saw the photo and the building in the background. They knew exactly where that location was.  I knew that as soon as I saw it I would know too.  I told Amara that the hotel had  three clocks on the wall, with the times of other countries.  A few minutes later we pulled up to the small hotel, with not three but five clocks on the wall.  I was off by two but we had at last found it. 

Our patient and committed tuk tuk driver!

The Hotel!!!

Things did not seem to be in our favor. The workers said that man did not work there any more. BUT, the owner lived next door.  We went next door and soon a lovely, woman came out. She spoke enough English and she understood my mission. She remembered me. She said it was her husband who owned the hotel, he had died six months earlier. He was a good man she said, always helping others and she could remember that night he helped out the American woman. Her son? Well, that was not her son. He was the manager. He left ten years ago to go to Bagan, an ancient city hours away, where we would not be going (and I had agonized about that in my planning). But (drum roll here!) he was the manager of the hotel they also owned in Bagan and she would call him. He might not be there, she told me "but we will try." 



I held my breath, and Amara did too, as we watched this woman make the call. She spoke in Burmese to whomever answered the phone and then handed it to me, "He was there. You are lucky." I took the phone and tears burst forth as I said, "Hello. Do you remember me? You helped me when I was so sick all those years ago." "I remember you" He said.  I was barely able to contain my emotions but I was able to say Thank You. I told him I was with my family, that I had named my daughter after Amarapura and how much I had wanted to meet him. I asked if he had a family. I learned then that had a five year old son, was married and now living closer to his village. That is why he left Mandalay a decade prior.  Before we said goodby, I asked if he was on Facebook so we could be in touch. The world had changed so much and I did not want to lose my friend again. I gave him the spelling of my name and we said goodbye. But this time, I knew it was really see you later.

The hotel owners wife and I.  I hugged and thanked her as well as honored her grief at the loss of her husband.

On the way back to the hotel Amara asked me "Were you scared back then?" "Yes" I replied. It was then that I realized how much pride I take in being strong, adventurous, and  independent. Yet during that time, when I got so ill, in a land so far away, unable to communicate, I felt terrified. And two men, one especially, gave me the support I needed. That was something I could not forget.

By the time we got back to share the news with Don and Havana I had a new Facebook friend. And he had a name, Aung Zaw. He saw my post where I put up his picture earlier in the week, trying to find him. He remembered when I took the photo, the morning I left and shared a new one of him. I was disappointed I did not see him but I felt a deep sense of peace. This was something that I had wanted to do for many years. To say a proper  Thank You. The relief at that brought deep peace into every cell in me.

The story did not end there however. When we returned home, I saw that a friend back home (who was also our wedding photographer), Fima was going to Myanmar in two weeks time. Of all the places! We talked; I shared some tips and I asked him if he would go and see my long lost hero. He agreed and I sent some money so that Aung Zaw could take his family to dinner. It was what I had wanted to do had we met in person.  A few weeks later I got an email, of Fima and Aung together in Bagan. All I could was shed tears of gratitude. 

All of our paths cross for a reason. There were many lessons learned that we are to learn. When I was sick, scared, and alone in that remote far away place, I realized we can not judge others. We can not place all religions, genders, cultures in one box and condemn them. Instead, we must be open to each person and their heart. For that is what is the truth face of the soul. For long as I live this life, I will remember the kindness of those two men in Mandalay. One who now, I call my friend.   

2018

                                    

Aung Zaw and Fima Gelman, (photographer extraordinaire), Bagan, January 2019.