A B R IDGE M ADE FR O M CO R D
lowered her head to her chest. I waited, sick, for what she would say in return. After a long while, she sighed, “I knew you’d say this one day,” but then added, “It’s impossible, Zaw Htwae.” “Why? Can you tell me?” I asked. My voice trembled. I felt helpless. She didn’t answer. “Please, let me know, why?” I pleaded. She looked away, then back at me, as if she wanted to say something but thought better of it. “No, it’s nothing,” she said finally. *** I didn’t see Ah Nang for a while after that night. I spent my days alone, depressed, until a pupil of mine, Zaw San, asked if I wanted to pick stones at Hmaw Lon Khin. I needed the distraction, so we set out that very day on a Chinese 125cc motorbike. After only a few miles, Zaw San slowed down. “Are we there already?” I asked, leaning on Zaw San. “No, Master, but I wanted to show you something. Look down there.” He pointed towards a row of bushes by the side of the road below. A steady stream of Chinese motorbikes rode in and out kicking up clouds of dust. Old men and young boys squatted alone as if they were peeing, others sat face to face as if in deep conversation. Still others queued in a crooked line toward a hut roofed with a blue tarp. “That’s where they sell opium, Master,” said Zaw San, answering my unasked question. I was shocked. “What? Really!” “Over there, that blue hut, that’s where they sell it.” I peered at the small opium market. All I could say was, “What a terrible place!” Zaw San replied, knowing the scene was common in Hpa Kant. “Well, all the jade mines are like this.” Maybe for Zaw San and others who lived here it meant nothing, but for nearly a week the image of my people queuing up for heroin I couldn’t shake. ***
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