Cats on a hot tin roof
The two cats, both skinny and more like overgrown kittens, are highly insulted that I am in their
room. Firstly, I am denying them their preferred route through my window on to the warm tin
roof for their daily nap and secondly, I am using their bed. Their two pronged attack has been
refined to the point that, when I open the door in the morning, one scoots through my legs in order
to vault through the window opening while the other dashes between the mattress on the floor and
the wall. Cue the sight of a demented woman d’un certain age entangled in mosquito net
attempting to evict an uncooperative cat, that then successfully bolts through aforesaid window.
I am not anti-cat per se, merely have fears, rational or otherwise, that they may have worms and
that one of them, if not both, may be pregnant and may well be anticipating using my chamber for
the accouchement. Being midwife to a cat goes, I feel, well beyond my duties here.
A strange place brings new sounds which are always heard more acutely after dark and disturb the
aspiring sleeper. The first night here, I was startled awake by the sounds of a enormous wild beast
outside. Explosive thumps and clatters on the corrugated sheets around my bedroom were
followed by desperate clawing at the shutters. Once my heart had regained a steady rhythm, my
brain realised that the aforesaid cats had leapt across the roof below my room prior to hurling
themselves onto my closed wooden screens in an attempt to access the feline equivalent of Shangri-la .
Now they just lie in wait for my opening of the shutters in the morning before recommencing their
assault.
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Avian and feline nemeses |
Between the cats and the cockerels, nights here are as loud as Piccadilly Circus (I cannot vouch for
the noise there, never having been at night, but you get my drift.) You may already be in possession
of an old saying, namely, that cocks crow at dawn. But you may now be advised that they also crow
at 1.35 a.m 2.05, 2.50, 3.15 or just randomly throughout the night. The strangulated sounds (and
strangulation is much on my mind) exceed the decibels of a jet engine. The nearest cockerel sets the
next nearest off in a long sequence of ‘caroock, carok, carooooock’ that fades into the distance and
that, I imagine, echoes on in Thailand, into Myanmar, India, Pakistan ad infinitum and nauseam,
driving innocent insomniacs to murderous thoughts. And earplugs are absolutely useless.
Last night two young men in their twenties came to meet a friend who was staying here. That
person was busy so I invited them to wait. One, tall with an open face, spoke some English. ‘Did he
live in the camp?’ ‘No, he lived in the village.’ ‘ Did he live with his family.’ ‘ No he didn’t, but with
his younger brother, this one. Did they look alike? ‘The other young man, looked very serious with
a weary face. I thought perhaps he was shy of the foreigner but he managed a smile when I said I was
little surprised they were brothers as they were not so similar. I offered them some bananas which
they accepted. The friend returned and after greetings were exchanged, he indicated the younger one.
‘ He is a soldier.’ ‘With the Karenni? ‘ I queried. ‘Yes, with the KA. Now he is having a rest.’
The Karenni Army are resistance fighters against the Myanmar army. The Myanmar army is made
up primarily of men of Burmese ethnic origin so, as far as the Karenni are concerned, they are fighting
an aggressive foreign force. The younger brother was probably exhausted. What must he be
witnessing and enduring? Since the military coup of 2021, the Burmese army has upped its attacks,
razing Karenni villages to the ground, conducting aerial bombing, committing atrocities such as
setting fire to trucks of villagers and raping women, driving thousands to flee the destruction and
violence. Face to face with my first freedom fighter, I did not know what to say. Soon he would
be back in the jungle, avoiding land mines, confronting the enemy, risking his life. I could only
reflect on the choices people are forced to make when their lives are so threatened and
consider how easy my own life has been.
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One plate of rice is not enough... |
Some of my students arrived in the camp within the last year from Demoso, in Kayah state in
eastern Myanmar, leaving because the constant fear and imminent danger. They are remarkably
cheerful. I am also the first foreigner they have ever met so I am conscious that, like ducklings and
first impressions, I may be imprinted on them for life. A disturbing thought. As well as formal
English classes, they like to learn everyday phrases. In Myanmar, when you serve someone food,
even as they eat you urge the person to eat more. ‘Mya sa ba!' I suppose our equivalent might be:
‘Do have some more’ which sounds terribly English, as it were, rather restrained and so not quite
exact. When asked for the translation , I told them it meant ‘Eat a lot’ , a more direct version. The
Karenni drop their ts, so every meal, I am urged again and again:’Teacher, eah a loh’. So I try, but
large helpings of rice three times a day has limited appeal. Another request was ‘ Teacher, how you
say, kiss? ‘ I enunciated carefully ‘ Give me a kiss’ . They think this is hilarious and now walk
around repeating it out loud at random, though not actually wanting a kiss. So if they remember
nothing else from me, they will at least be able to announce to the next foreigner ‘Eah a loh ‘ and
‘’Give me a kiss’ . One way to make an impression, I suppose.
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Students start cooking at 5.a.m |
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Is there enough rice for tomorrow? |
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