Postman on rounds

Being grey has it’s own merits. Nobody is interested in you, whenever and wherever you come and go, all just give you a wide berth. That is good in my line of business, being unnoticed by all, is an advantage (survival). Slow, but yet still potent, this they are all unaware, that is the name of the game, to be blended into the masses and be grey at all times.

Yangon, is a metropolis, from all parts of Myanmar, we would come. Today, foreigners also are flocking in, to turn a few bucks (millions, if possible), as not many places left in this world where the turf is nearly virgin. They are treading rather carefully, as their investments can remain just investments without yielding dividends.  This slight busyness and buzz allows me to navigate more freely around town. In my line of work, this is important. More foreigners with different skin colours are even an advantage, as all eyes will be viewed upon them. My company would ask my assistance to run some errands in this corporate frenzy city. They eye for a hefty slice of the cake, which would be of benefit the Crown and also bring employment to our younger generation. Win, win situation, I suppose.  

The shame about Yangon today, in my humble view is that, more and more box shaped high rise buildings are blooming down town. No more shop houses, no more teak structures, no more dwellings of that era. It seemed the romance of yesteryear are all but gone, out of the window once and for all. Not only high rise buildings looked ugly, they are unfriendly and impersonal. I really do not know how the local investors are getting away, as many residents complained that their ceilings were raining more than the monsoon and structures were more of sand and lime with cement being the smallest, in the concoction.  I shudder to think of an earthquake here. These buildings were in a different league compared to its counterpart in Tokyo, London or New York and even Kolkata for that matter. We have lost wonderful scenes where people sat outside their houses, in their thin cotton dresses drinking green tea or smoking cheroots while watching their boys playing street soccer with worn down tennis ball and girls acted as guests to a tea party or attending to their food stalls of flowers and leaves in make believe clay wares. Gone are the tenants sitting by the roadside catching the evening cool breeze and fanning themselves with bamboo fans when lacking it.

I was rather sad to be on my game, now walking the streets, lined up with cars on both sides of the pavements, lack of souls, except for a few rats weaving their way by the gutters. Driving was slower than walking, as cars cannot pass each other due to lack of road space under thirteen feet in total. I would pick up or drop envelopes by the side of a paan stall in a designated street, while enjoying one myself, easing the strain. My habit now is to have a dry run once or twice round the block, just to satisfy myself that no interested party is on me. The dry runs were always different, while studying the surroundings from the corner of my eyes, not missing a beat around me. I also made sure in advance that I have a tight reason for being where I was. Even if caught red handed, I already prepared an account that would make them think twice before pulling me in. Before each assignment, I would painstakingly go through my story, line by line, always giving the benefit to my, would be investigators that they are smart and no fools at this game. I had been fortunate up to now. Similar to the bomb disposers or pilots during the Second World War, there would be an average figure before the game was up. Thus, the trick was to wise up before that magic figure. I am sure the company also is aware of this fact too. I was never lucky with lottery, and I don’t aim to push my luck here either.  On completion of a job, I would not quickly drive out, but rather place myself at a tea shop, drinking tea and smoke a cheroot while surveying the territory, just to make sure all was well and the need not to apply plan B. I think this is good protocol.  Cool and steady, wins the race.

I also would revisit the area again, possibly with the wife, do a wee bit of shopping there or browse around the shops. This should give the opposition to off scent me. After all, it’s just an old man with his wife browsing for a good buy. No harm done to anybody. The wife is also happy that I did not moan or protest to her browsing. Let’s leave it at that.

This type of errands were of private business issues and I know for a fact that the opposition was some other companies, not of a governmental nature. This made me happy. No harm done, as far as I am concerned. Besides, all necessary will and my last testament had been concluded with my lawyer, fully signed and sealed. My office was always the million tea shops I kept changing, and the lawyer wondered why I never stepped into his office.  This way, he would enjoy some tea and food at times, while I need not be exposed to his staff or any busybody onlookers, if any. Everybody turns up on top.

Routine was generally maintained. Walking in the mornings, take the wife marketing, play with the dog and talk rubbish at the car workshop in the late afternoons. This was how I played my day. That is of course, unless, an instruction had been placed on me by the company.

One morning, while waiting in the car for my wife, a young man came by my side and handed a small piece of paper with a series of five letter figures. I placed it in my breast pocket and continued my usual chores. On reaching home, I translated back into plain language, by the use of an Oxford traveler’s dictionary and a current calendar. It called for my imminent trip to Chiang Mai and collect some papers be dropped as usual beside a paan stall near 21^st Street in China Town. This needed my immediate attention. I tore the codes plus its translation into small pieces and flushed it down my toilet. Then, I telephoned my best friend Peter Mo Kyaw and persuaded him to join me for a golfing trip to Chiang Mai.

Come next Friday, after arranging Thai visa, we booked and took an Air Mandalay flight on AR72 propeller flight there. It was just over an hour flight, which was uneventful. Even though still yapping with Peter on a couple of rounds at the Royal Chiang Mai Golf Course, in the back of my mind, I was detailing my plans for the pick up there. What sprang to mind was, why this was not allocated to a Thai company, is there no one, or, none left for the courier job. That gave me goose pimples as I know for a fact that no answers will be forth coming from Chiang Mai or Yangon companies.

We both checked into our three stars tourist, Pornping Hotel on Charoenpathet Road at 660 Bhatt a night including breakfast. Peter had a habit of an afternoon nap, thus need to finalize my plans then.  The pick up was at Loi Kroh Road, near the Ping River, from a Thai Farmers Bank main entrance doorway newsstand. I did my dry run that same afternoon as it was walking distance, five minutes from the hotel. I bought an English language ‘Nation’ newspaper and crossed the road and sat at a drinks stall, drinking Singha beer, while keeping tabs on the going on outside the bank. There were close circuit television (cctv) cameras at the bank’s entrance and on both sides of the road, on the lamp poles. Satisfied, I slowly walked back to the hotel.

The next morning, we had our game of golf and ate at the clubhouse. In the afternoon, while Peter had his nap, I did my work. I bought a Nation newspaper and picked up the brown envelope by the bank entrance. There was a sudden flurry of activities there and the police were swarming everywhere. I just took my time and inserted the envelope inside the newspaper. I crossed the road and sat at the drinks stall with my beer. The policeman did come over and checked me also. He saw a graying old man with his Singha beer and a newspaper, thus shifted his interest to two young men chatting away and pulled them in for suspicion. I finished my beer and slowly walked back to my hotel.

In my room, I placed the envelope under the carpet by the bathroom door and checked the carpet was flat again and not bulging. Evening was spent walking by the night stalls on the roads, beside the river. Food there was also cheap and the variety was endless. We had our dinner there, which Peter paid and walked some more browsing the stalls with their wares. By eleven p.m., we were back in our beds, energizing for our golf game, the next morning.

Day two, golf in the morning went well. For a change, we settled for lunch by the roadside near the hotel. The food was good and cheap, and I paid for this meal as he settled the night before. I kept an open eye through out and observe nothing was out of the ordinary. In the afternoon, while he slept, I ventured back to outside the bank, bought my Nation newspaper and sucked by beer across the road. Thirty minutes went slowly by, while my eyes did the surveying and my heart pounded. All was quiet on the western front, and my job done. After by beer, I slowly got up and strolled back to my hotel, the front desk was kind enough to recheck our flight out, the next late morning. That evening, it was a repeat of the previous night. We had our long walk by the river and he bought a few ‘branded’ sport shirts (actually, fakes) and settled for our last dinner at Chiang Mai.

I now knew why I was contracted in for this pick up. There were no postmen left in Thailand, to do the job. Must be all inside by now, courtesy of the Thai Government.  Have to take it easy here, as do not to join them inside, even though meals and lodgings were free. I sometime feel we ought to be highlighted about the job at hand, then again, we were told the assignment were to be carried out alone. The best bit that I liked was the mention of ‘not too dangerous.’ We were no James Bond or our man Flint, just a simple postman, not even knowing the contents and how important they were.

Come Monday morning, all packed, we made the most of the hotel’s breakfast as included in the hotel charge.

Peter shot a question " Why buy newspapers?  It’s free here in the hotel."

I quickly had to have a logical answer, I shot back, " That would be stealing and to up keep of our names are important, don't you think? "

I could sense his satisfaction to my reply. We boarded our taxi to the airport, to be timely for our flight back home. At the Chiang Mai International Airport, my heart started to pound again. The envelope was inside the old Nation newspaper, tugged neatly in the outside pocket of my golf bag, well in view of the Customs. This was the best place I could think of, for a swift pass by the officials there. Checking in went without a hitch and we quickly stepped inside the departure lounge, for a last minute shopping, to bear gifts on our return home. I purchased, a light brown colour, Thai silk shawl for my wife, while Peter went for a duty free single malt whisky, actually two bottles, one, I carried on his behalf.

The planes on the tarmac were all jet planes, while ours, belonging to Air Mandalay was a twin propeller powered, French ATR72. Peter worried about a safe flight, while I hoped that my golf bag with the envelope inside the Nation newspaper was safe. Once our plane took off, we both were grinning with delight, for different reasons, I must add. The one hour flight was nothing to shout about and the in flight service was bare minimum. On landing at Yangon Mingalardon International Airport, we were smiling again, obviously for our own different reasons. I was in no way worried about the formalities on arrival Yangon, just a wee bit apprehensive that my envelope in my golf bag. I was much relieved to see my golf bag intact on the carousel belt. We both collected our possessions, and whizzed through Customs. At the arrival gate, Peter’s son was waiting to pick us up. I bummed a ride back home with them, at peace with myself.

I said my thank you to them and into the arms of my loving wife. The first thing I did was handed her silk shawl, which she liked, then unpacked and last but least, checked my golf bag and the old Nation newspaper was still there. Inside, the brown envelope was still intact, and cannot help a smile on my face. That evening, sleep came naturally with just one more thing to attend. I think, I slept without thinking for the first time since undertaking the job.

After a good leisurely breakfast, I started my car and made my way into town around ten, to miss the heavy morning rush, with the brown envelope safely tucked into my breast pocket. Parking was difficult as usual in town, therefore I slipped into Strand road, where I managed to secure a parking lot. Thus, began my long walk, slow but steady to 21^st Street and commenced my dry run. I did three dry runs and I did not want a slip up at the last. As been taught, with eyes and ears wide open, checked 20^th to 22^nd streets, at my slow and leisurely pace. No quarters were given to my systematic and through check out. The high rise buildings still offer indifference. I can sense that people were now even more aloft and cannot be bothered apart from their own apartments. No one in the street level apartments even peeked their heads into the street, should someone drop dead, they would still be there for days.  How times changed, and I cannot see any kids playing in the streets except for the rows and rows of cars parked on both sides. There were some empty slots, well guarded with chairs and stones, warning would be takers that this parking slot does not belong to them. Now, cigarettes, cheroots and telephone can be got according to the posters and signs of the street level apartments.

Approaching my paan stall by the 21^st street, I was extra careful. I dropped my brown envelope into the gunnysack beside the stall and ordered a paan to my concoction details. The Indian stall keeper did not notice anything out of the order, he was busy preparing the paan leaves in the bucket for the day’s sale. Thence, walked slowly, ever watching to a tea shop by the Sule Pagoda road. I sat myself and ordered a sweet tea, sipping and smoking my slender cheroot. Half hour passed, no commotion, only then did I walk back to my car for a journey back to my home. 

I made a trip to Los Angles, staying with my sea buddy friend, Stanley Khoo of yesteryear, to pick up an envelope in front of our American and Iron Curtain company friends, in Chinatown. After which, I proceeded to Singapore to deliver the same. That’s another story.

For your guidance, Battle of Britain was won, by the Royal Air Force (RAF), during the last war. The squadron with the highest kills was Squadron 303, flown by Poles and the Wing Commander was Canadian. The Poles, were a brave lot, firing at 100 yards, while their English counterparts opened up at 400 yards only. On the ground, Indians, Burmese, Canadian, Australian, New Zealanders, South Africans, etc. etc. from the Empire fought with bravery and most even laid down with their lives for the Crown.

I now am calling it a day, before the law of averages gets me, and do not want to reach that magic figure and be a fallen soul for the company. We foreigners, have done our part and thus, handing in my cap and brass badge back to the company. After all, this is a voluntary service and I still wish to re-retire and enjoy balance of my life remaining.

The postman had done his rounds.