Letters from Burma by Aung San Suu Kyi.

The Road to Thamanya (1)

Twenty miles from the town of Pa - an in the Karen State is a hill that was known to the Mon people in ancient times as "Paddy Seed Hill" because it resembled a heap of paddies. The Karen and Pa-o peoples who lived in the surrounding villages would go up the hill to chop wood and to bake charcoal. Often they met with strange experiences which made them observe that this was not a "thamanya" (Pali samanya meaning "ordinary") place. With one of those perverse twists of linguistic logic the hill came to be known as Thamanya.

In 1980 the Venerable U Vinaya, a 69 - year-old Buddhist monk of Pa - o extraction, went up the hill to the site of two ruined stupas that had stood at the summit for centuries. Stirred by feelings of deep devotion the aging monk decided to remain near the site of the long neglected stupas. Now 15 years later the extraordinary "ordinary" hill of Thamanya is known throughout Burma as a famous place of pilgrimage, a sanctuary ruled by the metta (loving kindness) of the Hsayadaw, the holy teacher, U Vinaya.

Two weeks ago I made a trip outside Rangoon for the first time since my release from house arrest. A party of us set out in three cars at four o'clock in the morning along the road to Pegu in the northeast. We were headed for Thamanya, to pay our respects to the Hsayadaw and to receive his blessings. There is a special charm to journeys undertaken before daybreak in hot lands: the air is soft and cool and the coming of dawn reveals a landscape fresh from the night dew. By the time it was light enough for us to see beyond the headlights of our car we had left the outskirts of Rangoon behind us. The road was bordered by fields dotted with palms and every now and then in the distance, wreathed in morning mist, could be seen the white triangle of a stupa tipped with a metal "umbrella" that glinted reddish gold in the glow of the rising sun.

I was travelling in a borrowed Pajero: the young men in our party had assured me that this was the best kind of car for rough country. They said successive safari rallies had been won by a Pajero. I think there must have been a bit of difference between those Pajeros that emerged triumphant in rallies and the one in which we went to Thamanya. Our vehicle was old and in an indifferent state of repair and every time we hit a particularly rough spot there was a. vigorous and unpredictable reaction. Several times the light that did not normally work switched itself on abruptly; the car radio dropped off and could not be put back; a thermos flask full of hot water exploded in protest; a first-aid box which we had thought securely ensconced at the back was suddenly found nestling against my feet. I had to keep myself from bouncing too far toward the ceiling by holding on grimly to the headrest of the front seats. There were times when it seemed as though I was perpetually suspended in midair.

At about six o'clock in the morning we drove through Pegu. Once it was a capital city of the Mons and also of King Bayinnaung, the one Burmese monarch who left the heartland to settle in the south, demonstrating a rare interest in the world beyond the confines of his original home. Nowadays Pegu no longer has a royal air but it is still graced by the Shwemawdaw Pagoda and by a huge reclining image of the Buddha, the Shwethalyaung.

The road had become worse as we came further and further away from Rangoon. In compensation the landscape became more beautiful. Rural Burma in all its natural glory gladdened our eyes even as our bones were jarred by the terrible antics of our car as it negotiated the dips and craters. Fortunately all of us shared a keen sense of humour and the violent bumps seemed to us more comic than painful. Between rising into the air and landing back with resounding thuds on our seats we managed to admire the scenery: the tender green of the graceful paddy plants; the beautiful lotuses, pink, white and blue, floating in pools and ditches; the dark, violet-washed hills carved into rolling shapes that conjured up images of fairytale creatures; the sky shading from pale turquoise to bright azure, streaked with deceptively still banks of clouds; the picturesque thatch huts perched on slender wooden poles, sometimes half hidden behind delicate bamboo fences trailing a frieze of flowering plant. But these pretty habitations lacked comfort and the people who lived there were very poor.

Around eight o'clock we crossed the Sittang bridge into the Mon State. Passing through the small towns of Kyaik - hto and Kyaik - kaw we saw the signboards of the National League for Democracy gallantly displayed in front of extremely modest lit- tle offices. These signboards, brilliantly red and white, are a symbol of the courage of people who have remained dedicated to their beliefs in the face of severe repression, whose commitment to democracy has not been shaken by the adversities they have experienced. The thought that such people are to be found all over Burma lifted my heart.