Fascinating stories were rising out of the cracks in Yangon’s shattered streets as its recovery from cyclone Nargis got underway and I spent my time gathering up as many as I could. However, I planned to take a trip into the Irrawaddy Delta region, where storm damage was worst and casualty figures highest.
            Burma’s tourist industry practically collapsed when the junta brutally suppressed last year’s monk-led pro-democracy demonstrations. Since then tourguides with too much time on their hands have been hanging around street corners hoping to come across an un-escorted foreigner – a commodity which has all but dried up since Nargis finished the job the junta started.  However, every time I attempted to broach the subject of how one might gain entry, ostensibly to make a small donation to the aid effort in person, I was met with the same answer: “Impossible.”
             As it turned out, the military had set up roadblocks on all roads leading south from Yangon to the delta and all foreigners were being turned back. However, after much coaxing, I eventually convinced a guide, which was sent to take me of a tour of Yangon by the travel agency, to have a go at getting me into the delta. ‘Pha’, ever eager to subvert the authority of the junta he despised, telephoned a monk who was an active figure in the pro-democracy movement that swept the country this time last year. His monastery, located deep in the delta, had been badly damaged and the village around it practically wiped out. The monk agreed to host us should we arrive, and would back up our story if necessary.
            The plan was that we would buy packs of food, rent a car and head north before looping back down towards the delta, hopefully avoiding the roadblocks as we went. Sadly, in the two days before we were due to leave, we noticed a car following us as we made our way around Yangon. The driver and passenger made no attempt to conceal themselves, and would come inside and pull up a table whenever we stopped for a bite to eat. We returned to my hotel the night before we were due to head into the delta to find a group of soldiers standing directly across the street from its main entrance. I’m not convinced they had any firm evidence to suggest I was a journalist, but there were hardly any foreigners in Yangon at that time. I fit the profile, but there were so few visitors that they could easily follow them all. Either way, the game was up.
             A visibly furious Pha was convinced I was about to be arrested, and told me I should make my way to the airport at the earliest opportunity. I gave him the cash to make the donation to the monastery in his own time and bid my goodbyes. I went to my room and packed my stuff but couldn’t leave that evening because the army guys, visible from my window, remained where they were. At 5am the next morning I was ready to leave so after ensuring the coast was clear from my window I ran down stairs, paid the remainder of my hotel bill to a sleepy bellboy and grabbed a taxi to the airport. Four-and-a-half hours later I was back in Bangkok with a bank of stories of the junta, the cyclone and the people struggling to survive the terrors of both.