Creative material

Compilation
of

Creative Materials

TSLB 3252 CREATIVE WRITING

PREPARED BY:

Nur Sakinah binti Samsuri
(TESL 1)

TABLE OF CONTENT

PROSE FICTION NON-PROSE FICTION POETRY

Short story BOMB by Jane Hammond Modern poetry
Araby by James
I Wandered Lonely

Joyce Travel writing as a Cloud by

Good Night and Good
The Last
William Wordsworth
Luck by Grace Paley Archipelago by

Rolf Potts

Araby
by James Joyce

North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the
Christian Brothers' School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at
the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square ground. The other houses of the
street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown
imperturbable faces.

The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing-room. Air, musty
from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the
kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered
books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The
Devout Communicant, and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because its
leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple-tree and
a few straggling bushes, under one of which I found the late tenant's rusty bicycle-pump.
He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions
and the furniture of his house to his sister.

When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners.
When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was
the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble
lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed
in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes
behind the houses, where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the
back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark
odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from
the buckled harness. When we returned to the street, light from the kitchen windows had
filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner, we hid in the shadow until we
had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan's sister came out on the doorstep to call her
brother in to his tea, we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We
waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow
and walked up to Mangan's steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined
by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed,
and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body, and
the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door. The blind was
pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out
on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I
kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our
ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after
morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was
like a summons to all my foolish blood.

1

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday
evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We
walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid
the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels
of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about
O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises
converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely
through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and
praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not
tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I
thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I
spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp
and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had died. It was a
dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes
I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the
sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful
that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling
that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they
trembled, murmuring: `O love! O love!' many times.

At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that
I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going to Araby. I forgot whether I
answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar; she said she would love to go.

`And why can't you?' I asked.

While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She could not go,
she said, because there would be a retreat that week in her convent. Her brother and two
other boys were fighting for their caps, and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the
spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught
the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand
upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a
petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.

`It's well for you,' she said.

`If I go,' I said, `I will bring you something.'

What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening!
I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school.
At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the
page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the
silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for
leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised, and hoped it was not

2

some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master's face
pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call
my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life
which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly
monotonous child's play.

On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the bazaar in the
evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat-brush, and answered me
curtly:

`Yes, boy, I know.'

As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at the window. I felt the
house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw
and already my heart misgave me.

When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was early. I sat
staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking began to irritate me, I left the
room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high, cold,
empty, gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front
window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me
weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at
the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but
the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the
curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.

When I came downstairs again I found Mrs Mercer sitting at the fire. She was an old,
garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's widow, who collected used stamps for some pious
purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an
hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she
couldn't wait any longer, but it was after eight o'clock and she did not like to be out late,
as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the
room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:

`I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord.'

At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the hall door. I heard him talking to
himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. I
could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give
me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.

`The people are in bed and after their first sleep now,' he said.

I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:

`Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him late enough as it is.'

3

My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in the old saying:
`All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.' He asked me where I was going and, when
I told him a second time, he asked me did I know The Arab's Farewell to his Steed. When
I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.

I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street towards the station.
The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the
purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After
an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among
ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people
pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a
special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the
train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw
by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large
building which displayed the magical name.

I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar would be closed, I
passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary-looking man. I found
myself in a big hall girded at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed
and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognized a silence like that which
pervades a church after a service. I walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few
people were gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which
the words Café Chantant were written in coloured lamps, two men were counting money
on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins.

Remembering with difficulty why I had come, I went over to one of the stalls and
examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the door of the stall a young lady was
talking and laughing with two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and
listened vaguely to their conversation.

`O, I never said such a thing!'

`O, but you did!'

`O, but I didn't!'

`Didn't she say that?'

`Yes. I heard her.'

`O, there's a... fib!'

Observing me, the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buy anything. The
tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of
duty. I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side of the
dark entrance to the stall and murmured:

4

`No, thank you.'
The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to the two young
men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me
over her shoulder.
I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make my interest in her
wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the
bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a
voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall
was now completely dark.
Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and
my eyes burned with anguish and anger.

5

•

JcP

Goodbye
and Good Luck

6RAC£ PA L. E"'
I~S9

J was popular in certain circles, says Aunl Rose. I wasn't

no thinner then, only more stationary in the flesh. In time to

come, Lillie, don't be surprised-change is a fact of God. From

this no one is excused. Only a person like your mama stands on

one foot, she don't notice how big her behind is getting and sings

in the canary's ear for thirty years. Who's listening? Papa's in

the shop. You and Seymour, thinking about yourself. So she waits

in a spotless kitchen for a kind word and thinks-poor Rosie ...

Poor Rosie! If there was more life in my little sister, she

would know my heart is a regular college of feelings and there

is such information between my corset and nw that her whole

married life is a kindergarten.

Nowadays you could find me any time iu a hotd, uptown

or downtown. Who needs an apartment to live like a maid with

a dustrag i-n the hand, sneezing? I'm in very good with the bus-

boys, it's more interesting than horne, all kinds of people, every-

body with a reason ...

And my reason, Lillie, is a long time ago I said to the fun·-

lady, "Missus, if I c:an't sit b.v the window, I t·an't sit." ..If _yuu

can't sil, girlie," she sa.vs pulitd_y, ··go stand 1111 iht• strct!ll"orncr."

• And that's how I gut anu•Jnpluyl'<l in uovdty wt•ar. •

GRAC•: PALt:Y .-

For my next job I answered an ad whid1 said: "Refined
young lady, medium salary, cultural organization." I went by
trolley to the address, the Russian Art Theater of Second Avenue,
where they played only the best Yiddish plays. They needed a
ticket seller, someone .like me, who likes the public but is very
sharp on crooks: The man who interviewed me was the manager,
a certain type.

Immediately he said: "Rosie Lieber, you surely got a build
on you!"

"It takes all kinds, Mr. Krimberg."
"Don't misunderstand me, little girl," he said. "I appreciate,
I appreciate. A young lady lacking fore and aft, her blood is so

busy wanning the toes and the fingertips, it don't have timt <u

circulate where it's most required."
Everybody likes kindness. I said to him: "Only don't be fres~,

Mr. Krimberg, and we'll make a good bargain."
We did: Nine dollars a week, a glass of tea every night, a

free ticket once a week for Mama, and I coul~ go watch rehearsals
any time I want.

My first nine dollars was in the grocer';S hands ready to move
on already, when Krimberg said to me, "Rosie, here's a great
gentleman, a member of this remarkable theater, wants to meet
you, impressed no doubt by your big brown eyes."

And who was it, Lillie? Listen to me, before my very eyes
was Volodya Vlashkin, called by the people of those days the
Valentino of Second Avenue. I took on~ look, and I said to myself:
Where did a Jewish boy grow up so big? "Just outside Kiev," he
told me.

How? "My mama nursed me till I was six. I was the only
boy in the village to have such health."

"My goodness, Vlashkin, six years old! She must have had
shredded wheat there, not breasts, poor woman."

"My mother ~as beautiful," he said. "She had eyes like
stars."

He had such a way of expressing himself, it brought tears.
To Krimberg, Vlashkin said after this introduction: "Who is
responsible for hiding this wonderful young person in a cage?"

- 4)

.-. Goodbye and Good Luck

"That is where the ti(:ket sdlt~r sells."
"So, David, go in there and sell til·kets for a half hour. I
have something in mind in regards to_the future! of this girl and
this company. Go, David, be a good boy. And you, Miss Lieber,
please, I suggest Feinberg's for a glass of tea. The rehearsals arc
long. I enjoy a quiet interlude with a friendly person."
So he took me there, Feinberg's, then around the wrner, a
place so full of Hungarians, it was deafening. In the back room .
was a table of honor for him. On the tablt!doth t~mbroidered by
the lady of the house was Here Vlashkin Eats. We linished one
glass of tea in quietness, out of thirst, wlll'n I linally made up
my mind what to say.
"Mr. Vlashkin, I saw you a couple weeks ago, even before
I started working here, in The Sea Gull. Believe me, if I was that
girl, I wouldn't look even for a minute on the young bourgeois
feiJow. He could fall out of the play altogether. llow Chekhov
could put him in the same play as you, 1 can't understand."

"You liked me?" he asked, taking my hand and kindly pill·

ting it. "Well, well, young people still like me ... so, and you
like the theater too? Good. And you, Rose, you know you have
S!JCh a nice hand," so warm to the touch, such a fine skin, tdl
me, why do you wear a scarf around your neck? You only hide
your young, young throat. These are not olden times, my child,
to live in shame."

"Who's ashamed?" I said, taking off the kerchief, but my
hand right away went to the kerchief's place, because the truth
is, it really was olden times, and I was still of a nature to melt

with shame.
"Have some more tea, my dear."
"No, thank you, I am a samovar already."
"Dorfmannt" he hollered like a kin~. ··Bring this child a

seltzer with fresh ice!"
In weeks to follow 1 had tlw privilege tu know him better

and better as a person-also the OJlJlnrtunity to see him in his
profession. The time was autumn; tlw tlwater full of ruming aml
going. Rehearsing withuutt•ncl. After Tht~ Setl Gull flopped, The
Salesman from Istanbul played, a great stu·l·ess.

•If

GRACI-; PALEY •

Here the ladies went crazy. On the opening night, in the

middle of the first scene, one missus-a widow or her husband
worked too long hours-began to clap and sing out, "Oi, oi,
Vlashkin." Soon there was such a tumult, the actors had to stop
acting. Vlashkin stepped forward. Only not Vlashkin to the eyes
... a younger man with pitch-black hair, lively on restless feet,
his mouth clever. A half a century later at the end of the play he
came out again, a gray philosopher, a student of life from only
reading books, his hands as smooth as silk . . . I cried to think
who I was-nothing-and such ~ man could look at me with
interest.

Then I got a small raise, due to he kindly put in a good word
for me, and also for fifty cents a night I was gi~en the pleasure
together with cousins, in-laws, and plain stage-struck kids to be
part of a crowd scene and to see like he saw every single night
the hundreds of pale faces waiting for his feelings to make them
laugh or bend down their heads in sorrow.

The sad day came, I kissed my mama goodbye. Vlashkin
helped me to get a reasonable room near the theater to be more
free. Also my outstanding friend would have a place to recline
away from the noise of the dressing rooms. She cried and she
cried. "This is a ~fferent way of living, Mama," I said. "Besides,
I am driven by love."

"You! You, a nothing, a rotten hole in a piece of cheese, are
you telling me what is life?" she screamed.

Very insulted, I went away from her. But I am good-
natured-you know fat people are like that-kind, and I thought
to myself, poor Mama ... it is true she got more of an idea of
life than me. She married who she didn't like, a sick man, his
spirit already swallowed up by God. He never washed. He had
an unhappy smell. His teeth fell out, his hair disappeared, he

got smaller, shriveled up little by little, till goodbye and good

luck he was gone and only came to Mama's mind when she went
to the mailbox: under the stairs to get the electric bill. In memory
of him and out of respect for mankind, I decided to live for love.

Don't laugh, you ignorant girl.
Do you think it was easy for me? I had to give Mama a little

61

(10odbye aud Good Luck

:;omething. Ruthie was saving up tugt~llwr with ynur papa fur
linens, a couple knives and forks. In lht• morniug I had to do
piet~t·work if I wanted to kc!t•p b.v myself..So I made flowt-rs. Before
lunch time every day a whole garden grew llll Ill)' tablt!.

This was my independence, Lillie clt~ar, blomning, but it
didn't have no roots und its face was paper.

Meanwhile Krimberg went after me too. No dnubt observing
the success ofVlashkin, he thought, Aha, open sesame ... Others
in the company similar. After me in those yc•itrs were the follow-
ing: Krimberg I mentioned. Carl Zimmer, played innoc:ent young
fellows with a wig. Charlie Peel, a Christian who fcJI in the soup
by accident, a creator of beautiful sets. "Color is his middle
name," says Vlashkin, always to the point.

I put this in to show you your fat- old aunt was not crazy out
of loneliness. In those noisy years I had friends among interesting
people who admired me for reasons of youth and that I was a
first-class listener.

The actresses-Raisele, Marya, Esther Leopold-were ·only

interested in tomorrow. After them was the rid1 men, producers,
the whole garment center; their past is a pinc:ushion, future the
eye of a needle.

Finally the day came, I no longer could keep my tact in my
mouth. I said: "VIashkin, I hear by carrier pigeon you have a
wife, children, the whole combination."

"True, I don't tell stories. I make no pretense."
"That isn'tthe question. What is this lady like? It hurts me
to ask, but tell me, Vlashkin ... a man's life is something I don't
clearly see."
"Little girl, I have told you a hundred limes, this small room
is the convent of my troubled spirit. llere I come to your innocent
shelter to refresh myself in the midst of an agonized life."
"Ach, Vlashkin, serious, serious, who is this lady?"
"Rosie, she is a line woman of the middle classes, a good
mother to my children, three in number, girls all, a good cook,
in her youth handsome, now no longer young. You see, could I
be more frank? I entrust .vou. dear, with my soul."
It was snnu~ few munths later at the New Year"s ball of the

• •17

GRACE PALEY r

Russian Artists Club, I met Mrs. Vlashkin, a woman with black -
hair in a low bun, straight and too proud. She sal at a small table
speaking in a deep voice to whoever stopped a moment to con-
verse. Her Yiddish was perfect, each word cut like a special jewel.
I looked at her. She noticed me like she noticed everybody, cold
like Christmas morning. Then she got tired. Vlashkin called a
taxi and I never saw her again. Poor woman, she did not know
I was on the same stage with her. The poison I was to her role,
she did not know.

Later on that night in front of my door I said to Vlashkin,
"No more. This isn't for me. I am sick from it all. I am no home
breaker."

"Girlie," he said, "don't be foolish."
"No, no, goodbye, good luck," I said. "I am sincere."
So I went and stayed with Mama for a week's vacation and
cleaned up all the closets and scrubbed the walls till the paint

came off. She was very grateful, all the same her hard life made

her say, "Now we see the end. If you live like a bum, you are
fmally a lunatic."

After this few days I came back to my life. When we met,
me and Vlashkin, we said only hello and goodbye, and then for
a few sad years, with the head we nodded as if to say, "Yes, yes,
I know who you are."

Meanwhile in the field was a whole new strategy. Your mama
and your grandmama brought around-boys. Your own father
had a brother, you never even seen him. Ruben. A serious fellow,
his idealism was his hat and his coat. "Rosie, I offer you a big
new free happy unusual life." How? "With me, we will raise up
the sands of Palestine to make a nation. That is the land of
tomorrow for us Jews." "Ha-ha, Ruben, I'll go tomorrow then."
"Rosie!" says Ruben. "We need strong women like you, mothers
and farmers." "You don't fool me, Ruben, what you need is dray
hones. But for that you need more money." "I don't like your
attitude, Rose." "In that case, go and multiply. Goodbye."

Another fellow: Yonke) Gurstein, a regular sport, dressed to
kill, with such an excitable nature. In those days-it looks to me

-like yesterday-the youngest girls wore undergarments like Bat-
8]

r

Goutlb:ye wul Good l.ucJ..-

- tie Creek, Midaigan. To him it WitS " milllt•r of st'nlllds. \Vht•rt•
did he practit't!, a Jewish bu_v~ NuwaqiiJS I suppost~ it is t~asit•r,
LillitO:' My goodnt-ss. I ain't askiug _vuu uutlaiug-tuuda_y,
touchy ...

Well, by now you must know _yoursdf, hum!.V, whatcvt!r you
do, life don't stop. It only sits a minult• and dn•ums a dn·am.

While I was saying to all these silly youugslt~rs "'no, uo. rw."
Vlashkin went to Europt! andtoured a few st•asuus ... Mosww,
Prague, London, even Berlin-already a pt>ssimistk plan~. Wlwn
he t•ame back he wrote a book you wuld gc•t from the library
even today, The Jewish ActorAbroad. If somc~day yuu 're inlt!resled

enough in my lonesome years, you could rt•ad it. You c:ould
absorb a flavor of the man from the book. No, uo, I am not
mentioned. After all, who am 1?

When the book came out 1 slopped him in tlw stwet lo say

congratulations. But I am not a liar, so 1 pointed out, too, the

esotism of many part~-even the crilics said something along

such lines.

"Talk is cheap," Vlashkin answered me. "But who are the
critics? Tell me, do they create? Not to mention," he c·ontinues,

"there is a line in Shakespeare in one of the plays from the great
history of England. It says, 'Self-loving is nul so vile a sin, my
liege, as selC-neglecting.' This idea also appears in modern timt•s
in the moralistic followers of Freud ... Rosie. arc you listening:'
You asked a question. By the way, you look very well. I low come
no wedding ring?"

I walked away l'rom this wnversatiou in lt'ars. Uut this talk-
ing in the street opened Lht~ happ_y road up for mow diseussions.
ln regard lo many things ... For instance. the management-
very narrow-minded-wouldu't give him any mure c·t·rtain young
men's parts. Fools. \Vhat youngest man krww t•nuugh about life•
to be as young as him:'

"Rosie, 1\osie," ht• said to nae one day. "'I see b.v the dm:k
on your rosy, rosy fact! you mnst ht• thirt.v. ··

"Tht! hands ure slow. Vlashkin. On il Wt't'k heforc Thursday
I was thirty-four.··

,, -"Is thut su:' Hosit', I worry aiHIIII _vuu. It has lll'en on my

~ r-

GRACE PALEY •

mind to talk to you..You are losing your time. Do you understand
·it? A woman should not lose her time."

"Oi, Vlashkin, if you are my friend, what is time?"
For this he had no answer, only looked at me surprised. We
went instead, full of interest but not with our former speed, up
to my new place on Ninety-fourth Street. The same pictures on
the wall, all of Vlashkin, only now everything painted red and
black, which was stylish, and new upholstery.
A few years ago there was a- book by another member of
that fme company, an actress, the one that learned English very
good and went uptown-Marya Kavkaz, in which she says certain
things regarding Vlashkin. Such as, he was her lover for eleven
years, she's not ashamed to write this down. Without respect for
him, his wife and children, or even· others who also may hllve
feelings in the matter.
Now, Lillie, don't be surprised. This is called a fact of life.
An actor's soul must be like a diamond. The more faces it got
the more shining is his name. Honey, yo~ will no doubt love and
marry one man and have a couple kids and be happy forever till
you die tired. More than that, a person like us don't have to
know. But a great artist like Volodya Vlashkin . . . in order to
make a job on the stage, he's got to practice. I understand it now,
to him life is like a rehearsal.
Myself, when I saw him in The Father-in-Law-an older
man in love with a darling young girl, his son's wife, played by
Raisele Maisel-! cried. What be said to this girl, how he whis-
pered such sweetness, how all his hot feelings were on his face
... Lillie, all this experience he had with me. The very words
were the same. You can imagine how proud I was.
So the story creeps to an end.

I noticed it first on my mother's face, the rotten handwriting
of time, scribbled up and down her cheeks, across her forehead
back and forth-a child could read-it said old, old, old. But it
troubled my heart most to see these realities scratched on Vlash-
kin's wonderful expression.

First the company fell apart. The theater ended. Esther Leo-
pold died from being very aged. Krimbcrg had a heart attack.
M'IJ went to Broadway. Also Raisele changed her name to

WI

Goodbye ami Good Luck

Roslyn and was a big t'CUIIit·al Iait in the muvit•s. Vlashkiu himself,
no place to go, retired. It said in the .papt•r, "An actor without

peer, he will write his memoirs ami spend his h1st years in the

bosom of his family among his thriving granckhildren, the apple
of his wife's doting eyt~."

This is journalism.

We made for him a great dinner of lwnor. At this dinner I

said to him, for the last time, I thought, "Goodbye, dear friend,

topic of my life, now we part." And to m_yself I said further:

Finished. This is your lonesome bed. A lady what they call fat

and lifty. You made it personally. From this lonesome bed you

will finally fall to a bed not so lonesome, only crowded with a

million bones.

And now comes? Lillie, guess.

Last week, washing my underwear in the basin, I get a buzz

on the phone. "Excuse me, is this the Rose Lieber formerly

connected with the Russian Art Theater?"

"It is."

"Well, well, how do you do, Rose? This is Vlashkin."

"Vlashkin! Volodya Vlashkin?"

"In fact. How are you, Rose?"

"Living, Vlashkin, thank you."

"You are all right? Really, Rose? Your health is good? You

are working?"

"My health, considering the weight it must carry, is first-

class. I am back for some years now where I started, in novelty

wear."

"Very interesting."

"Listen, Vlashkin, tell rne the truth, what's on your mind?"

"My mind? Rosie, I am looking up an old friend, an old

warmhearted companion of more joyful clays. My circumstances,

by the way, are changed. I am retired, as you know. Also I am

a free man."

"What? What clu you mean?"

"Mrs. Vlashk in is divorcing me."

"What C'OIIII' uv1•r lacr:1 Did you start 1lrinking or something

• frum mclandwl_v:'"

''Siae is divorring 1111' fur uduh1~ry." •

Ill

GRACI:: PAl.I::Y

"But, Vlashkin, you should excuse me, don't be insulted,
but you got maybe seventeen, eighteen years on me, and even
me, aU this nonsense-this daydreams and nightmares-is
mostly for the pleasure of conversation alone."

"I pointed all this out to her. My dear, I said, my time is
past, my blood is as dry as my bones. The truth is, Rose, she isn't
accustomed to have a man around all day, reading out loud from
the papers the interesting events of our time, waiting for break-
fast, waiting for lunch. So all day she gets madder and madder.

By nighttime a furious old lady "Rives me my supper. She has

information from the last fifty years to pepper my soup. Surely
there was a Judas in that theater, saying every day, 'Vlashkin,
Vlashkin, Vlashkin ...'and while my heart was circulating with
his smiles he was on the wire passing the dope to my wife."

"Such a foolish end, Volodya, to such a lively story. What
is your plans?"

"First, could I ask you for dinner and the theater-uptown,
of course? After this . . . we are old friends. I have money to
bum. What your heart desires. Others ~re like grass, the north
wind of time has cut out their heart. Of you, Rosie, I re-create
only kindness. What a woman should be to a man, you were to
me. Do you think, Rosie, a couple of old pals like us could have
a few good times among the material things of this world?"

My answer, Lillie, in a minute was altogether. "Yes, yes,
come up," I said. "Ask the room by the switchboard, let us talk."

So he came that night and every night in the week, we talked
of his long life. Even at the end Df time, a fascinating man. And
like men are, too, till time's end, trying to get away in one piece.

"Listen, Rosie," he explains the other day. "I was married
to my wife, do you realize, nearly half a century. What good was
it? Look at the bitterness. The more I think of it, the more I think
we would be fools to marry."

"Volodya Vlashkin," I told him straight, "when I was young
I warmed your cold back many a night, no questions asked. You
admit it, I didn't make no demands. I was softhearted. I didn't
want to be called Rosie Lieber, a breaker up of homes. But now,
Vlashkin, you are a free man. How could you ask me to go with

• 12)

Goodb.re and Good LucJ.·

you on trains to stay in strange hotels, at111111g Anlt'rirans, nut

your wife? B~ ashamed." .

. So now, darling Lillie, tell thili story to ~·our mama from your

young mouth. She don't lislt!u to a word from me. She only

screams, "I'll faint, I'll faint." Tell her after all I'll have a hus-

band, which, as everybody knows, a woman should have at least

one before the end of tht! story.

My goodness, I am already late. Giw me a kiss. After all, I

watched you grow from a plain seed. So give me a couple wishes

on my wedding day. A long and happy life. Many years of love.

Hug Mama, tell her from Aunt Rose, goodi.Jye and good luck.

lJJ

:. -~



















The Last Archipelago by Rolf Potts (Travel Writing)

As I glide in a kayak through a narrow channel in the Mergui Archipelago, off the southern
coast of Myanmar, I almost overlook the small clearing at the edge of Wa Ale Island’s tangled
jungle. I’m scanning the trees for crab-eating macaques — the shy, brownish monkeys that
haunt this shore in the evenings — when, out of the corner of my eye, I spot the collapsed
huts. Realizing that I’ve stumbled across an abandoned sea gypsy camp, I splash ashore to
investigate.

In two days of kayaking through these remote islands, I’ve spotted sea eagles and tree
pythons; I’ve paddled alongside smooth-coated sea otters and seen sand-markings left by sea
turtles and monitor lizards; I’ve glided through fluttery clouds of yellow butterflies and watched
sunsets turn the Andaman Sea cotton-candy pink — but I have yet to see any of the nomadic
humans who’ve made these islands their home for the past few centuries.

These sea gypsies, the Moken, live entirely on their boats for six months of the year. They are
one of the last peoples of the earth to retain their pre-historical culture. Not only have they
rejected the trappings of modernity, these sea nomads have over the years rejected
agriculture, Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, and even net-fishing. Spearing or foraging their food
from the sea, they live and die on small, hand-made boats that ply the Mergui Archipelago,
preferring isolation to interaction with their Burmese, Thai, Malayan, and Indian neighbors.
Because they don’t save for the future — and are neither violent nor greedy nor materialistic
— the Moken have lived as victims for most of their history. Even the name they’ve given
themselves evokes isolation and fatalism: directly translated, Moken means “Sea Drowned”.

I hike into the clearing and pick through the abandoned Moken camp as carefully as if it were
a crime scene. From the looks of it, the sea gypsies who camped here spent most of their time
resting and eating: Piles of seashells sit next to the blackened stones of fire-pits; odd plastic
sweets wrappers flit about in the sand. Half-smoked cigarettes — leaf tobacco rolled in
newsprint — line edges of the collapsed huts, suggesting that the Moken spent a fair amount
of time here waiting out rainstorms.

But what is remarkable about this sea gypsy garbage is that there’s so little of it. On the
opposite side of Wa Ale Island, along beaches more exposed to the currents of the Indian
Ocean, one can find all manner of refuse from distant civilizations: “Rejoice” anti-dandruff
shampoo bottles from Thailand; aerosol cans of “Hit” insect fogger from Indonesia; plastic
bottles of “Golden Mountain” mineral water from the Myanmar mainland; empty cans of “Full
Cream Vitamin-Enriched Milk” from New Zealand.

That such detritus is the only evidence of the outside world in the Mergui Archipelago is
something of a fluke. This group of 800 islands off the Myanmar coast borders one of
Thailand’s most popular tourist areas: The Similan islands, which are a geophysical extension
of the Mergui Archipelago, see 80 dive-boats a week during tourist high season, and the island
of Phuket, a few more hours to the south, hosts 3 million tourists a year. By contrast, the entire
10,000 square-mile expanse of the Mergui Archipelago has remained largely uninhabited—
mainly due to 50 years of political isolation at the hands of the Myanmar government.

Indeed, no other group of islands in such close proximity to a mass-tourism destination has
remained so pristine and so isolated. But now that Myanmar’s military junta is showing
tentative signs of openness, particularly with the dramatic May release of pro-democracy
dissident Aung San Suu Kyi, the Mergui Archipelago stands to become one of the most
important — and most vulnerable — untapped tourist areas in the world.

W hen the daylight begins to fade, I paddle out of the channel and head for a small safari camp
on the south end of Wa Ale Island, where I’ve been staying for the past two nights. Operated
by South East Asia Liveaboards (SEAL), a Phuket-based adventure travel company, this camp
is the first land-based tourist-venture in the archipelago since the area was opened to dive-
boats in 1997. For now, the camp consists of little more than a half-dozen nylon tents pitched
in the grass behind a sandy beach. The open-air kitchen, a chemical toilet, and tree-mounted
shower stall keep the place from feeling too primitive. Should kayak camps and adventure
cruises in the archipelago prove successful, SEAL will expand this safari camp into a self-
contained eco-resort, complete with open-walled thatch villas and air-conditioned sleeping
salas.

As I settle in for a late dinner in the mess tent, Graham Frost, the easygoing 38 year-old Brit
who owns SEAL, brings in an admiralty chart of the islands. Since the sprawling archipelago
has only been accessible to outsiders for five years, comprehensive information about it simply
does not exist. Tomorrow morning, Frost will lead us northward in search of new destinations.
Apart from what Frost has found on previous exploratory trips, the only clues we have to what
awaits us come from shipping maps, colonial-era navigation pilot guidebooks, and published
journals from the merchants and missionaries who came here in the years before World War
II.

“There’s an appeal in going to a place when you’re not sure what’s out there,” Frost says as
he unrolls the chart. Indeed, just looking at the scattered islands on the map is enough to
give me a buzz of anticipation. Because the region has been off-limits since before the advent
of scuba diving, electronic depth sounders, and global positioning satellites, many of its
mysteries have yet to be solved. The wreck of the Harvey Adamson, a British steamer that

disappeared with 200 passengers en route to the ancient trading town of Myiek in 1947, has
never been found. A WWII-era Japanese airfield on Lampi Island has never been surveyed.
The rocky bays of Tenasary Island, which sheltered generations of pirates who preyed on
ships bound for India, have never been dived for scuttled ships or jettisoned caches of Ming
porcelain (though local fishermen have been known to turn up such relics in their nets).

Since we can’t be too ambitious on a mere 4-day expedition, Frost settles on one major goal:
a steep, limestone island said to contain a saltwater lagoon that can only be entered through
a cave at low tide. Called “Elephant Island” in old British travel accounts, it is not listed by
name on our admiralty chart. But the pilot’s guide mentions a string of limestone karsts near
Paun Daung Island, and this is where we will center our search as we cruise north toward
Myeik. After Frost details the sundry plans of the expedition, I walk out to the darkened beach.
In what is becoming a nightly ritual for me, I lie down in the sand, soaking in a peculiar feeling
of isolation: the world reduced to bright stars, silent jungle, and the soothing rumble of waves.

W e leave Wa Ale Island in Seal One, SEAL’s semi-rigid inflatable speedboat, after breakfast
the next morning. There are seven of us on board, including porters, two photographers, and
a Burmese interpreter. Our destination for the first day is Pu Nala Island, home to Makyunn
Galet village, where the Myanmar government has attempted to settle a community of Moken
sea gypsies. Forested islands pepper the horizon, their granite shores and sandy beaches
just peeking out beneath tangled green jungle. A flock of black hornbills swoops overhead.
Although I enjoyed my initial days of kayaking and swimming (the primary activities at the Wa
Ale safari camp), I feel like my Mergui trip is just now beginning.

White-sand beaches and hidden lagoons aside, part of the selfish romanticism that brought
me here is the possibility of making contact with the Moken, one of the last purely nomadic
peoples on earth. When Seal One arrives at Pu Nala Island at midday and drops anchor
offshore, Frost warns me that the “sea gypsy village” won’t exactly be an examplar of Moken
authenticity. “Makyunn Galet is basically a government creation,” he says. “By definition, sea
gypsies don’t keep permanent villages.”

As I unload my kayak and paddle toward the shore, I can already see the influence of Burma
in the Buddhist pagoda perched above the stilt-houses and coconut palms at the far end of
the beach. Originally set up as a safe haven for the Moken, Makyunn Galet village has a
hospital, a school, a fuel depot (diesel boat motors are one of the few concessions the Moken
have made to technology), and several shops where the sea gypsies can trade shells and sea
cucumbers for rice and tools. However, we don’t find many sea gypsies in the village. Burmese
women and children, the families of fishermen, greet us brightly as we walk up the beach;

Burmese-style craps tables and a karaoke machine (which runs on a diesel generator) adorn
the town center.

Graham suggests we go to the monastery and pay a visit to U Kay Masala, the tired-eyed,
sexagenarian monk who oversees the village. As is common in Buddhist Myanmar, U Kay
took up the monkhood after a long life in mainstream society. When we enter the airy,
hardwood monastery hall, I notice a picture of the monk as a young soldier, with medals on
his chest and hair on his head. It’s because of this old military connection, Graham tells me,
that U Kay was chosen to supervise the Moken of Makyunn Galet. In an area that is lawless
because of its isolation, the soldier-monk holds legal and moral authority. As the orange-robed
old gentleman motions for us to sit, I spot a puffy bullet scar on his left calf.

“Over 400 sea gypsies live here during the rainy season,” he tells us through our interpreter.
“Now that it’s dry, most of them are out living on their boats. We try to get them to at least
leave their children to attend school, but they aren’t interested. So, while the sea gypsies are
gone, Burmese fishermen come here and move into their houses.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” I ask.

The monk gives me a tired look. “It’s illegal, but it’s hard to stop. A few months ago, there were
400 Burmese living here. The village makes a good base for fishing, but some of these people
are timber poachers and dynamite-fishermen. We finally made most of them leave, but some
of them make decent money — and that gives them political clout.”

“Is this a problem for the sea gypsies?”

“Sure it’s a problem. The Burmese move into their houses and cut into their sea cucumber
trade. Whenever I act to protect the interests of the sea gypsies, the Burmese complain. They
think this village is theirs. And if it wasn’t for me, it would be. Whenever I go to visit my home
in Myeik, all the sea gypsies leave the village — even in the rainy season. They don’t feel safe
without me.”

“Do you think that will ever change?”

U Kay Masala shakes his head grimly. “I’ve been here since 1995, and each year the politics
of protecting the sea gypsies gets more complicated. There’s simply too much money to be
made selling timber and shark’s fins to the Thais and the Chinese. Before long, I will retire to
Myeik for good. And when that happens, I fear the sea gypsies will go back to their old life in
the islands.”

As the monk talks, I realize that the Mergui Archipelago, while islolated, is not a vacuum.
Before I came here, I figured the Moken would make a good metaphor for how this place

stands to change once tourists arrive. But the sea gypsies are already dealing with outside
influences — not the least of which is the greedy pull of regional markets. If there’s a reason
the Moken have remained so stubbornly nomadic, it’s that this sprawling archipelago allows
them to disappear on their own terms. Should these islands become saturated with tourists,
this survival strategy might no longer be an option.

A day after visiting Makyunn Galet, we continue northward in Seal One. Past Lampi, a
fishhook-shaped island roughly the size of Singapore, we enter the open water of Forrest
Strait, which signals our transition into the upper half of the archipelago. We hope to explore
the limestone karsts known as the Marble Isles, which lie just east of Paun Daung Island’s
sprawling shoreline, before nightfall. There, we will search for the hidden tidal lagoon in what
was once called Elephant Island.

Should this lagoon live up to a nineteenth-century British civil servant’s glowing review (“…A
magic scene from a fairyland: a snow-white ring, with an opening like the crater of a volcano,
in the midst of a purple lake…”), it should make a fine addition to SEAL’s cruise and kayak
trips. Not to mention a marquee tourist attraction, should Phuket-style mass tourism make its
way this far north.

Tourism in Phuket grew from almost no visitors in the early 1960s to 2.5 million yearly by 1996,
with attendant water shortages, garbage accumulation, and soil degradation. It was during the
nineties that Phuket-based dive operators like Graham Frost began to look north to Myanmar.
“Look at a map of the Andaman Sea,” he tells me as he steers Seal One north through the
choppy water of Forrest Strait. “Count the number of islands there. In Thailand, there are
maybe fifteen altogether. In Myanmar you have 800. This was the obvious place into which to
expand.”

In late 1996 Frost received permission from Rangoon to make the first exploratory trips to the
Mergui islands. By early 2001, eight Phuket dive operators were making regular forays into
the archipelago during the tourist high season — and three times that number had been
granted licenses for future trips. Despite the obvious appeal of dry-land activities in the islands
(the Mergui Archipelago has at least five islands that compare in size to Phuket), SEAL is the
first company to offer them. Frost tells me that the lack of infrastructure in Myanmar, combined
with the uncertainty of doing business in an untested area, keeps his competitors at bay for
the time being.

“The Thai tourist industry has a very narrow and formulaic view of tourism,” he says. “Nobody
will try anything new until it’s a proven success. If what we’re doing here proves successful,
you’ll probably see a lot more attention focused on this area.”

I ask him if that’s an unsettling thought, given the overdevelopment in Thailand. “My
understanding since day one is that the Myanmar government is open to development of the
islands, but in a very up-market fashion,” Frost replies. “Development along the lines of the
Maldives, with different ventures leasing their own islands. That will control the number of
visitors and ease the impact on the environment. We’re also lobbying to make this a marine
and forest reserve area, to protect the reefs and forests from dynamite-fishing and illegal
logging. In this way, we’re hoping that tourism will actually help preserve the environment.”

Another reason why Western tour companies haven’t moved into the Mergui islands is
Myanmar’s military government, which is notorious for human rights abuses. Even after her
release from house arrest, Nobel Laureate Aung San Suu Kyi has continued to urge tourists
to boycott Myanmar as long as the junta retains a monopoly on power.

When I confront Frost with this issue, he shrugs it off. “You have different schools of thought
on whether you’re harming or helping people by coming here,” he says. “Aung San Suu Kyi
has spoken out against coming to Myanmar, but on the other hand you have people like the
Dalai Lama who are saying ‘come and visit my country, come and see what is going on.’ It’s
definitely a human rights issue, but I think it’s blown out of proportion for political reasons.
We’re of the opinion that links to the outside are more helpful to the people of Myanmar than
are British or American sanctions.”

As Seal One cruises northward, we come across a government-sponsored pearling operation
on a small island just beyond Forrest Strait. Pearling is a Moken specialty (sea gypsies are
known for their ability to reach dangerous depths with little more than a rock anchor and a
breath of air), but the pearl divers we find are Burmese teenagers outfitted in ancient brass-
helmet diving suits. Looking like something out of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, they
descend on mossy ropes as red rubber air-hoses spool out from the battered wooden boats.

We hang around and observe the spectacle, perhaps longer than we should, and by the time
we pile back into Seal One, we are pressed for time in reaching the Marble Isles. As we motor
north toward the limestone outcrops, Frost and I scour the old pilot guidebook for clues as to
where Elephant Island might lie. He seems to think an island listed on the chart as “Hngetthaik
Taung” is our best bet. Given the waning daylight, I hope he’s right — although I can’t imagine
why anyone would rename Elephant Island “Hngetthaik Taung.”

The Marble Isles are hard to miss. Unlike the rounded, jungle-covered granite islands that
dominate the archipelago, these dozen or so limestone islands rise dramatically out of the
water — as steep and stunning as their storied geological cousins in Guilin, China, and Halong
Bay, Vietnam. Bonsai-like Cycad palms — 120 million year-old remnants of the dinosaur age
— grow out horizontally from the sheer cliffs; clusters of cactus-like diamond club grow just

above the water. Anchoring Seal One in the deep blue bay of Hngetthaik Taung, we unload
the kayaks and paddle off to look for the hidden lagoon.

At first, our explorations are inconclusive. We do find a wide cave full of barnacle-encrusted
stalactites at the back of the bay, but it dead-ends after 20 feet. Since the tide is up, this could
indeed be the cave that leads into the Elephant Island lagoon. I backtrack from the cave and
paddle along the sheer bayside cliff until I spot a low notch in the ridge thirty feet above the
waterline. I climb out of the kayak and begin to scale the dimpled rock wall. Frost paddles over
and follows suit. After a few precarious minutes on the cliff face, I finally top off the ridge and
peer down at the other side.

There, curving out from a narrow cove, is a deep-green lagoon surrounded by a jagged ring
of white cliffs. Scrambling down the gentle backslope of the ridge, I throw off my shirt and dive
into the water, then swim slowly toward the center of the volcano-like lake, listening to the
birdcalls echo off 300-foot high walls. Even though Frost is a few minutes behind me, even
though I realize Burmese fishermen must know this place well, I feel as if I’m discovering this
place for the first time. Treading water, I turn to take in 360 degrees of rock, water, and sky.
Fan-leafed palms fringe the tops of the cliffs; Edible-nest swiftlets — small, quick birds that
make their nests in caves — dart over slight ripples on the water’s surface.

I wonder if it’s possible to separate the joy of being here from the nagging fear that this place
may soon change. Would I enjoy this moment as much if the lagoon were full of pontoon boats,
ringed with refreshment stands and guidebook-clutching tourists? To even ask this question
involves a kind of pessimism. It’s as if there’s no longer a psychic distinction between what
can and cannot be accessed by the masses. Increasingly, we just assume that pristine
isolation is a perishable commodity — a fresh new variation of a product that has a dubious
shelf life.

While tourism creeps its way north into the Mergui Archipelago from Thailand, the influence of
Burma has steadily made its way south into Moken waters. Although Paun Daung Island is
historically a Moken “mother island” (where the sea gypsies return during the wet season), it
now bears the distinctive mark of Burmese pagodas and fishermen’s settlements. We stop for
the night in Kyat Kyunn, a fishing village of 200 houses perched on wooden pilings over a
mangrove swamp, and the villagers tell us that they haven’t seen any Moken in the area for
five years.

We’ve had the good fortune to arrive in the middle of a Buddhist full-moon festival. Outside
the local pagoda, a-nyeint pwe performers (traditional Burmese vaudevillians who travel from
town to town) croon, spoof, and ham it up for a crowd of onlookers. Old women shoot craps
and old men swill whiskey along the central boardwalk; teenage boys rubberneck at the town

beauties, who’ve dolled themselves up in red lipstick and patterned white thanaka (a local
cosmetic paste made from tree bark). The festive mood here is contagious, and the seven of
us from Seal One enjoy a kind of celebrity status as we stroll the boardwalks. In keeping with
a-nyeint pwe tradition, the revelry lasts until dawn. We depart on our four-hour haul to Myeik
at mid-morning, happy and exhausted.

Myeik (also known as Mergui Town), the only sizeable town in the entire archipelago, sits on
a mangrove island just off the Myanmar mainland, well south of Myanmar’s tourist circuit,
which is centered along the Rangoon-Bagan-Mandalay axis. Formerly one of the most
important trade ports on the Indian Ocean rim, Myeik is now a sleepy coastal backwater. Since
Frost is interested in turning one of Myeik’s stately old colonial homes into a SEAL guesthouse,
we spend two nights in the town. With no sea gypsies or hidden lagoons to give me a sense
of purpose, I wander through the markets and monasteries of the ancient port.

If there was ever a historical golden age here, it started 500 years ago, when Myeik fell under
the influence of a Siamese empire based in Ayuthaya (50 miles north of the present site of
Bangkok). Since the Straits of Malacca further south were notorious for pirates and poor trade
winds, valuable commodities such as silk, porcelain, and copper were transported overland
between Ayuthaya and Myeik, making Siam a major player in world commerce. Courted for
the next 300 years by merchants from places as far away as Japan and Holland, Ayuthaya
grew into one of the most cosmopolitan cities in Asia — and Myeik became an important
lynchpin along the India-China trade route. For three centuries, Myeik attracted a vibrant array
of Chinese, Indian, Arab, and Portuguese merchant communities.

Then, in 1765, a Burmese army swooped down from the north, slaughtering Myeik’s Siamese
administrators and annexing the region. Cut off from Ayuthaya, Myeik fell into decline. By the
mid-nineteenth century, the area was under British control, steamships were cruising
unmolested through the Straits of Malacca, and Singapore had become the uncontested
fulcrum of India-China trade. Bypassed by merchant ships, Myeik deteriorated into an obscure
colonial outpost, and the Mergui Archipelago reverted to a quiet home for wandering Moken
boats.

In the streets of Myeik, pre-teen boy-monks in red-brown robes still carry their Buddhist
begging-bowls through town at dawn; Tamil Hindu women still turn up in the market in bright
pink saris; bearded Muslim men still stroll the Islamic Quarter in skullcaps and djellabas; Asian-
featured de Silvas and de Castros still attend services at the Portuguese Catholic church. An
impressive golden pagoda, Theindawgyi Paya, dominates the ridge overlooking the harbor,
and Portuguese and British colonial structures crumble alongside Burmese vernacular

buildings in the center of town. In the mornings and evenings, longyi-clad citizens gather to
bathe at street-corner wells; oil-lamps flicker inside wooden houses at night.

On our way back to Wal Ale Island, I lobby—hard—to search for Moken flotillas in an outer set
of islands. Frost vetoes my requests: Clients await him back at the safari camp. As we speed
over the waves, attempting to make the return trip in a single day, I wonder why the Moken
hold so much fascination for me. I suspect that I’ve fallen into that much-analyzed travelers’
cliché — the nostalgic yearning to witness a way of life that I idealize because I was born too
late to really know it. As I wade ashore on Wa Ale in the early evening, one of the new kayaking
clients greets me and casually mentions that he saw a small flotilla of sea gypsies on Kanzagyi
(Wa Ale’s sister island) earlier in the day. Wasting no time, I splash back out to Seal One and
bully Graham into taking me there.

Since the sea gypsies are known to flee at the sound of a boat motor, we anchor Seal One off
the Kanzagyi coast and unload the kayaks into the water. As I paddle in to shore, I spot a
cluster of stilted, chest-high structures similar to the collapsed thatch huts I found along the
channel several days ago. Then, I notice a couple of brown-skinned children digging for
sandworms in the mud of a broad tidal flat. Not sure of what else to do, I beach my kayak and
start towards the huts. The children give me a cursory glance before returning to their work.
Beyond them, a wide-keeled Moken boat sits slightly askew in the shallow water. Though this
black-hulled craft sports a diesel engine, curved notches in the bow and stern (symbolizing a
mouth and anus) hold true to traditional animist detailing.

When I arrive at the beachside encampment, a couple of yellow dogs jog up and sniff at my
ankles. A man who looks to be in his early twenties stumbles out from a makeshift kitchen
area and offers me a tin cup full of strong-smelling rice whiskey. He’s wearing a tattered pair
of shorts, and his skin is covered with a wormy-looking case of dermatitis. Declining the
whiskey, I force a smile over at a half-dozen adults and children who squat next to a cooking
fire. Everyone is dressed in Burmese fashion — longyis or shorts under t-shirts. Apart from
their coffee-black skin and a reddish tint to the children’s hair, the Moken don’t look radically
different from their Burmese or Thai neighbors. The one striking distinction, however, is that
almost all the sea gypsies look sick: Most of the children are covered in rashes and insect
bites, many of the adults have feverish, yellow-tinted eyes.

When Frost and the others show up, we attempt conversation. Though most of the sea gypsies
can only speak in their own, Malay-influenced tongue, our interpreter locates a Moken teen
who speaks some Burmese. A dozen or so sea gypsies gather as my questions get translated
from English to Burmese to Moken and back.

Apparently, these folks come from a Moken flotilla that’s currently anchored at nearby Clara
Island. Since their boat engine broke down in open water several days ago, they paddled to
Kanzagyi to set up a temporary camp. “There’s a good source of fresh water on this island,”
an older man tells me. “It’s common for us to stop here during the dry season.”

“Don’t you ever stop at Makynn Galet village?”

“Sometimes. But there are too many Burmese there now. It’s hard to find food or gather sea
cucumbers in that area, because the Burmese harvest them first.”

“Is there enough food for you on this island?”

“There’s usually plenty to eat here,” the old man says, gesturing at the tidal flat. “And
sometimes we dive for shells in the deeper water.”

“All our shells were stolen two days ago,” interjects the young man with the skin rash.

A tough-looking Moken man in a goatee and a soiled “Honda Racing Team” jacket clarifies.
“Some fishermen raided the camp when the men were gone two days ago. Three Burmese
and a Karen. They threatened the women and stole the shells, our rice, and all the alcohol
that wasn’t hidden.”

“Can you report these men to the authorities?”

The man scoffs. “We can report it to the army after we get back to Clara Island, but that won’t
help. They’ll just ask us to make a report, and none of us can write Burmese.”

“Will they let you write it in Moken?”

The sea gypsies stare at me in silence. I’ve forgotten that the Moken have never used a written
language. Missionaries have transliterated their tongue before, but the sea gypsies showed
little interest in its written form.

Taking us to the cooking area, the nomads offer up boiled mollusks and talk about the trials
and difficulties of the last few days. Simply listening to such details is enough to temper my
sentimental view of their lives. Ironically, the most significant threat the arrival of tourism poses
to Moken culture is the increased exposure it will give them to literacy, medicine, and industry.
To misinterpret this dynamic is to misunderstand the Moken way of seeing the world.

As gathering darkness sends us back to the kayaks and out to sea, I’m tempted to ask Graham
to leave me at the sea gypsy camp for a night. It’s a fanciful notion — sleeping in a thatch hut
and waking at dawn to gather seashells with the nomads — but I finally decide against it.

After all, the Moken never invited me to stay.

This article originally appeared in the July 2002 issue of Conde Nast Traveler.
Link: https://rolfpotts.com/the-last-archipelago/

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.