snakes?” “Bibi, I read about a woman who got epilepsy from being bitten by a monkey in Madagascar.” On and on she went, until Harry put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Heidi, love, you needn’t be so grim. Why not anticipate an excellent time?”
The trouble was, they all anticipated an excellent time. What was grim was forgotten; the encephalitic monkeys were shooed away, as 3 8
S A V I N G F I S H F R O M D R O W N I N G
was the need for insurance—that is, until my funeral. Then it became my fault that they could not anticipate an excellent time, my fault that they could not cancel the trip. How quickly they turned into petulant creatures, as whiny as children following their mother on a hot day of errands.
The hearse rolled, the band marched, and my friends trudged
along the eucalyptus-lined lane, past throngs of gaping people spilling out of the California Academy of Sciences building, the toddlers clinging to their rubber replicas of dinosaurs and shouting with glee to see this unexpected parade.
“Woof-woof! Love your show!” some voices called out.
Harry nodded to his fans. “Quite embarrassing,” he said in a low but pleased voice. With his television smile still affixed, he turned back to our group and, now infused with bravado by public worship, said heroically: “Well, what to do? The deed is done, the die is cast, best to make a go of it, I say. To Burma.”
Vera nodded. “No one could be as wonderful as our Bibi, but
there’s the practical matter of finding another tour leader. That’s the simple imperative.”
“Someone knowledgeable about Burma,” Marlena added. “Someone who’s been many times. That Asian art expert, Dr. Wu, perhaps.
I hear he’s fantastic.”
“Top-notch,” Harry agreed.
“Whoever we get for a tour leader,” Dwight added, “we should have them cut out half of the cultural-museum shit and add in more bicycling or trekking activities instead.”
Heidi chimed in: “I also think we should each research something about Burma, like its history, politics, or culture. Bibi knew so much.”
One by one they acquiesced, but not before offering amendments and disagreements, then even more complicated refinements and caveats—an omen of things to come.
By the time we reached John F. Kennedy Drive, the band was play3 9
A M Y T A N
ing a squeaky version of “Amazing Grace” on the two-stringed erhu , and I had been forgiven by the group for not having bought trip cancellation insurance. As two motorcycle police held traffic at bay, the hearse sped off, and I bid my body a silent adieu. Then Harry asked the rest of the travelers to join him in a circle for a team high five, intoning, “May Bibi join us in spirit.”
So that was how it came about. They hoped that I would go. How could I not?
4 0
• 2•
MY PLANS UNDONE
Almost everything I had planned came undone. My original
itinerary began thusly: My friends, those lovers of art, most of them rich, intelligent, and spoiled, would spend a week in
China and arrive in Burma on Christmas Day.
It started as planned: On December 18th, after nearly two days of travel and two stopovers, we arrived in Lijiang, China, the “Land Beyond the Clouds.” My group was met by the best tour guide of the region, one I had used on a previous trip. Mr. Qin Zheng was an athletic young man, who wore designer-label jeans, Nike sneakers, and a “Harvard”-emblazoned pullover. My friends were surprised that he looked so Western, and except for the Chinese accent, he could have been one of them. He narrated the sights they could still appreciate as twilight approached.
From the window of the deluxe air-conditioned tour bus, my
A M Y T A N
friends and I could see the startling snowcapped peaks of Tibet glinting in the distance. Each time I have seen them, it is as amazing as the first.
Vera was jingling and jangling on the bumpy bus ride. She wore a profusion of ethnic-style jewelry around her neck, and encircling
The trouble was, they all anticipated an excellent time. What was grim was forgotten; the encephalitic monkeys were shooed away, as 3 8
S A V I N G F I S H F R O M D R O W N I N G
was the need for insurance—that is, until my funeral. Then it became my fault that they could not anticipate an excellent time, my fault that they could not cancel the trip. How quickly they turned into petulant creatures, as whiny as children following their mother on a hot day of errands.
The hearse rolled, the band marched, and my friends trudged
along the eucalyptus-lined lane, past throngs of gaping people spilling out of the California Academy of Sciences building, the toddlers clinging to their rubber replicas of dinosaurs and shouting with glee to see this unexpected parade.
“Woof-woof! Love your show!” some voices called out.
Harry nodded to his fans. “Quite embarrassing,” he said in a low but pleased voice. With his television smile still affixed, he turned back to our group and, now infused with bravado by public worship, said heroically: “Well, what to do? The deed is done, the die is cast, best to make a go of it, I say. To Burma.”
Vera nodded. “No one could be as wonderful as our Bibi, but
there’s the practical matter of finding another tour leader. That’s the simple imperative.”
“Someone knowledgeable about Burma,” Marlena added. “Someone who’s been many times. That Asian art expert, Dr. Wu, perhaps.
I hear he’s fantastic.”
“Top-notch,” Harry agreed.
“Whoever we get for a tour leader,” Dwight added, “we should have them cut out half of the cultural-museum shit and add in more bicycling or trekking activities instead.”
Heidi chimed in: “I also think we should each research something about Burma, like its history, politics, or culture. Bibi knew so much.”
One by one they acquiesced, but not before offering amendments and disagreements, then even more complicated refinements and caveats—an omen of things to come.
By the time we reached John F. Kennedy Drive, the band was play3 9
A M Y T A N
ing a squeaky version of “Amazing Grace” on the two-stringed erhu , and I had been forgiven by the group for not having bought trip cancellation insurance. As two motorcycle police held traffic at bay, the hearse sped off, and I bid my body a silent adieu. Then Harry asked the rest of the travelers to join him in a circle for a team high five, intoning, “May Bibi join us in spirit.”
So that was how it came about. They hoped that I would go. How could I not?
4 0
• 2•
MY PLANS UNDONE
Almost everything I had planned came undone. My original
itinerary began thusly: My friends, those lovers of art, most of them rich, intelligent, and spoiled, would spend a week in
China and arrive in Burma on Christmas Day.
It started as planned: On December 18th, after nearly two days of travel and two stopovers, we arrived in Lijiang, China, the “Land Beyond the Clouds.” My group was met by the best tour guide of the region, one I had used on a previous trip. Mr. Qin Zheng was an athletic young man, who wore designer-label jeans, Nike sneakers, and a “Harvard”-emblazoned pullover. My friends were surprised that he looked so Western, and except for the Chinese accent, he could have been one of them. He narrated the sights they could still appreciate as twilight approached.
From the window of the deluxe air-conditioned tour bus, my
A M Y T A N
friends and I could see the startling snowcapped peaks of Tibet glinting in the distance. Each time I have seen them, it is as amazing as the first.
Vera was jingling and jangling on the bumpy bus ride. She wore a profusion of ethnic-style jewelry around her neck, and encircling
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