Here I am, entering a media access restricted authoritarian state. Over my shoulder, a bag of incrimination. It’s not looking good and it seems that on this particular obstacle course I am about to unceremoniously clatter into the first hurdle.
Then God intervenes. The God of Anfield because there is only one God, scorer of 128 goals for Liverpool, capped 26 times for England.
God is Robbie Fowler.
And right now Robbie stands – lies – between me and the dream of Burmese Dreaming disappearing in a waft of non existent smoke before a spark has been lit.
I am in customs in Burma (aka Myanmar). Soldiers, men and women, man the posts. Bored, but still attentive to the smell of inner clamour. The olfactories of these wolf-hounds never rest.
A uniformed carnivore pulls me from the regular queue walking me across to a table where fellow uniforms line up awaiting the opportunity to dismember CIA infiltrators arriving with the intent of destabilising the nation. That could be me, except it’s not, but it might be.
A cartoon talk bubble emanates from the top of my head. “F*ck” with an oversized exclamation mark, it says. My stomach plays a rollicking fourth movement of a discordant symphony that has been banging out since waking up this morning.
This morning: a time in a parallel, much more convivial universe. The Sala Thai Guest House, Bangkok. Falling asleep last night had been no problem, 2.00am, after a number of pints downed in a Bangkok pub as Liverpool downed Arsenal in the FA Cup Final.
The realities of today were not in my mind. They rudely arrived this morning, disrupting my stomach and sending me repeatedly to the toilet. I would shortly be travelling from Bangkok to Rangoon / Yangon with professional film and audio equipment with the intent of filming a documentary. I had travelled through Burma before and was not blind to the challenges of filming in a country where filming was not allowed.
So here I am, ushered towards my own personal baggage inspection table with my mind churning out an oft repeated assurance: ‘Soldiers will want to keep it simple. Deport prying eyes before they see anything is much easier than having to pull them – the eyes – out.’ But in the back of my mind, there is a very definite fear of questioning and possible detention.
A moment of relief – my uniform is a lady, hard set and square jawed, but somehow less intimidating than her male counterparts. I arrive at her table and speak meaningless Burmese at her, a failed distraction. Her focus is single pointed, her finger is well trained, and she has immediately sniffed out my bag of guilt. Put it on the table and open it up, she gestures.
It’s now or never, Robbie, weave your magic or join me in purgatory.
Last night, in the early hours of this morning, as the final whistle blew on the FA Cup final, good fortune crawled from the final swigs of my pint. It came in the form of 7th prize in the pub raffle: a 40cm tall plastic effigy of a footballing deity.
This morning, still in Bangkok, I had looked at Robbie and thought, “Sorry mate, there is no place for you on this trip.” But then the heavens parted and they told me Robbie should come too. I removed the base of my camera bag and laid it on top of the cameras, a basic pretence of concealment, but one which served as a bed upon which I could then place my Robbie doll. And thus Robbie journeys with me to the totalitarian state of Myanmar.
The uniformed werewolf in Yangon customs opens my camera bag in front of me. Then, there he is, staring up at her, garish, ridiculous, unexpected, Robbie Fowler with his cheap Thai plastic eyes. They cast a distracting spell. The military lady immediately realises I am a moron and no threat to the state. Without any further ado she closes up my camera bag and waves me through.
Robbie, you did it. The journey that will end in the production of Burmese Dreaming will begin. It won’t fail at the first hurdle.
Sorry Robbie, deification is a tough gig, and like an ageing Gazza, three days later I find the plastic doll surplus to my requirements. Checking out of my hotel in Yangon, I leave Robbie on the bed head. He is picked up by a cleaner who later gifts the figurine to a 10 year old nephew who mistakes it for Rio Ferdinand and proudly displays it next to a counterfeit Man U premier league title flag hanging on his wall.
Robbie: you did not figure in the Burmese Dreaming credits. It was an oversight. Nonetheless, belatedly, respect and thank you.
