The first chapter in my guidebook to Burma (Myanmar) is titled “Should you go?” Most passengers on Nautica would give a resounding yes. Burma was by far the most exciting, interesting, and diverse port on this itinerary. In my opinion, the temples of Bagan rival Petra, Machu Picchu, Angkor Wat, the Taj Mahal, Luxor, the Great Pyramids and Sphinx as a once-in-a-lifetime destination. Many of my fellow passengers described Bagan, Mandalay and Burma as one the most interesting places they’d ever seen. Almost everyone said that Oceania should continue to call on Burma regularly. But I believe anyone traveling here has to answer the question, “Should I go?”
For those who may not know much about the political situation, here is a very brief synopsis as I understand it. (Please note that any errors that follow are mine—I am not an expert or a historian—I am writing with limited research resources on a cruise ship).
Shortly after World War II, Burma become an independent, democratic government. The leader credited with independence is Aung San, who was assassinated in the late 1940’s shortly before the new government was formed.
The short-lived Democratic rule ended in the early 1960’s when a military coup successfully overturned the government. Burma, once positioned to be the most economically successful country in Southeast Asia due to its abundant natural resources, has deteriorated into one of the poorest, most repressed countries on earth.
Since the General’s coup, there have been many protests against the regime. In the 1970’s student rebellions were ruthlessly and violently ended, over 300,000 Burmese Indians were permanently expelled, and hundreds of thousands of Muslims fled to avoid persecution. In 1988 major protests, mostly led by students, erupted around Burma. Most historians concur that they ended when the government murdered over 3,000 students and other protestors in a single night of mayhem and gunfire.
In an apparent effort to promote the illusion of democracy, the government changed the name of the country from Burma to Myanmar in 1989 and held “democratic elections” in 1990. The United States, Canada, UK and Australia still officially recognize Burma, not Myanmar, as the name of the country. Aung San’s daughter, Aung Sun Suu Kyi, led the opposition. Her party won 392 out of 489 parliament seats, but the military refused to step down and placed Aung Sun Suu Kyi under house arrest when she refused to leave Burma. She was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in absentia in 1991.
The totalitarian government has controlled the media, schools, business and all forms of bureaucracy for decades. Every major or international business operating in Burma is required by law to partner with them. Their primary trade partners are Iran, North Korean and China.
Recent history (experienced by millions who lived through it) has been officially censored and distorted to strengthen the military's position and indoctrinate young people. For example, in a government printed English language tourist brochure, Burma’s political history is described as follows.
“Myanmar, formerly known as “Burma” has been in existence for centuries. Naturally, she has been going through ups and downs of time along the course of her existence. Under the current leadership of the national heroes, however the country was opulent and peaceful.”
Although Aung Sun Suu Kyi, known to the Burmese as “The Lady” was finally freed in November 2010, she is not allowed to gather any crowds or speak to the people. It is dangerous to speak her name publicly. Several years ago Aung Sun Suu Kyi requested tourists to boycott Burma. She said that visiting helps support the government. Certainly they benefit from the influx of foreign dollars that tourism brings. However, many of Aung Sun Suu Kyi’s present supporters, who previously asked tourists not to visit, have reversed their recommendation. They say that having Burmese people interact with foreign visitors helps the Burmese recognize that it is possible to live in free societies where freedom of assembly, freedom of expression and freedom from exploitation are illegal. Although our guide was a strong supporter of the government, I had many opportunities to talk to local people in markets, at temples, at bus stops and in airports. Many Burmese speak excellent English, and not only were they eager to practice it, they were interested in talking to an American.
My decision to go to Burma was heavily influenced by a photo I saw many years ago of the temples, or stupas, of Bagan. When I saw the picture I knew this was a place I wanted to visit someday. Ever since I learned the photo was of the temples in Bagan I wanted to go to Burma. The deciding factors in choosing this itinerary was the
chance to finally go to Bagan. I didn’t like the ship’s overland tour for Bagan, it was too expensive and too short, so I used a travel agency I’ve had great success with that specializes in Vietnam, Thailand and Burma. We had many emails back and forth. To use a private tour company copies of our passports and personal details were required months before our entry. There is a great deal of paperwork and bureaucracy associated with visiting and traveling within Burma. Much of the country is closed to foreigners and there are many internal military checkpoints. Travel is closely regulated, although it is discreet in the tourist areas of Yangon, Mandalay and Bagan.
When we arrived our guide was waiting at the heavily secured pier. My first sight of Burma was the MITT cargo port along the Yangon River. Our tour company had arranged a 20-passenger bus for the six of us. As we left the pier, small raindrops formed on the windshield and the humidity was blanketed by gray skies. The paved road was very bumpy and though it was only 30 miles to Yangon we couldn’t drive fast. As we passed locals walking along the highway they usually waved and smiled. It felt like tourists weren’t common here. Most of the teashops and restaurants we passed were open air with cheap plastic resin chair and table fixtures covered by nylon canopies to block the rain and sun. There was a surprising amount of litter along the road and the closer we got to Yangon the more people, shops, homes and cafes we saw. Soon there were people everywhere. I noticed many people in buses staring at us as we passed. Their buses were packed far beyond the capacity they were constructed for, and all of them looked rundown and in need of paint,
cleaning and repair. I felt uncomfortable that my bus was so empty and theirs were packed so tightly that I would have panicked to ride with them
Tall Buddhist temples dotted the highway. The men and women almost all wore colorful longyi, a fabric sarong that is tied around the waist. Almost everyone wore sandals. In Burma, religious protocol requires that people have bare feet in the temples, so wearing slip on sandals makes going back and forth much easier. We arrived in Yangon about an hour before our short flight to Bagan, so our guide took us to a temple with a tall marble Buddha. As we walked through the pagoda I noticed that there were paintings showing the ruling General’s with monks and the giant marble Buddha. I asked our guide about the paintings.
“Oh yes, this shows the country leaders making this giant Buddha. See how they found the marble in the quarry and commissioned this beautiful statute?” I nodded, but it was hard to stomach a painting depicting the Generals as kind, wise, leaders
when I know some of the truth. The Generals earn billions of dollars annually from Burma’s natural resources and their commercial monopolies. They spend lavishly and even created their own modern city to rule from. Most Burmese earn less than $50 per month. One of the General’s daughter’s received over fifty millions US dollars in wedding gifts. There are few things I find more offensive than a handful of people living high on the hog at the expense of millions of others. I’d guess less than twenty thousand family and friends of the Generals enjoy the “high life” while the other 50 million inhabitants of Burma cry as their loved ones can’t afford the hospital, their children go to bed hungry or their parents and grandparents can’t afford essential prescriptions that we in the West take for granted.
“Dad! Dad! Can I set a bird free?”
“What are you talking about Casey?”
“Look! I can pay a thousand chat and set two birds free!” There was a woman in the temple with a cage of birds. For one thousand chat (a little over $1) she sells two birds that you hold, make a wish, and release. “Can I daddy, please?” He still
calls me daddy when is inner child takes over. He was so excited I couldn’t refuse. He loved holding the bird, making a wish and then throwing it into the air.
“What’d you wish for?” I asked.
“You know,” he smiled. I nodded my head toward my father, “Yep, that was one of them.”
“What was the other?”
“You know,” he made a shooting motion with his hands.
“The BB gun?” He nodded vigorously. Casey and I are still debating whether his is responsible enough to own a BB gun.
We stopped to see the lucky white elephants (they aren’t white, but their feet are) and boarded our plane for Bagan. The flight lasted a little over an hour. We told our tour operator we wanted to use Air Mandalay. It was the only airline in Burma that the US Embassy doesn’t declare unsafe. The flight was uneventful. Our guide traveled with us, and when we arrived she lead us to a beautiful 24-passenger bus.
The seats were plush with ample legroom and there were crystal sconces in the wall. I enjoyed it, but still I had that uncomfortable feeling that I was traveling like a sultan, while locals were crammed beyond capacity in pickups, vans and dilapidated buses.
“What do you think Dad? Is enjoying this place like visiting 1930’s Germany and eating a good schnitzel?”
He laughed. “Maybe a little bit. This is one of the worst governments in the world. On the other hand Jack, they are seeing us, talking to us and getting a perspective of the United States and the rest of the world they wouldn’t have if we weren’t here.” My Dad has been doing much better physical and mentally since Christmas. He isn’t the same as he was a few years ago—he still has a mentally and physically incurable, progressive, fatal disease—but he is able to move around better, isn’t in as much pain, and he seems more engaged and alert. It generally isn’t good to vary the routine of someone with dementia. I can’t imagine a bigger change than taking Dad to Burma! It’s confusing to me too! My mom, Casey, Sukey, Carol and I watch him constantly, the pathways are uneven and sometimes slippery, but he managed to complete the trip without a fall, without any significant mental lapses and he seemed to enjoy the experience. I value every significant conversation I
have with him now, and in some ways, because of his integrity, experience and character, I still trust his impressions and observations more than my own.
As we left the airport we saw our first signs of the temples of Bagan. The brick structures rise out of the landscape like fantastic circular spires. Some are hundreds of feet tall, a few are shorter than Casey. All of them bear the stamp of long dead master craftsmen and though they evoke memories of Jordan, India, Peru and Thailand, the shape, architecture and presence is unique to Burma. Most of the temples were built between 900 and 1200, and to me they reflect that era’s
Hindu past, Buddhist future and respect for “nats.” One of the most interesting things in Burma is the ongoing worship of the “nat” or spirits associated with lakes, trees and hills. The animistic worship of nats predates Hinduism and Buddhism and the blend of Buddhism and worship of nats is unique to Burma. It is still very much alive today. I was envious of how this culture has managed to embrace both beliefs.
It is estimated there are more temples, or “stupas,” in Bagan (an area roughly the size of Manhattan) than there are medieval cathedrals in Europe. Everywhere I looked temples stood large, small, some surrounded by palm tress and brush, others standing alone, majestic in open fields.
We checked into our luxurious hotel and went to a traditional Burmese lunch on the river. After lunch we visited many of the most famous temples including Manuha Paya and Dhammayangyi Pahto. At Manuha Paya we were taken to two enormous Buddha’s severely enclosed in a very tight temple. Dhammayangyi Pahto was an
immense structure that felt like a mysterious gothic castle. Inside were dark, musty, brick passages ways, uneven steps and intriguing staircases. The ascending terraces on the exterior made it seem obvious to me that there had to be passages inside that I didn’t notice. Both of these temples are “popular” and that means that in addition to sharing the temples with many other tourists, we were inundated with local vendors.
The hawkers in Bagan aren’t as aggressive as Egypt, but they are consistent, relentless and ubiquitous. Our guide taught us to say “no thank you” in Burmese, which helped considerably. Casey and I both found it hard to say no. Often the sales people were young, pretty girls, or six to ten-year old boys, and the intensity with which they pursued us validated how much they needed the money.
We went for an oxcart ride an hour before sunset. The oxcarts are pulled by horses and aren’t too comfortable. My father had a difficult time keeping balanced and
Casey quickly got bored. Each cart held two passengers and a driver. About half way through the ride Casey decided to practice cross-country and he ran ahead of the cart. I loved watching him jog along the dusty dirt paths interspersing the temples of Bagan. As the sun set and I watched him run my heart felt so grateful that we are now a family. Eventually he got tired and climbed aboard my parents cart.
Since we were alone I took some time to talk to my cart driver. He told me he was born in Bagan.
“Did you used to play here when you were a boy?”
“Oh yes, we skipped school and played in the temples.”
“Did you used to run after the carts too?” Small boys had run after our carts
begging for candy till we ran out.
He laughed. “Oh yes, we all do that.”
It felt like both of us wanted to say more. No one was around. We were approaching dusk, surrounded by temples, just two men in a cart in the middle of Burma. I decided to take a chance.
“Your country is very beautiful. It’s very different than the USA.”
“What is it like there?” He asked. What little he knew was mostly gleaned from television, movies and hope.
“It’s very big. We have oceans, mountains, deserts, lakes. Some bad people but mostly good people.”
“You have bad people?”
“Sometimes. Even our government can be bad. But we can complain. If I don’t like Obama, I can say he is a bad leader and I don’t vote for him. If I don’t like George W Bush, I can say he is a bad president and vote for someone else. When we have a government we don’t like we can try to change it with an election.”
“You like it there?”
“Yes. I am very lucky to live there. The USA has some problems, but to me it is still a very good place. I hope we can solve our problems. People are people. We make good decisions. We make bad decisions. A lot of people are greedy, some people don’t have money or jobs. But most people are able to get them.”
The sound of the horse hoofs clacking against the dusty road interrupted the silence.
“I don’t think I can go there. It is very hard to get a passport here.”
I looked him in the eye. “I know that. I hope someday you can travel and see the world. I’ll tell you something. I never thought I would be able to come to Burma, but here I am. I hope someday you can go to Thailand, Canada, Europe, Australia or USA. I really wish that for you.” He smiled at me. Both of us knew it was unlikely, but where there is life there is hope.
We arrived at our sunset viewing pagoda. I tipped him far too much, gave him a Marriott hotel pen and joined my family to watch the sun descend over Bagan.
Sunset is a major event. The changing lights magically transform the landscape. It’s easy to imagine being in a fairytale. Casey, my Mom, Carol and I climbed the Buledi stupa to watch as the sun went down, Sukey and my Dad chose not to climb the dark narrow steps. The most popular temple for sunsets, the nearby Shwesandaw Paya, was filled with hundreds of tourists. I preferred the quieter viewing spot on Buledi that our guide chose.
After sunset we ate dinner at the hotel, my parents and I got massages, and went to sleep. The next morning we ascended a 200-foot manmade tower. While I
agree with the critics who bemoan that the tower doesn’t blend in, the 360-degree view is fantastic. It is possible to take a hot air balloon over Bagan, but at $300 a person,it wasn’t in our budget. Going up the tower was as close as I got to the view from a balloon.
After breakfast we went to the Nyaung Oo Market. Most of the stalls were filled with vegetables, fruit, dried fish and spices, but a few of them sold souvenirs. Prices were cheap. I wanted some masks, a puppet, inexpensive lacquer ware and a few woodcarvings. As soon as I started buying souvenirs I was surrounded.
“I give you cheap price,” a brown-faced girl said thrusting a wooden moon in my face.
“You want t-shirt? You want t-shirt?” Another asked as she tried to lead me to her stall.
“You like this?” I turned and saw Casey surrounded by four or five vendors thrusting elephant puppets, masks and fans at him. We started getting separated by the crowd. There were at least fifteen people mobbing us for sales. I used my size to get back to Casey’s side.
“Don’t buy anything else Dad! It just makes them try to sell us more!” I assured Casey we would be OK, and I forced our way back.
“Where you from Mister? Where you from?” A little group of hawkers circled us all the way till we climbed the stairs into the air-conditioned cocoon of our bus. We took our seats toward the back.
“Look Dad!” Casey pointed toward the window. A young man was lifting carved male and female figurines up and down outside the bus window. Casey walked over to the window and shut the curtains. “Don’t open them, Dad!” He warned.
Ignoring his warning I opened the curtain, bought the figurines and shared a giant Butterfinger with all of them. I’ve been on their side of the fence too many times not to feel empathy at their desire to close a sale.
Though the shopping was a hassle, the prices were good. Masks were $5 to $15, a cheap puppet $5, a “good” marionette $25. Lacquer ware boxes were plentiful in the $3 to $8 range. I spent a little over $150, and I was glad that I bought only one thing from each vendor. While the inevitable accumulation of sellers was a hassle, I wanted to spread my money to as many different people as possible.
Next we went to the Schwezigon Pagoda. The entrances were lines with kids selling postcards, permanent t-shirt displays, lacquer ware and inexpensive paintings. The
interior was peaceful and dozens of gold Buddha’s were surrounded by ornate roofs and walls. Right next to a small Buddha was a pavilion devoted to worshipping the nats. Casey was getting hot and tired. I sympathized with him. My mom reminded both of us how much I used to complain as my Mom and Dad took me to cathedrals in Holland, France, England and Germany. My only memory of Notre Dame in Paris is how eager I was to leave it and get an ice cream. The only cathedrals I liked were those that displayed real skulls and bones—something I never got to see in the churches back home.
“Can we go now? I’m really bored.” Casey looked grumpy and tired. Our guide, sensing his displeasure, made a suggestion.
“Casey, would you like to ring this bell?” She pointed to an enormous 12’ bell and a large wooden gong. He immediately brightened.
“Yes!” She told him to ring it at least three times. He hit it five. As we turned a corner we noticed several monks about Casey’s age. I had tried to get Casey to
pose with monks earlier, but I was unsuccessful.
“Casey,” Sukey said. “I’ll give you five bucks to take a picture with those monks.”
“Sure!” He went right over and gave her a big smile.
While I enjoyed the famous temples, I wanted to see more of the “tourist and hawker free” temples that we kept passing in our bus. I told our guide that I was going to skip lunch and wanted to be left near some temples where I could spend some time alone.
The bus dropped me near a grassy field with over a hundred temples of various sizes on either side of the road. None of them were as famous as the temples that every guide leads tourists too, but the hour I spent there, my back against a warm brick wall, watching a cow graze in front of thousand year old stupas is among my favorite memories of Bagan. When I travel I like to soak things in. I also enjoy
solitude. As much as I love people, I’m happiest when I can also spend some time alone, especially in a place like the temples of Bagan. I was tired of hawkers, crowds, Casey’s complaining and worrying about whether my Dad was going to fall on an uneven surface. I sat with my iPod, listening to some of my favorite music, trying to imagine some of the events that had unfolded where I sat over the last thousand years.
When the bus picked me up everyone else got out and took some pictures and looked around too. After that, we went to a lacquer ware factory and I bought a
very expensive 2’ tall gold leafed stupa to take home. Our flight was delayed an hour and Casey got bored in the airport. He had purchased a longyi and practiced tying it in the airport. Two monks started watching him and they were so amused by the young westerner trying to tie a longyi they started taking pictures of him.
When he finally was successful, they applauded along with 20 other bored, delayed passengers. One of the monks approached Casey and gave him a gift of candy—
receiving something from a monk is considered very good luck here—and another tour guide worked with Casey to make sure he can tie his longyi Burmese style when he returns homes.
One of our friends was badly injured on the walk from the terminal to to the plane. Our guide arranged for my parents to be the first passengers aboard as we had stressed my father’s motion and depth perception issues. When they were led away, about 60 others, including me, pushed toward the doors. There was no assigned seating, and many of us were anxious to find seats with our traveling companions. The quarter mile walk was dark and our friend caught his foot in a small hole. His face and hand were badly cut. The flight attendants and our guide attended him through the flight. When he got back to the ship he needed 18 stitches. I felt terrible. If only we’d all walked slower instead of being so competitive—I was the first person on the plane after my parents, and I’m sure I contributed to the frenzy for seats.
We arrived safely back in Yangon and reached the ship about 10:00 p.m.. The next morning we met our guide at 8:15 for a city tour. Nautica was scheduled to leave at 4:00, so I’d arranged for us to return no later than 2:00. As we made our way along the bumpy road to Yangon, I watched closely out my window. I could see
that people were curious about us. I didn’t sense resentment, but I sensed that me and my day-to-day life was as much a mystery to them as their lives were to me.
When we got to Yangon we went to Chukhtatgyi Psaya, which features a large reclining Buddha. It was housed in a building that looked like a train station. From the entrance steel girders obstructed the view of the Buddha. This Buddha was fairly new—our guide said it was built in the 1960’s—but I couldn’t discern any obvious difference between it and the older Buddha’s we had seen all over Bagan.
“Do we have to go see any more Buddha’s Dad? I want to go back to the ship!” Casey was bored and I was getting a little tired of Buddha’s too. When our guide asked if we wanted to see another small Buddhist temple we all politely said no.
What we really wanted to see was Shwedagon Paya.
Shwedagon is among the most ornate temples in the world. Certainly anyone who has been to Bangkok’s Imperial Palace can’t help but compare it, but Shwedagon is unique and truly can’t be compared to anything. Rising monolithic like and visible throughout much of Yangon, the central gold dome rises to a pinnacle over 300 feet from the base. The spire and base vaguely resemble an ornate genie bottle or an exotic perfume decanter. The uppermost portion reminded me of Apollo 11’s nose. Every square inch is plated in gold. It is said there is more gold plastered on the side of Shwedagon than stored in the vaults of the Bank of England. At the top of the spire is a diamond orb—it can be viewed by strategically placed free
telescopes—with 4,351 diamonds that weigh 1,800 carats. The very tip is adorned with a single 76-carat diamond.
Surrounding the spire are marble tiles worn from millions of passing bare feet. Surrounding the base are dozens of smaller shrines—each of them a masterpiece in their own right. Trying to absorb the Shwedagon Paya in a few hours is as impossible as taking in the New York Metropolitan Museum in an afternoon. The brain and soul rebel—it’s too much coming in too fast. To really have a sense of the scope, immensity and intricacy would take months of study.
We walked around the central spire clockwise. I tried to take pictures to capture some of the spirit of Shwedagon, but it was impossible. I noticed some local photographers selling pictures to tourists and for $5 they agreed to take 10 photos of my Mom, Dad, Casey and me with my camera. They were expert at capturing good images.
The plaza can get very hot. The sun reflects from the tons of gold and the marble tiles absorb the heat. Fortunately there was just enough sun to make everything sparkle, but it was only about 80 degrees. On more typical, hotter days, mats are placed over the tiles so visitors don’t burn their bare feet. As I helped my father step into another shrine displaying a holy bell he stopped me. “Jack,” he said.
“Yes, Dad.”
“Do you know what this reminds me of?” I looked around. There were green frescoes, white Buddha’s, gold leafed iron and glass mirrors surrounding us. A giant bronze bell stood in the center of the small pagoda.
Thinking might be a transformative moment for him, and wishing I could relate to him better I said, “No, Dad. I’m sorry I don’t. What are you thinking about?”
“Right over there,” he pointed about 100 feet away to a row of mirrors and 3’ Buddha’s on pedestals, “that looks just like a row of lucky slot machines.”
I burst out laughing. “I guess it does. Do you want to walk over there?”
“Uh-huh,” he slowly made his way down the steps and walked over to the small Buddha’s. “I’m going to rub the belly for luck,” he whispered conspiratorially. Our guide kept Casey diverted by ringing bells and “fanning” a 90’ Buddha. There was a long rope that visitors can pull to offer the Buddha fresh air. After an hour we
decided to leave. It was clear that my Dad and Casey were ready to go, and we needed to make our way back to Nautica.
We drove through the old colonial section of Yangon and looked at the buildings built by the British in the early 20th century. As we passed one I noticed three
young girls laughing in front of a heavily fenced building surrounded by barbed wire. The younger generation is so used to guards, fences and barbed wire that it has simply become part of their daily life. As we crossed the Yangon River on our way to the port I turned back toward Yangon. A gold temple reflected through the haze in the afternoon sunlight. There was so much to admire here—devotion to spiritual practices, respect for elders, friendliness and curiosity—but I was still
appalled that a few thousand men kept the country under what I would consider martial law simply to provide themselves an unfathomable material lifestyle. Ambition is appropriate to teenagers and young adults—it’s probably essential as part of the process of learning to be independent—but at some point I believe naked ambition at the expense of others must be replaced by compassion, consideration and love. It’s clear to me that the objectives ambition usually seeks—money, power, sex, fashion—while often enjoyable in the short term, quickly lose their allure over time. Comparing sex, money or fashion to family, children and integrity is like comparing popsicles to icebergs. I made that mistake once. It damn near cost me my soul. I’ll make many mistakes in the future, but I won’t make that one again.
As we neared the port I glimpsed Nautica in the distance. She felt like an oasis of freedom and safety in a strange port. My iPod was set to randomly play songs. As I listened to music and reflected on Nautica, wondering why I was born to loving parents in a privileged country, in a privileged century I heard Buffalo Springfield sing, “There’s something happening here, what it is ain’t exactly clear…” That’s it! There is something happening here in Burma, and it is obfuscated, but I can’t help but believe that the compassion of the Burmese, the courage of Aung Sun Suu Kyi, the people’s devotion to the divine and their profound sense of community will eventually overthrow their corrupt leaders.
Several times Burmese people whispered to me that they believe Aung Sun Suu Kyi can be their country’s Nelson Mandela. They knew he was locked up, oppressed and isolated by an unjust government, and that knowledge gives them hope. In a world where governments can’t completely isolate their citizens from the greater global community the Generals can’t stay in power forever. Too many Burmese know too much about the spirit and history of Gandhi, Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King. They know that some nations believe that “all people are created equally”, and despite the Generals efforts to rewrite history and mold the spirits of young Burmese, rumors of freedom, knowledge of freely elected world leaders, cell phones, the Internet and tourists make total isolation impossible.
I don’t know when Burma will change, but I hope it’s soon. The next time I stand on the plains of Bagan and admire the 1000 year-old temples I hope to stand in a free Burma—a land where the obscene lust of a few corrupt men no longer obstruct the needs of the many for the benefit of a few.
Thanks for reading,
Jack
