Burma, April 2015 – Charlie Thomas
Anxious faces gathered round, an older man amongst them gestured to me that I risk arrest by venturing over the wall, but I hadn’t come this far to go back.
Intentions were clear from the heavy duty padlock on the front gate that visitors were not welcome, so I was building up a pile of rocks to give myself a step up onto the wall in a patch where the barbed wire had fallen down.
I was breaking into the derelict site of the Pegu Club, once a member’s club in the heart of Yangon, Myanmar (Formerly Rangoon, Burma). This had been the beating heart of colonial high society in the country, verandas and lawns providing a setting for military officers, civilian administrators and European merchants to sip G+Ts and ‘Pegu Club cocktails’ in tranquil surroundings. It now lay derelict following British withdrawal from Rangoon during the Second World War and an ensuing spell as a Japanese brothel.
With a thump, I landed on the other side of the wall inside the club grounds. With a quick look through the long grass I headed off on my mission, to see if the rumour I had heard was true – that there were a couple of disused rackets courts on the site. (A game from which the sport Squash developed, perfected in English Public Schools)
I stopped fast in my tracks concerned the sound of my beating heart would draw their attention as I sunk into the long grass. Three stray dogs strolled around the corner and stopped, stalking a bird up in a blossoming tree. The reason for my concern was that due to my own disorganisation I had only had one of my three rabies inoculations prior to leaving London, and felt certain these dogs could be the end of me – in a corner of a foreign field, that was once England.
Luck would have it they soon tottered off and I began my search, peeping in through empty window panes and creaking doors at large teak rooms, once home to fabulous balls and billiards tables but now purposeless. Around another corner I found an outhouse with a wide veranda running around it, could this be it? I peered in and was met with the steely gaze of a face, withdrawing into the shadows with white eyes fixated upon mine and as petrified as myself. We stood in a trance that felt like ten seconds, but couldn’t have been more than three. “Mingalabar”, I offered, Burmese for “Hello”. She shooed me away, aggressively gesturing at the front gate before she pointed at herself and put her hands infront of her in a handcuff motion. I got the idea, she was as afraid as I was because she could not use tourist naivety as an excuse for being there, she was squatting.
Keen to get rid of me, she followed me out, I attempted in my best pidgin English to explain I was looking for a couple of rackets courts but for some reason don’t think she quite understood. I pointed at my watch and then showed three fingers, her understanding that I would only be three minutes seemed to appease her and understanding that there wasn’t much she could do, she followed me on my odyssey.
I saw a building, with a side wall slanting up in height from one side to the other, connected to the roof with finely interwoven wooden meshing. A tree was growing up the wall, clearly straining the bricks which were cracking. Confident that I had found my prize, I forced open a small door on the back of the building and found the resistance to be a small bush growing up inside the hallway backing onto the door and a carpet of leaves underfoot. Ahead stretched a narrow hallway with only two doors going off to the right side, widely spread apart. I ventured in through the first doorway which was ajar, nervously peering round thinking of the last time I peered into a dark room.
What lay before me was exactly what I was looking for, a court. I could easily make out the lines on the floor and on the front wall, identical to back home but was conscious that the court was much smaller than expected, halfway in between a rackets court and a squash court. The players would have used long stemmed wooden rackets with a small head with which they thrashed round a small, rock hard white ball similar to a golf ball. I pictured decades of men playing here, possibly competing for the Pegu Club Championships in pre-war times. I had a quick look at the other identical court before ascending the rickety stairs up to the viewing gallery uneasy at the very real possibility of the century old wood giving way under me. Up top, I looked down at the courts from above and along at a row of chairs and very old beer bottles strewn on the floor. I suspected these were the reserve of members of a rather different type of club that had habituated the premises following the British withdrawal, the Japanese soldier’s brothel.
Content with my discovery and much to the delight of my rather anxious new friend, I headed for the exit the same way I had come in. Having thanked the lady for letting me have a look at her home, I hauled myself back up onto the wall and was flabbergasted to see about thirty people standing around, staring at me in silence. Keen not to overstay my welcome in case the local rozzers came along I jumped down and headed off through the crowd meeting their quizzical expressions with another “Mingalabar” and said “the courts weren’t quite as big as the Charterhouse ones, if you were interested” and headed off back down the dusty road.