The Ugly American (15 page)

These two Americans distributed high-quality seeds to all of the townspeople and helped them organize a community canning plan. The people of the village still do most of the growing individually, and a good deal of the canning is done at home; but now they not only put up things for their own use, but for all of Burma. This village is the canning center of the nation, and processes meat, vegetables, and many favorite Burmese foods.

In this section of the Shan States everyone is pro-American because of the Martins. They came to Burma to help us, not to improve their own standard of living.

You don't need publicity if the results of what you are doing are visible and are valuable to the people. The steam from a pot of good soup is its best advertisement.

You asked me what I would do if I were the President of the United States. This is what I would do: I would send more people like the Martins to Burma. That's all you'd need. You could forget about the hordes of executives, PX's, commissaries, and service forces which are now needed to support the Americans abroad. And then, of course, you could save many of the millions of dollars Americans seem to think essential to any aid program.

You implied earlier that the Russians who went abroad seemed to operate effectively. Can you explain why this is?

The Russians are professionals. They keep many of their men in Burma for as long as five years. They all know Burmese. They study quietly and live quietly. They employ no Burmese servants, and hence there is nobody to spread gossip about them. All their servants are Russian.

The Russian Ambassador is their social lion. He's the one who attends the cocktail parties. But that's about all he does. The Russian team always has a professional expert who not only knows the area thoroughly, but also has authority. Here in Burma it was a man named Victor Lassiovsky. He had some minor title—I believe it was second secretary. He always opened the door for the ambassador and walked behind him. He didn't waste much time at parties. He was the real tactical leader of the Russian task force, and he ran the entire Burmese effort for Russia. Lassiovsky was recently transferred to Thailand. I predict that America will be having trouble there soon.

Is Russian economic aid better than that of the United States?

No, it is not. But it is much more obvious, and so more effective as propaganda. For example, our Prime Minister flies in a Russian transport plane—a gift from Stalin. This gift made a deep impression not only on the Burmans, but on all Southeast Asians.

The Russians have promised to build us a sports stadium—you know we're all sports crazy—and also a hospital and a graduate school for engineers and doctors. We don't have them yet. But these are projects which the people understand and would like to have. And even though we are all suspicious of the Russians and the Chinese Communists, still, both the man in the street and the young intellectuals discuss what the Russians are doing.

Also, the Communists are extremely skillful in their cultural projects. The Tenth Anniversary of our independence was a tremendous celebration. You could compare it to Christmas, New Years, Easter, the Fourth of July, and Purim, all rolled into one. We had great parades. All the Communist nations participated in these parades with floats, acrobats, and folk dancers. They carried big banners congratulating us on our independence from colonialism. There were no marchers from the United States.

If any of you Americans ever left Rangoon and went up-country, you would see that there are Russian circuses and Chinese entertainers everywhere. True, you send some stars like Benny Goodman, and some opera singers, and they're very welcome—but they play only in Rangoon and only a few of the elite get to see them. Oh yes, I forgot, you also had a cut glass exhibit. We're a nation fighting for survival, and you send us a cut glass exhibit.

I hope I've answered your questions. I'll finish by saying that what America needs in Asia is good, well-trained, and dedicated Americans. They
must
be well-trained and dedicated. The subordinates can be mediocre, but the leaders must be top-notch, with the ability to make their subordinates fit in with Burmese culture, community habits, and needs.

I've known almost every American ambassador, military leader, top economic advisor, and USIS man sent to Southeast Asia in the last ten years. This includes both career people and amateurs. I can recall only two ambassadors, one USIS leader, and one admiral who were trained and dedicated professionals. Ninety per cent of the Russian executives are professionals— no matter what else they may be. You're bound to lose in competition with them until you learn from them.

And yet, I believe firmly that the Americans could drive the Communists out of Asia in a few years if you really tried and were willing to live life out here on our level. And if you had a definite policy. But most important—act like Americans. We love Americans—the kind we meet in America.

When the dinner party was over U Maung Swe and Gilbert MacWhite went for a walk. It was one of those soft nights when every sound carries a great distance and the perfume of flowers comes floating in from the jungle.

"What about Sarkhan, Maung?" MacWhite asked. "What should I do?"

"About what?"

"About anything, big or little."

Maung paused for a moment. The breeze brought the sound of distant gongs.

"Gilbert, I heard once of an American who was working on a powdered milk plant in Sarkhan," Maung said. "He planned to develop a taste for milk in the Sarkhanese, and then bring in dairy cattle and set up the business on a sound, self-supporting basis. No concession for foreigners. The whole thing simple and easy to run."

"I remember reading about him in reports," MacWhite said. "He got caught in a scandal. Rape or drugging girls. Something like that."

"Gilbert, those were lies. I never met the man, but I tool, the trouble to find out the truth of his story. The Communists framed him. He spoke Sarkhanese, he was dedicated, and the people liked him. His idea was sound. His name is Colvin; I think if you brought him back he would do a job for you."

"I'll do it, if I can get him cleared," MacWhite said. "They're little things, perhaps, but ideas like Colvin's are basic. When we've licked the basic problems, we can move on to grander projects. But we have to start with the little things which are Sarkhanese."

For three more hours they talked of little things.

How to Buy an American Junior Grade

thomas elmer knox—
Born April 1
,
1920, Sheldon, Iowa. Son of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Knox. Unmarried.

Graduated from Sheldon High School, 1937. Attended State University of Iowa; B. S. in animal husbandry and poultry husbandry, 1941. Enlisted as private, first class, in U. S. Army. Rose to staff sergeant by discharge in 1946. Participated in Allied invasion of Europe; served in a tank company. Decorated with Purple Heart and Bronze Medal.

Described in Sheldon High Year Book as follows: "Dead-serious, big-footed Tom (hates to be called Elmer) made letters in football and shot-put. Reputed to be antifeminine, but ask Emily Chester about the Class Picnic! Ha, ha! His heifers and chickens have won every 4-H contest for last three years, but Tom says he hates beef and eggs. Ambition: To make a hen lay 365 eggs in a year. Prediction: He'll do it! Ha, ha."

Managed Knox farm from 1946 until 1952. In 1953 accepted invitation to go to Cambodia as Consultant on Poultry for Economic Cooperation Administration.

Publications: "Influence of Commercial Calcium on Egg Production of Rhode Island Reds,"
The Iowa Poultry man,
September, 1955
-

There were three interesting things about Tom Knox. First, he was the only American anyone knew of in Cambodia who had spent all of his salary while he was there. Secondly, he knew more Cambodians than any other Westerner in the entire country. Thirdly, his capacity and enthusiasm for Cambodian food was at least three times greater than that of his closest competitor.

By the time Tom had been in Cambodia for a year, he was easily the best known American in that country. No village was so small that it had not heard Tom's booming laugh, seen his prodigious appetite in action, and benefited from his knowledge of chickens. Day after day Tom drove his jeep into the countryside. When the road dwindled into a path, he unslung a collapsible bike from the rear of the jeep, and pedaled off. When the path became impassable by bike, he walked.

"Hey there, feller," Tom would say to the first man he saw in a village. "Who's the Number One man around here? My name is Tom Knox. Sheldon, Iowa." Tom would then stick out his huge hand and vigorously pump the small bird-like hand of the Cambodian.

Ten minutes later everyone who could walk, hobble, or crawl would be gathered around Tom. He spoke a chaotic mixture of Cambodian, French, and farmyard English. But no one failed to understand him, and everyone valued the sincerity of his efforts to communicate.

"Now look here, people, you've got a chicken problem in this village," Tom would say. "You've got a bunch of teeny little scrawny chickens, and I'll bet you don't get fifty eggs a year from each one. Now I'm a chicken raiser from Iowa myself, and we've picked up a few tricks that I'm going to pass along to you. But before we do that, I'd like a little food." As the group moved off toward the headman's house to eat, Tom established his credentials, by making sure the villagers knew he was a farm boy.

In one place he watched the Cambodians take boiling syrup distilled from cane sugar and pour it into big pot-shaped sugar forms. He noticed that when they knocked the sugar out of the forms, they invariably lost a good part of it when they broke it loose. Tom sat down and designed a wooden sugar-cake form with hinges on the bottom which could be swung open so the cake could be removed intact. In another town he watched Cambodians putting piglets in little bamboo cages to take them to market. Usually one or two pigs would hang his head through the bars and strangle on the way to market. Tom, showed the villagers how to tie a twine harness around the chests of the pigs which made it impossible for the pig to strangle.

He was no less impressive when the time came to eat. In no time at all he had become a formidable expert on Cambodian food. He could tell the district from which different types of rice came. He knew dozens of different condiments and mixtures to go with rice. Cambodians watched with delight when Tom took over the cooking chores. He cooked with the sure hand of an artist; and whether it were river eel or lake fish, he prepared it expertly. Tom made a point of bringing enough food with him so that despite the enormous quantities that he ate his host was better off after Tom had left.

After the meal, Tom turned to business. He would snatch a squawking chicken from the ground, inspect it carefully— push back its feathers, look in its eyes, pull its claws wide, and feel for internal damage.

"Now, what this little feller needs is a bit more calcium in its diet," Tom would say. "Calcium, you know, it's that white stuff that you get from the earth. I saw a vein of it in a hill just off the trail about a mile back. Take five or six pounds of that and mix it with a hundred pounds of chicken feed, and you've got a good diet for a chicken; or at least it would be a good diet for
this
chicken."

When the chickens were diseased, Tom either dusted them with powders that he brought, or gave them injections. And he left pamphlets in Cambodian on how to care for the chickens to keep them well.

Tom's success, although minor by the standards by which military aid or big economic aid were calculated, was impressive. Word spread from village to village, until finally Tom's appearance in a new village became the sign for a carnival. Villagers began storing up prize pieces of fruit, a pot of superior smoked eel, especially good twigs of cinnamon, or a bag of exceptionally good rice in anticipation of Tom's next visit. And the production of eggs soared rapidly. In fact, Tom got a reputation for working magic with chickens. A scrawny and featherless chicken, at the very edge of death, would revive just from being touched by Tom. Five minutes after he had arrived in a village he could tell almost exactly what was wrong with the food being fed to the chickens; and he was invariably helpful on other things too. He was a walking encyclopedia of Cambodian and American folklore on chickens, and there was very little that he did not know about farming in general.

One night Tom was sitting in front of the home of the headman of a hillside village. He had worked twelve hours that day with the people of the village. He was pleasantly tired, and he watched contentedly as the moon came up and turned the green of the jungle below into a rolling sea of darkness. The broad shaft of silvery moonlight was occasionally broken by a flock of birds like a cloud of motes. The headman came over and squatted silently beside Tom.

"Why does a big strong man like you leave his country?" the headman asked softly and politely. "You are a very good man, but we wonder why you left your own country to come help us."

It was said with infinite courtesy, and Tom knew that he did not have to reply. His mind automatically recapitulated the formal lectures delivered to all economic cooperation people abroad on the objectives of foreign aid. He ticked them off in his mind, and then felt disgusted.

"Oh, crap!" he said softly.

"What is that word?" the headman asked just as softly.