BREAKING INTO BURMA

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The pain in my legs is subsiding, as the crisp night air blows across my perspiring body, numbing it. But as I grow cold, I cannot help but wonder when this hike will be over. The jungle is thick, and with every uphill step it seems to pull me down. I steal glances at the moon, but my focus is really on my blistering feet, which I must keep moving lest I get lost in the jungles of Myanmar. It is dark and the men who are leading me, the men with the guns, may not notice if I fall behind.

So I keep my head down and stare at the calloused heels of the Burmese porter in front of me. On her back she carries a sack of rice twice as big as my overstuffed backpack. It is held in place by a cotton strap that she balances uncomfortably across her forehead. Her footwear, a pair of decaying sandals, is two sizes too small, yet I envy her adroit footing on this unforgiving terrain. She is 13 years old. She doesn't stop, so neither can I.

Exhausted, my mind wanders. I ponder the stories I have heard along the way--of homes destroyed and family members killed--and wonder if this young porter has endured similar suffering. It has been months since Myanmar's military junta, known as the State Peace and Development Council (SPDC), cracked down on protesting monks in Yangon and Mandalay. But away from the big cities, in ethnic enclaves like this one, government persecution has been the norm for nearly 60 years.

That is why my guides carry guns. They are members of the Karen National Liberation Army (KNLA), which has been fighting the government since shortly after Myanmar gained independence from the British in 1948. The Karen people make up only 7% of Myanmar's population--they live mainly in the rugged hill-country of eastern Burma and western Thailand, a region they call Kawthoolei--but they are a favourite target of the government.

In 1949 government-sponsored militias led by Ne Win, the country's future dictator, rampaged through Karen villages, sparking a counterinsurgency that nearly captured Yangon, which was then the capital. But the government regrouped and subsequent offensives have pushed the rebels back to the border with Thailand. This success has not satisfied the SPDC. Government patrols still roam Myanmar's ethnic areas searching for rebels and terrorising civilians.

Later in my journey, I jump a bit when I hear movement in the bushes up ahead. The entire hiking party stops and I look to one of our guides for reassurance. The confused look on his face provides me no comfort. Nobody should be on the trail at this time of night.

Seconds pass and a bell rings. A bell? Suddenly the trees shake violently and the bell rings several more times; if there are people in the bushes, there are a lot of them. If it's the SPDC, there won't even be a fight. "Is this really happening?" I ask myself, as our guide approaches the area.

With hindsight, I imagine he must have been smiling when he turned around to tell us we could keep moving. Trusting his judgment I move toward the area where the trees are still shaking and the bell still ringing. I stop for a second, cautiously shine my flashlight into the jungle, and find myself closer than I ever want to be to the posterior of a very large elephant.

I will not see any SPDC soldiers on this trip, but tomorrow I will meet some people who walk in their footsteps.

(*Roger McShane writes for The Economist online. This column is part of his week-long diary about Burma, published on Economist.com)