Garlic Salt: Burmese Nights

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Burmese Nights

The best thing about backpacking in Myanmar during the curfews and the riots was that nobody else was. So there were virtually no lines at the airport and the visa lady looked bored. Bored visa ladies made good visa ladies . . . especially if you could blatantly compliment her creased patterned shirt to get your visa expedited.

Flying into Yangon. From Dhaka, we had to fly through

Singapore and Bangkok even though Bangladesh

and Myanmar were next door.

I suppose people typically didn't fly from one of the poorest countries

to a neighboring totalitarian country.

Myanmar had been on my bucket list for years, after a friend whom I admired showed me slide after slide of blue skies and a nation largely untouched by tourists with poorly applied sun screen. Somehow, in my mind, when I was intently imaging myself also poking my head outside the dilapidated trains, that I would become somehow more wise, more accomplished, more grown up if I could just get myself there.

And I was finally here. Here in a modern day closed-off nation ruled by a military junta that was slowly relinquishing power to the people. I had imagined dirt roads and impoverished eyes. Instead, I saw expertly manicured hedges, smooth roads, genuinely happy and selfless people who spoke fantastic English, and a respect for Buddhist culture that was reverent yet pragmatic.

Police in full riot gear drawing the battle lines along our hostel road.

Honestly, I was a little disappointed that I didn't see any major action.

The most dedicated checkers players

played with carefully collected bottle caps.

A 3D postcard of Bagan, the land of 4000 temples, at the flea market.

It's now on my bedroom wall, reminding me that though

I wasn't the hand that lovingly etched lines into the

oxen and then mounted them onto this vivid water color,

I was blessed enough to feel affected by simple beauty.

One night after wandering aimlessly and eating at various food stalls, we flagged down a taxi and bargained down the price to our hostel. The driver cruised around, trying to figure out a way into the riot police-infested district. After several frustrating turns, he finally pulled over and asked for directions. On both sides of the car door, they gesticulated widely and jabbered in rapid Burmese. Finally, in surprisingly near-fluent English, the pedestrian asked if we wanted to get out of the taxi and into his car down the street so he could drive us to our hostel.

We peered out through the window. His shoulder-length waves were hanging limply around his round cheeks because of the punishing humidity. His longyi was knotted right above his big cheerful belly and he leaned back a little bit as if to balance his frontal load a little better. He smiled at us, waving us to the promise of his car in the dark alley way.

We narrowed our eyes. No, we'll stay with the taxi, thank you.

He laughed easily and thought for a moment. Ok, well I'll just come with you then. He ran around the back of the taxi, and hopped in the front. He fired off decisive driving instructions and turned around to regal us with stories of his days as a sailor on freighters that went to LA, Philippines, China, and other exotic locales. He was shipping out again in a week. Just can't stay long at home before I miss the sea, you know.

As the taxi screeched to a halt in front of our hostel, we hastily pulled out bills to thank him for leading us home. He shook his head. I pulled out more, interpreting it to be inadequate. No, no. I don't need anything. Give it to the driver instead. He lumbered out of the front seat and promptly turned around to leave. At least let us pay for your taxi ride back? It's at least a 40 min walk. He smiled again. It's nice to walk on ground that does not move. Don't worry about me.

We watched, as he crossed the street and joked with the children who were playing tag in the moonlight.