Random Photos

 Here's a few random photos from our first few weeks here. I'll try to get Mike to take more photos.

The first Pagoda we went to in Myanmar on the way home from the airport- a relatively new one constructed from Jade.

Street scene from our apartment window. Break time?

A guy rolling betel. They brush slaked lime on the leaves and then fill with tobacco, betel nuts, little pieces of coconut and roll it up into a little pouch that you put between your cheek and gum. Then suck on it then spit out the bright red juice. There is betel spit EVERYWHERE!  You really have to watch your step when passing by someone in a car, bus, truck etc. because they just lean over and spit. I haven't been spit on yet. It is highly addictive. Also causes oral cancer, rotten teeth and the slaked lime can cause liver failure. Nice!

Our favorite teahouse in Mandalay. Tea is super sweet and milky. Very similar to the chai in India. Most of the employees are young boys. You get their attention by making a smooching noise. There are also women going around selling cigarettes and they put little bowls of cigarettes on the tables. I guess you pay as you smoke them?

Nice little street snack at a market down the road from our flat. Hardboiled quail eggs and fried locusts. Haven't been brave enough to try either one.

Sunset over the Ayeyarwady River.

A festival we went to in a nearby town. A dance competition to promote donation to temples. There are a couple of dancing guys in the elephant suit. Other guys singing and dancing around the elephant. It was very crowded and hot. Couldn't imagine being in the suit.

Buddha inside a Buddha. 

Snake Temple. Every day at 11am they bring the snakes out to be bathed. 

U Bein Bridge over Lake Taungthaman- It was the last day of the biggest Festival and it was packed with people. We decided to wait until a less busy day to walk across.

Boats on the lake.

Buddha at Mahamuni Paya. Men apply gold leaf to the figure (women aren't allowed.) The Buddha weighs 6 tons and the additional gold leaf adds another 2 tons.

Boarding passes for our flight from Bagan to Yangon. Flying domestic here is like air travel was in the US 40 years ago. Nobody looked at our passports, they checked our names off on a list and seating on the plane was not assigned.

The plane was probably 40 years old too but we made it!!

Holiday

We’ve been lucky to have this week off to do a little exploring. Shawn’s daughter will be visiting in a couple of weeks and I’ll cover at school while they take some time to explore.

            We left Mandalay on Saturday (Mike’s birthday) and took a boat to Bagan. The boat chugs down the Ayeyarwady River at a patient pace, which is a nice way to see the countryside and some villages. 

We arrived in Bagan in the afternoon and took the next two days to explore temples. There are over 2000 temples in the area, which covers over 70 square kilometers. Clearly, there’s lots to see, so we rented an e-scooter (electronic scooter.) The other choices are bicycle—which would be pretty brutal in the heat—or a horse cart, which I think would be pretty brutal for the poor horse. The e-scooter goes along at around 15 miles/hr and is completely silent. Mike, of course, drove and I sat behind, giving suggestions on directions and commentary on driving skills.  He likes that. 

The temples are pretty amazing, especially when you have the chance to climb to the top and look out over the landscape. Hard to fathom so many temples stretching nearly as far as one can see. 

            The oldest temples are from the 11th century, and are giving way to dense foliage.  Some were also damaged in the earthquake last August, and many now have bamboo scaffolding around the stupas for repair. 

It doesn’t seem like there is much consideration about historical accuracy when it comes to conservation, but that is nothing new. Most pagodas have been added on to and updated throughout the years. One often finds the Buddha surrounded by neon lights and a disco ball. It’s just how they roll here.

From Bagan we flew to Yangon, a really huge, hectic city. Lots of interesting colonial architecture, pagodas, and street food, though.  Yesterday we ventured downtown, took in some pagodas and wandered around some markets. No shortage of chicken feet here!

The neighborhood we’re staying in is outside of the city center and a little quieter. Last night we ventured out for a beer and some noodles. Mike spotted what looked like a “real” bar so we ducked inside. Usually having a beer means sitting in an open air place and watching the world go by, but this was a legit bar. A/C, bottles of booze on a mirrored shelf behind the bar, and a guy wearing a bowtie wiping glasses. There were two other tables of drinkers. A big TV had some Myanmar MTV playing. We sat down and ordered a big Myanmar beer to split. The guy at the bar must have thought we would enjoy hearing some western music, so he put on a disc of music videos from the 70’ and 80’s. It was brilliant. Dan Fogelberg, Glen Campbell, Billy Ray Cyrus, the chick who played Pinky Tuscadaro singing a duet with some dude. It’s amazing to find out how many crappy songs from that era that you know all of the words to…

Tonight we are taking an overnight bus to Kalaw. From there we’ll do a two or three day trek to Inle Lake. We’ll be hiking through villages and tea plantations, staying in homestays with minority people (of which we are one…)

We’re looking forward to taking a break from the cities. More to come.  Ta ta.

Temples of Bagan

We've seen signs like this in a few different places. The government definitely is pushing tourism.

Beautiful Buddha with ancient mural.

Another interesting sign

Panorama of temples.

Shwedagon Pagoda, Yangon

Usually they're just running around.  These guys will be someone's dinner tonight.

Market in our Yangon 'hood

Sule Pagoda, Downtown Yangon

It Could Happen to You!

Mostly, nature is a constant.  You see a sparrow perched on the rail of a boat on the Irrawaddy and you recognize its jerky moves and slightly neurotic nature as the same tense dance displayed by its brethren in Marquette, Michigan.  

Ants like honey all over the world, and flies, who start out as maggots and develop from there into winged puke-flingers that crave rotten meat and feces will always occupy the armpit of insect-dom. Yet within the normal are pockets of the unique—species particular to a given place, and interactions between said species that give one pause for their inexplicably mysterious behaviors.

  

At present, I’m puzzled by a circumstance surrounding our local population of kitchen ants, the very ones I alluded to in a previous post.  For the last ten days or so my morning coffee and afternoon snack witnessed a crazy ant rodeo made up of hyper aggressive little guys that skim over the counter on invisible legs, making up for their microscopic size with supersonic speed.  I would sometimes mistake them for shadows, or floaters in my eyes. And their ambition seemingly defied physics, as evidenced by their chip-hoisting capabilities.

I’ve come to count on them to clean up my messes, and even found sport in seeking out the boundaries of their capabilities.  Hungry?  I’ll bet!  How about a cookie?  I know…relative to your size it’s something like the state of Rhode Island, but you know what they say about eating an elephant!  One bite at a time…

The cookie was too much, but they sure did make that sucker their home.  And though it took the better part of an afternoon, a smudge of jam wholly disappeared, one lick at a time (or something.)  

To the causal observer it might seem I’ve become more of a slob since bonding with my counter mates (a silly notion that argues a place higher than “up”) but I would like to think I’ve found a place in my heart for the little guy (s).  Which makes recent developments all the more troubling.

The day began in its usual way: I made coffee, had some oatmeal, checked the news, then sought out a little post breakfast snack in the form of a can of Pringles (actually Kracks, the local rip off brand.)  It being near the end of the can, a healthy sprinkle of crumbs found their way past my waiting hand and onto the counter.  My benevolent God persona swung into full God-like mode, and I magnanimously deemed the crumbs ant booty (swag) before making for my room to get ready to face the day.  

Following the usual secondary activities  (shower, shave, other “s” words) I circled back to the kitchen to shut down the ceiling fan and lights.  Which was when I noticed the tater chip crumbs in the exact spot I dropped them.  And nary an ant in site.  This was odd…

Being of a scientific bent, I left the crumbs where they sat for further observation.  I also asked Shawn and Rebecca if they might have spread a bit of bleach water over the counters. 

“Nope.  There is some bleach under the sink if you’d like to do that…”  

“No ant poison or anything?  Black flag? Raid?”  Again negative.  So where were they?  

That night the crumbs we still extant.  And the next morning.  Finally, on the third day, a development.  Three or four rather sluggish, loutish ants had parked their lard asses up against the largest of the crumbs.  But they were clearly making no effort to actually move the crumbs…get them back to home and hearth.  The scene brought to mind a litter of piglets working their snouts around momma sow’s teats.  It was all rather unseemly and decidedly un ant-like. Lazy. 

Where did these boys come from?  And how could they possibly have overtaken my young, nimble brood?  

Such were my thoughts as I sipped my morning coffee and contemplated the chapatti dude across the street, who had the griddle going full bore.  I stood on the landing, peering through the leafy tree branches which partially obscured my view, and observed folks gathering in the fruits of his labor.  (You may recall my tale of woe concerning said chapatti Dude.) Of course I had to try again.  But the prospect of standing there in hungry, dumb innocence while fellow hominids gathered in sustenance was hard to face.  

Memories of childhood pick-up games came crashing back, in which we younger kids stood by as the older ones considered our fate.  Should I pick Cook last or second-to-last?  But at least on the neighborhood sandlot, every kid had their chance at bat…eventually.  Here, it was entirely possible I might never get a chapatti from this guy’s smokey black griddle. It could be that only Mosque people were served, now and forever, amen. Each day’s defeat hardening my childlike resolve to be counted, but ultimately bearing witness to a gradual devolution into a grotesque, clay-like lump of (hungry) need and want.  Certainly not one of us. Inshallah…There but for the grace of God…   

Fuck it.  I walked down the stairs and into the street,  putting on a burst of speed to avoid getting hit by a water delivery truck, which washed me up on the shores of Chapatti land in a sort of half trot, (though I’d argue it was a nonchalant half trot.)  

Everyone gave me a welcoming smile.  Very nice.  I dug into my pocket and produced a wad of cash.  “Chapatti?”  Hell with any sort of articulation.  Money talks, right?  Others waited for their food and were rewarded for their efforts.  Dude picking up chapatti with his tongs, shaking off the oil, then flipping them onto a platter.  His wife (probably) scooping a chickpea dipping sauce into bowls and plastic bags.  The pile of uncooked chapatti getting smaller, the bowl of beans running down.

I sort of shifted from foot to foot, trying to look around and act like I’d be happy just hanging out next to a hot coal fire on a ninety-degree morning.  In the sun.  My memory slipped back to when I walked up, the smile and nod.  Was it, Yes, hello!  We remember you and will get you your food just as soon as we serve these humble pilgrims,  or (more likely) Hello infidel.  You’re just a bit dim-witted, aren’t you?  Hope you don’t hurt us…

Again, I looked for a cash bowl, or any sign of money changing hands, and saw nothing.  Not looking good for the home team.  I heard the scrape of metal on metal as chapatti dude’s wife cleaned the bean pan’s bottom of its last vestige of bean sauce, which she transferred into a small bag.  Two chapatti on the grill, and that, as they say, was all she wrote.  I began to think of an elegant exit strategy—sans chapatti—when it happened.  

There are any number of ways an Angel spreads its wings.  A child’s first breath. Dawn’s early light.  The infinity of stars across a hard, black sky. Compassion. 

This would be a nice place to report a miraculous return of my mighty, nimble, ambitious ants.  But the sad truth is that finally even the pig-slug ants faded and deserted chip crumb island.  There have been a couple of ant sightings in the sink area, but nothing worth getting excited about.  Ants, it seems, are a bit mysterious.  Just so the human animal.

The last two chapatti were folded into a bag and on top of them was placed the smaller bag of chickpea dipping sauce.  All of which was then placed into my outstretched arms. I thought I might cry, but stifled the urge.  Reaching in my pocket, I shakily extended a thousand kyat note, which my guardian angel took and deposited in a bowl under the table.  Under the table!  Of course!  Then, as I turned to walk away, she called me back.

In her hand was a crumbled wad of bills.  My change.  

Hospital Visit

Me with my students. We were practicing a fire drill. 

I've finished my second full week of teaching. We take turns teaching modules. This week I taught basic Anatomy and Physiology. Ms. Shawn taught Math Calculations and Ms. Mai taught Measuring Vital Signs. The students also take English class twice a week with Mr. Nyan with Mike assisting. 

The students seem to be catching on pretty well. They are engaged during lecture and activities and are eager to please. They are also very sweet and quick to laugh--mostly at my attempts to speak Burmese.

On Friday, my American partner Shawn and I left school to take a tour of the three local hospitals (all private) where our students will have their clinicals for the last three weeks of the term. Ms. Mai and I will take our groups to the City Hospital,  Ms.Than Than will take hers to Mandalar Hospital,  and Ms. Shawn will take hers to Nyein Hospital. 

All three hospitals are part of the Mandalay Private Hospital Association, who employ us to train the students to first be care aides and then on to a degree as a Registered Nurse. Just like in the US, there is a big shortage of nurses and nursing instructors. The Myanmar government just gave permission for private nursing schools to open (previously they were all government run) so that's why we're here. 

Both City and Mandalar Hospitals are in the middle of big expansions. City Hospital will go from 100 beds to over 300 when they open the new part of their hospital in the next couple of months. The new section is quite nice- private rooms with A/C for all patients. There are three levels of patient rooms (not counting ICU) with a regular room starting at around $25/day to a deluxe going for around $65. Everything else is extra- meds, treatments, etc. Families bring in food. ICU is of course much more and they are in desperate need of critical care RNs. 

At the end of November Shawn and I will  do a critical care update for the ICU nurses at all of the hospitals. We’ll also train them in Basic Life Support and Shawn will teach intubation with the newer medical officers.

We haven’t visited a public hospital yet, but apparently if you find yourself in the hospital in Myanmar you will want to be in a private hospital. I told Mike if I should happen to find myself in the hospital that he'd better spring for the deluxe room. I also told him he better get me some propofol if needed (see below.)

I’m so excited to get to know my Burmese colleagues. Many of them have been nurses for a very long time and they are treated with much respect. Everyone we met was very sweet and so excited to have us working with them. 

A few interesting things about the hospitals we visited-

-The nurses wear different color longyis  (the ubiquitous long wrap skirt that everyone- men and women- wear) depending on their jobs. The matron who is the top nursing administrator wears mustard. Sisters- department managers- wear light blue. Charge nurse wears green and new grads wear red. Some still wear the cap. We’re having bright green longyis made for us. Shawn wants to get us caps too- we'll see...

-Everyone wears flip flops to work. When you go into the Operating Theatre (OR) or the ICU, you take off the flip flops you wore to the hospital and put on a pair of the communal flip flops on a rack just outside. I guess when in Rome…

-They have been doing renal transplants at the big government hospital in Mandalay for the last 5 years. 

-City Hospital has a Cardiac Cath lab and two balloon pumps.

-No sedation for intubated patients. There were only two intubated patients in the ICU at City Hospital the day we visited. Three ventilators for the whole hospital. The new ICU will have about 10 beds so they are working on getting more equipment and nurses trained.

-It seems like every patient room we saw had at least 10 family members. Myanmar culture dictates that the family embrace the sick and watch over them 24/7.

-The only IV pumps I saw were in the ICU. I guess I’d better brush up on my drip rate calculations.

-All of the hospitals had fairly new looking MRI, CT Scan and Ultrasound equipment.

All in all it was very impressive. I look forward to learning more.

Shawn and I with Nursing administrators and the Chief Medical Officer at Nyein Hospital. In purple is the Dean of our school, Dr. Mar Lar Win.

A room in the new addition at City Hospital.

Matron  with a staff nurse at City Hospital

Bed Control? This board is in the main lobby- no such thing as HIPAA.

Bed in the new ICU at City Hospital

Can't Buy me Love

200 Kyat =16 cents

“Counting your money?”

Well, yes…

We have a rather relaxed morning routine.  I typically roll out around six and get coffee on.  Rebecca’s not far behind.  We read the New York Times online.  Check Facebook, e-mail, etc.  As it happens, our time online is limited.  There’s no WiFi in the apartment (it requires government approval) and so we use a local cell phone, buy minutes, and command it to act as a WiFi hotspot, which burns alot of Kyat.  Fugget about using the phone to call abroad; two or three minutes of international connection can cost as much as 4000 kyat (LIKE THREE DOLLARS!!!)

But sometimes it’s necessary.  Like this morning: Shawn got cut off mid call to her family and needed to finish what she was saying, so she asked if she could use our phone.  “I know it’ll burn alot of Kyat.  I’ll pay you back…”  I waved her off and handed her the phone.  Mr. Magnanimous.    

When she was finished, I saw a pile of rumpled bills on the kitchen table next to our phone, which I stuffed in my pocket before checking the debate results (Nothing yet…too early!)  

Later, while changing over from morning shorts to school dress I emptied my pockets and regarded the pile of kyat spilling off the edge of the dresser.  Big pile, but most of it was in 100 to 200 kyat notes—the equivalent of roughly eight to sixteen cents.  The bills were rather soggy and forlorn, like a litter of newborn newts taking their first breaths.  I scooped up the lot and tossed them onto the bed, where I proceeded to roll around and chant, “Money money money!”

Just kidding.  What I did do was straighten each bill out and place it into piles according to their denomination.  50 kyat.  100 kyat.  200 kyat.  1000 kyat.  5000 kyat.  Even a ten thousand.  As one might expect, the bills were more or less rumpled and worn depending on where they fell in the food chain.  Ten thousand turned out to be pretty darn crisp.  The fifty kyat note looked like it had passed through the small intestine of a sewer rat.  And something else:

Though all notes from fifty through one thousand sport a crouching, lion-like beast on one side (Thihathanah) the other side of the smaller notes depict images of people and beast at labor.  A simple man spinning clay pots, artisans crafting an ornate building edifice, elephants pulling massive teak timbers from the woods.  But as the denominations increase—5000 to 10,000—the crouching cat is replaced by regal, ornamented elephants, and the other side, rather than depicting acts of labor, display temples and palaces.  Actually, the one thousand kyat note appears to depict the Central Bank of Myanmar, which issues the notes in the first place.  Seems as if each note is crafted to reflect the people most likely to handle it.

This morning I thought I’d hit up the dude across the street making chapati.  Try to get me a couple a hot fresh ones to go with my morning coffee.  As I approached, everyone was all smiles.  Kids munching on chapati.  There was a big bowl of finished ones next to the griddle.  A couple close to being done over the fire.  

“Can I buy?”  I don’t know why it is, but I tend to slip into B-rated western movie speak whenever I hit up someone I figure doesn’t speak English.  Me white man.  Share fry bread?  One of the women seemed to get what I was saying, but made no move to gather up a chapati for me.  I also didn’t see the typical pot of money from which vendors make change.  Still.  There was a tray of fresh ones with a little bowl of dipping sauce which looked like it was ready for delivery.  And again, that big ol’ bowl of fresh ones.  I quieted my growling stomach and dug into my pocket, where I found my brave little wad of currency.  Gripping the wad with two hands, I held it out like an offering.  “Can I buy chapati?  Do you sell them?  How much?”  

Again, the affirmative nod, but no movement toward closing the deal. The dude cooking them was in some kind of zone, hardly even acknowledging my presence.  And really, why should he?  Clearly this guy was holding all the cards (cakes?); you can’t eat money, can you?  

When it comes down to it, there’s a big promise out there that is at its most elemental in the transaction of money for food.  And the world of street food brings it to a razor’s edge.  

We have faith in money as a promise of value.  It stands for goods and services.  In a modern world, it’s just plain practical.  Would I have washed the guy’s shirt for a chapati?  Maybe.  (And, incidentally, it could have used a good scrubbing.) Fix his bicycle?  Repair his busted door?  There are a handful of services I’m halfway capable of executing in exchange for the goods on the griddle.  But that just doesn’t make much sense.  So we have money in place of—or as a symbol of—X amount of stuff.  Yet at this particular juncture, the usual rules seemed to be suspended.  And I didn’t know why.  

So I walked away.  Gave up.  Everyone smiled when I left, teeth shining white around mouthfuls of chapati.  Except, of course, the dude.  The master of the griddle maintained super human focus on his sizzling cakes.

My hope (gotta have it!) is that my morning efforts  registered as an order, or sorts, against tomorrow’s run of chapati.  I realize this is probably a pipe dream.  A bridge too far.  But it could be.  I see myself walking down there tomorrow and the griddle guy gives me a big smile while his wife stacks up a pile of hot ones.  They will exclaim how painful it was to not give me chapati the day before, but that theirs is the best chapati in all of this fair city, and others had been waiting patiently.  (All of this rendered up in Burmese, which I will magically understand, and reply in kind.) We’ll see.

The practical, cognitive side of my brain doesn’t anticipate a breakdown in the social order anytime soon.  Just this afternoon I toddled down to my local Shan noodle joint and plunked down 1500 kyat for a steaming bowl.  No problem!  But there’s a shadow of doubt behind the light of reason.  What if the machine ground to a halt and the usual rules were suspended?  What services could I render up in this rough and tumble place to earn my daily bread (chapati?)  

I don’t want to go there.  In my younger days, I’d play out how it would be to get shipped off to a foreign land, gun in hand, to face an enemy that wanted me dead.  In both scenarios I’ll admit to a probable pathetic end, involving some variation of me rocking back and forth in the fetal position while an appalled river of humanity pretended not to notice.  And then I would die.

On my way back from the Shan noodle joint I stopped and bought a bag of apples and a bag of tangerines from a guy selling them out of the back of a truck.  Big ol’ betel juice smile.  Then, just before my apartment is an old guy I’ve sort of befriended who sits on the sidewalk in a broken down old chair and watches the world drift by.  I say hi to him every morning.  Ask him how he’s doing.  (I posted a picture of him in an earlier write.)  

Today I stopped and offered him an apple, which he took from me with two hands, looking into my eyes the whole time.  It’s possible he hasn’t teeth enough to actually eat an apple, but giving this old dude a piece of fruit felt like the exactly right thing to do.

One imagines a dramatic, lion-like cataclysm at the end of days, but I’m thinking it’ll be more like this dude, smiling, puffing on a cigar, and gratefully accepting the gifts of life. 

Movement of the People

Nobody walks in Mandalay.  Except, of course, us.  

Our apartment is located in a touristy/backpacker part of town.  There’s a hotel across the street that caters to the traveling westerner.  One down the street, too.  A couple of ATM’s around.  And, as always happens in touristy situations, taxi drivers, scooter drivers, bicycle rickshaw drivers, and scooter rickshaw drivers all compete for business in this growing (and relatively affluent) market.

Just down the street is a corner with a covered set of stairs that kind of arcs around the bend.  The building for which the stairs were formed is abandoned.  There’s an awning.  It makes for a good hangout, especially if you’re a taxi/scooter/bicycle driver seeking trade.  

I go by there often.  One of my local restaurants is just around the bend.  School is the next block down and to the right a block and a half.  

“You need taxi?  Where you go?”  Most of the guys (it’s always guys) speak a fair amount of English.  Which is to say, enough to snag a fare. The sidewalk around their roost is stained a deep red from betel juice spit.  Invariably, drivers pack a wad of chaw in their cheeks, and when they smile (as happens often) they expose the deep red gums and rotten teeth of their addiction.  

The other night I was looking for some fresh veggies.  This was closer to the time we had arrived, and I hadn’t yet gotten my bearings.  I stopped in a small corner shop run by an Indian guy.  “Do you sell veggies?  Vegetables?”

“No,” He went on to indicate a place two blocks to the east, and four or five to the south.  I started off, stepping into the street because the sidewalk was clogged with scooters and cars, a weather eye over my shoulder to avoid being blind sided by an angry snarl of traffic coming off the light.  Early evening is busy.  It’s dark, there’s few street lights, and the exhaust burns the eyes.  On impulse, I made a u-turn and headed across to my boys hanging on the corner.  Immediately, I was surrounded by a small group.

“Where you need to go?”  I settled on a young guy sporting a long, Muslim tunic.  Maybe sixteen years old, he already displayed the shrunken red gums of betel nut exposure.  When I asked his name, he replied, “Yazak” and gave my proffered hand a rather limp shake. I started to explained I was looking for a shop with veggies, but he cut me off halfway.  “Ok, ok, I know…”  He leaned in, as though straining at a chain, and I wondered just how much of the betel nut he’d had this early evening. Suddenly, Yazak turned and sort of walk-skipped to his scooter, anxious to get moving, get his (and my) ass on the saddle. I followed along, looking back at some of the older dudes I passed over in favor of this young buck. They were smiling and speaking among themselves in Burmese, looking my way.  Laughing.  Hmmm.  

I stood next to his machine as he jumped on the kick starter, which gave me a chance to assess his ride.   Chinese knock off.  Plastic cowling cracked.  One of the turn indicators hanging by its electrical connection.  And it didn’t seem at all willing to actually fire up.  For a brief moment, I felt I might be spared the consequences of my choice of this young lad, but then it coughed to life in a cloud of thick black smoke.  He turned and flashed a wide betel nut smile. “You want this?”  He held up a badly scarred plastic helmet.  The look on his face suggested it was kind of a pussy move, but he recognized that it somehow gave comfort to us strangers from far off places.  “Do you think I’ll need it?” I asked as I climbed aboard.  He shrugged the shrug of a philosopher who understands this brief, fleeting madness called life and gunned the throttle, launching us into the fray. 

Turns out, the press of traffic is somehow less pressing when one is moving along with the current. Until, that is, one comes to an intersection.  Further, this town being set to a tight grid pattern means there’s lots of them.  And for some reason only the busiest of intersections warrant a light.  All the rest operate on something like the honor system, with the majority of commuters making their way through by filling every available gap, or lumping into a herd of scooters that defies oncoming traffic on their flank.  As a rule, things work out surprisingly well. 

There’s also quite a bit of eye contact, which I’ve picked up on since getting my bicycle.  People see you coming and catch your eye, then typically give a slight nod to indicate they see you and, depending on your position relative to them in the intersection, if they’ll hold while you pass.

My proletariat roots might be showing, but it seems much more likely to get eye contact and deference from a working stiff.  The rich folk have a way of looking straight ahead and hitting the throttle.  One learns to exercise extreme caution when crossing a street or approaching an intersection in front of a Mercedes/Lexus/Land Rover.  Not that there’s many around…

Yazac and I hit three different stores before striking gold.  (Turns out the average bear gets their veggies at the market during daylight hours.  Go figure.) On the way I complimented him on his English language skills.  “I study with books my friend gave me,”  he told me.  

“Are you in school?”

“Is my own school.  I teach myself.”  Which is to say, no.  But you have to hand it to him.  He’s scraping together a living in a tough market. 

When we arrived back at my place I climbed off the back and gave him back his helmet.  He removed my bags of food from a hook below the handle bars and handed them to me.

“What do I owe you?”  Yazak paused and did a little mental calculating.  We stopped at three stores, all of which he hung out in front while I went in to find veggies.  Total distance maybe three miles.  Time, about an hour.  Plus the fact that I’m a white guy with money.

“One thousand Kyat.”  (About eighty cents.)  And guess what?  It’s possible I was being gouged.  He might have taken a local dude for half the price.  But I don’t think so.

There’s a famous Buddhist temple in the south known as Kyaiktiyo, AKA Golden Rock.  Probably you’ve seen pictures.  The temple is actually built on top of this massive gold rock, which sits on the edge of a cliff, seemingly defying gravity.  The temple is said to hold a strand of the Buddha’s hair.  Pilgrims come from all over to walk up to the temple and stick a piece of hammered gold leaf to the face of the rock.  Each piece of gold leaf is hammered to a thickness (Thinness?) of one to two molecules.  Pretty light.  But, you know, these things add up.  And, for poetry’s sake, let’s imagine that in time the weight of the pilgrim’s offerings will cause the rock to loose its delicate balance and crash down from the cliff’s edge.  

This country feels alot like that rock.  It would seem to be poised in a delicate balance of innocence and worldliness. People like Yazak don’t think to gouge.  Drivers still make eye contact (for the most part) at intersections.  When a cashier or waitperson hands you your change, they do so with two hands, and bow slightly in a show of respect. 

Which is not to say it’s some magical place out of time.  There’s corruption and graft.  Drug abuse, prostitution, and human trafficking.  But a place makes its mark in large part due to the small acts of civility and grace extended to its guests.  Even here, in the so-called backpacker district, there remains an openness that takes some getting used to.  One braces for an assault, and finds instead a bright red smile.

It Takes a Village

Every morning I get up, have a pee, fill a glass with water for my morning pill, and the kettle for the morning cup of coffee.  Then I stand there waiting for the water to boil, looking out our kitchen window at the school building which makes up the center of our block.  It’s a traditional old wooden building with ornate facia and a corrugated metal roof.  Pretty cool. 

To the left of the building (and my line of sight) is a small cutaway area with a brick wall on which has been fitted a sink and a tiled half wall next to that from which protrudes a faucet. At the base of the wall is a drain. Most mornings there appears in this cutaway area a woman in a shower cap sort of thing and a longyi pulled up to her armpits.  She starts at the sink, where she brushes her teeth for a good ten minutes.  The first time I saw this, I kind of dreaded what might come next.  Fling off the longyi?  Shake loose her trusses of satiny hair?  And being a decent sort, thought maybe I should just back away from the window.  You know, give her a bit of privacy.  But, well, the kettle was coming to a boil, and my coffee set-up was lying in wait, so I just sort of stood my ground.  I wasn’t staring, mind you, but certainly registered her movements.  

After her tooth brushing, she did the thing so many people do in hot climates: She bathed outside.  

If I left it there, you might very well be justified in finding me a creep.  But there’s more to it.  First off, the woman squatted down in front of the little half wall in such a way that only the back of her head was visible to my line of sight.  Also, the longyi stayed on, as is also the custom here.  She kind of scrubbed around and under the garment, or so I inferred by her movements. And, finally, once I gathered in just what it was she was up to, I grabbed my coffee and made for the kitchen table.  Nothing prurient here.  Happens on the street all over this town.

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But still.  Here I was privy to her privy, as it were. And I’m guessing she wasn’t aware of my presence.    

On the other side of the building, the garbage man lumbers up the street in his ancient blue truck.  When I’ve finished my coffee, I’ve taken to standing on the landing and watching for him.  It started because I wasn’t at all sure just when or if he would show up, and I didn’t want to miss him.  But it’s become something more, and I find myself taking pleasure in simply watching the activity of the street as the morning morphs into day.

A family across the street fires up a coal bucket and places a piece of sheetmetal over the flames.  Onto this goes oil and flattened dough, which is fried into chapati.  I can’t tell whether they are selling them or simply making them for their extended family, but there’s typically a crowd.  They get their food and sit around on little plastic chairs, or squatting against the wall eating. By seven-thirty, the show’s winding down and the dude packs everything up, finally carting the chairs, bucket, and metal into the alley. Hit little metal chapati spatula goes into a box next to the alley.

A few mornings ago, just north of the chapati folks, I saw a crash.  Three guys on a scooter veered into a lone woman on a bicycle.  Trashed her front tire and sent her sprawling to the pavement.  Tiffin rolled out into the street.  She wasn’t hurt, but the guys rushed to her aid, helped her up, and carried her bike to the curb.  Then one of the guys produced a cell phone—presumably to call her employer or to get a bike mechanic—and proceeded to put her on the back of his scooter.  Changing direction, he sped off to get her to her destination.  (Just yesterday I saw the same girl pedaling by, her bike in good repair once again.)

Next to our apartment building is a medical clinic.  Typically there is a gathering of anxious people sitting on the chairs out front.  The clinic is open to the street, as are all of the businesses.  The other night we stuck our heads in and asked if we could see their facility.  No one understood a word of English, but they walked us from room to room, pulling open doors to reveal people sitting on small cots, waiting.  Sick, but giving us a smile as we stuck our big ol’ heads into their world.

Around the corner is a little restaurant called Pan Cherry.  Three tables are set out under the shade of the trees out front.  According to the taxi drivers who hang on the street corner, they have the coldest—and cheapest—beer in the neighborhood.  I went down yesterday to have a bowl of Shan Noodles and to read the English version of the Mandalay Times.  When I stuck my head in the kitchen, I was greeted by a young Burmese woman who spoke perfect English.

“Yes?  Can I help you?”  I was a bit taken back, but explained I’d like less than the usual pool of oil on my noodles. 

“Where did you learn to speak English so well?”  The woman told me she studied in the States with her husband.  “We lived in Virginia.  Sit down, I’ll get your food.”  As I ate, the couple joined me for lunch.

“So how are you finding our little town?”  We chatted about Mandalay, how it compares with its bigger brother in the south of the country—Yangon—and even how this place stacks up against Chicago, New York, and Philadelphia.

“This place is really just an over-grown village.  It’s hard to go anywhere without bumping into someone.  So different than even Yangon.  All you have there is big buildings.”  I thought about the girl on the bicycle, who I had seen crashed and sprawled on the pavement. Then, later, riding by, oblivious to my eyes on her and my knowledge of her recent fall. My concern for her from afar. 

I wonder, too, just how visible I am.  The other day when my bike’s brakes gave out, I left out a part of the story that didn’t seem relevant to that tale.  But it is very much a part of this one: When my brakes gave out I kind of stood there on the edge of the road thinking about how smart (as in, dumb) it is to ride around in this town with no brakes.  And just then a car pulled up with the window down, and I saw the face of Mr. Nyan, my friend at the school who teaches English.  He assured my of a bike mechanic just close to where I was currently stranded.  I thanked him, waved him off, and made my way to Mr. Wizard.  Guardian Angel?  Could be.  Granted, I may just stand out more than the average bear, but it sure seems no motion goes unmarked. 

Wander into any village and just see who notices.