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.
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