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.
.
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.
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