Last Friday we went with our friends May and Nay to a BBQ place Nay’s brother in law recommended.
“It’s a long ways,” Nay said. “We’d better drive.”
I wanted to get in as much quality time on the bike as possible in this last week and told him I would ride. As it turned out there was an issue with Nay’s larger car, which meant he had to take the little Honda Fit, and they would have needed to strap me to the hood anyway, so it was agreed I’d meet them there.
I located the general area on my maps.me app and about 6:00 p.m. started out—fifteen minutes ahead of the group. Our neighborhood is crazy that time of day with rush hour traffic, but once I got past the madness and over to the east side of town, if quieted down. Then, as I pedaled further and further south along a road I had never travelled, it got kind of spooky quiet. Dark and spooky. I thought there must be a local power outage, and held to the side of the road as best I could, cursing myself for not thinking to bring a headlamp and swerving to avoid the occasional cow, their white hide casting a soft, ghoulish glow. All while while gripping the handlebars and hoping the road remained pothole-free.
I passed the East-side bus station, a couple of janky-looking karaoke bars, a large group of dumpsters overflowing with trash and crawling with pickers. Pedal, pedal, pedal. When I finally reached a cross street, I checked my app and saw I was fairly close. Things were kind of lightening up, too, and soon enough I found the restaurant. Just as I was pulling up, May and Nay showed up with Rebecca and Shawn and a Dude from the Netherlands who has been consulting with Nay on his water treatment/bottling operation.
We ate BBQ and broth and veggies, washed it down with cold beer. A cat bothered me under my table and I slipped it a big ol’ prawn head before excusing myself to practice my Burmese on the girls working the grill. Good times!
When it was time to leave we said goodbye under a little light in front of the place and everyone piled in the Fit. I hopped on my bike and headed north, kind of forgetting how dark and spooky it was on the way down. Then, when it got dark and spooky again, I remembered, and kind of kicked myself for not taking a busier route.
Around that time someone pulled up behind me on a scooter and slowed down. Pedal, pedal, pedal. He hovered about ten feet back, his light shining on the Hero. I should probably say that in the two-odd months we’ve been here, I have never felt for my saftey. I honestly can’t fathom a circumstance where I’m confronted in anything like a violent fashion by a local. There are actually signs posted, especially around heavily touristed areas, reminding locals to Kindly Welcome and Take Care of Tourists.. Whether they’re following their government’s orders, or those of a higher power, it seems to be working pretty well. Smiles are the order of the day. Not to mention legitimate care, curiosity, and concern.
Then I find myself on a lonely stretch of dark road with an over-active imagination and, well, suddenly I’m not feeling so safe. Why is this guy tailing me like this? Is he going to make a move? And what will I do? Try to look/act tough? Will I fight? I did a rough calculation and figured I had about forty thousand kyat in my pocket—like thirty three dollars. Should I just hand it over? Well, maybe if the dude flashes a knife. No one’s got guns… But even as these thoughts rolled magic eight ball-like into my head, I was feeling the absurdity, no, the impossibility of my thoughts. Yet there he was, puttering along in my wake—though, interestingly, he seemed to be holding his course, keeping his speed.
I saw the light of a crossroad approaching, but remembered it was a lonely crossing with no businesses. I began to throttle back and sensed my shadow’s approach; as the scooter pulled up next to me, I looked over and leveled what I hoped was a serious gaze at my follower. And there it was: the shiney-red betel-nut smile. Mingalaba! In that second it became wonderfully clear: He saw me pedaling along in the dark and thought he’d help me out with the light of his headlamp. Brilliant! (Not so much the dusty headlight, but certainly the sentiment.) He gave a big wave and turned onto the crossroad, leaving me to continue down my dark and lonely road. But not for long. At least not the lonely part.
As I pedalled into the section just south of the janky karaoke clubs and the bus station, I was again visited by a scooter, but this time it pulled right up beside me. And on the scooter were three young women. OK, not exactly three women, but close!
The scooter was driven by a girl in her early twenties. Short hair, torn jeans. On the very back was a bleach blond—something you don’t see alot of hereabouts. She was wearing a short skirt, bright red lipstick, and high heels. Ummm hmmm. Then, in the middle was a young soul who apparently identified as a woman. Long, dark hair kind of kinked up, tight jeans, a sheer blouse. The make-up was kind of heavy, but I thought I saw a dark spot or two where the razor missed its mark. And she was large, much bigger than her girlfriends, with a deep laugh.
I smiled and nodded, threw out a Mingalaba. Clearly the driver was the brains behind this outfit. She flashed an overly-large grin and rattled off some Burmese, to which I replied with what I hoped was, I don’t understand. Nar ma lay boo. We were bumping along at a fair clip and trying to speak over the noise of the motor and the rattle of the Hero. She came back with more rapid fire Burmese, and I replied with another Nar ma lay boo. We weren’t making much headway. Then, as always happens, my imagination kicked in. That, and a bit of deductive reasoning: Why are these girls so interested in talking to me along this dark and dusty road? What could they possibly want? OK, I think I know what they want, but I also think this doesn’t feel especially safe. The one in the middle looks like she could kick my ass, and the other two have a kind of spooky, feline look about them. Pedal, pedal, pedal.
Just then, the driver switched tactics and spoke English, but not much. Stop. She nodded with her head to indicate just here would work fine. I played out the various ways this might unfold, and simply couldn’t come up with one that felt right. And so I replied to her request—also in English—the specifics of which I knew she wouldn’t understand, but delivered it with a conviction I hoped would transcend language differences: I’m in a committed relationship.
Probabaly even if I weren’t in a commited relationship—as in, married—I wouldn’t have stopped. The whole thing felt a bit tawdry, and no matter how many times my imagination worked to create the unfurling of a potential new relationship with these three souls, I couldn’t see anything remotely dignified or honorable. I peddled toward the light of another crossroad, fending off drivergirl’s pleas to stop and have fun. They faded back before we reached the crossroad and swung a u-turn, presumably to one of the karaoke bars we passed during our negotiations.
The next morning I related the story to May over a bowl of Shan noodles.
“What do you think that was all about? Is it possible they were prostitues?” May is no dummy. She thought for half a second before replying, “Of course!” Especially when I described my proximity to the bus station and karaoke bars. “It’s not legal here, but this happens, especially in certain bars. And you’re a foriegner with money…”
Mostly I’ve found people here tend to quiet down when the conversation turns to the ugly stuff, which makes sense when one considers the Burmese as a people and place who have struggled with oppression and poverty for too long. Whereas we Americans seem to revel in uncovering dirt, those who are forced to live much closer to it are not so quick to point fingers. They better understand the forces that lead to humiliating, degrading actions, and know there remain significant challenges ahead. But rather than point fingers or call out in anger, their nature exhudes generosity, warmth, and intelligence.
Just about one hour ago I walked down to the Free to Buy store to pick up some milk and a bag of weird, chickory-like coffee. This was 6:30am. It was light, but wonderfully quiet. A handful of scooters puttered along, carrying the obligatory three or four sleepy-eyes souls wrapped in layers of clothing, coats, and scarves and huddling close against the chill.
When I got to the store, there were no lights on, and I thought maybe it was closed, but when I pushed on the door it swung open. The two kids working the place stumbled to their feet and mumbled their hellos, shaking off their naps with kittenish yarns Power outage. When I set my milk, yogurt, and coffee on the counter, one of the kids calculated the cost in his head, handed me my change.
Stepping outside I thought how different the place looks at this time of day, without all the people dashing and weaving through the sreets. A big line of pigeons lined a tangle of electrical wires over my head, and took flight as I walked beneath them, filling the sky with the sharp snap of their wings, adding to the eerie, vacant feel. The buildings looked embarassingly shabby and drawn. At my feet, the bright red betel nut spit created a crazy, map-like quilt.
In a couple of days we will hop a plane and fly away, something we’ve done quite a bit of over the last few years: look around a place, fill ourselves with its wonders, then leave. Our thoughts typically turn to the next destination—in this case Thailand— even as we shut off the lights on our current place. But this time feels different. We were gifted with the double-edged blade of a longer stay. We didn’t have the luxury of hopping a plane for an infusion of the newly exotic after three or four weeks. When things got exasperating, we hunkered down and practiced seeing through fresh eyes. We made friends, got to know the neighborhood, and even became informal sponsors of a poor old dude who spends his days watching the street roll by.
We formed something of a commited relationship, holding the line against the almost erotic pull of places new and different. Certainly a big part of that relationship happened through Rebecca’s daily interaction with her students and staff at the school and hospital. My own connections were more disparate and certainly less focused, but rewarding nevertheless.
Last night, while driving a rented scooter home from dinner out, we stopped to see the fountain/light show at the palace moat. Mostly young people stopping to take selfies and gaze at the lights. It seemed every other one flashed us a big smile.
“It’s like they can’t help themselves, Rebecca said. “Even if they don’t plan it, or even if for whatever reason they don’t want to smile, it pops out anyway!”
It’s true. And it makes our leaving that much harder. I think we’ll be back, but I don’t know when. So I’ll say nout ma tway may. See you later. Keep in touch, and thank-you.
