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Published: February 19th 2007
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thanakha, Botataung Paya
a branch of the tanaka tree is rubbed with water on a mortar stone to produce a light brown lotion to protect the skin from sunburn as well as to make the fac appear more beautiful I feel like Maria in The Sound of Music as she dances up the lane to her new job with the VonTrapp's, "...it's such a good feeling to know you're alive..." I was one of few Westerners aboard the flight last night from Bangkok. Strange, I thought, watching my neighbour eat his curried prawns with a spoon in one hand and a fork in the other, coming at his food from east and west. I looked around the cabin. Everybody was eating like this. Yangon International is quiet, receiving ten international flights each day from Bangkok, Calcutta or Singapore and ten more domestic flights connecting the provinces. The taxi driver obliged my request. We took a detour into the city via Shwedagon Paya, its golden spires shone brightly behind the silhouettes of palm trees. Two large
chinthes, mythical half-lion, half-dragon guardians loomed over the traffic at the southern entrance. I settled into a windowless hotel room, exchanged currency and took an evening stroll along Mahabandoola Road. People sat at small stools, sipping tea, beer, nibbling foods I didn't recognize. I continued up the road, poorly light, minding the potholes, some deep and wide enough to trap a small child. At one
intersection stood a small tin hut surrounded by barbed wire. Inside the open door I could see a soldier in a crisp uniform. I passed another couple soldiers in similar uniforms, one held an automatic firearm pointed at my ankles. A Pakistani fellow approached me near Sule Paya, offered to exchange money, offered me anything I needed. We shared a couple bottles of local beer at a snack stand near the guesthouse. He taught me some Burmese,
minghalaba, chezube, toe jamma, hello, thank-you, cheers. I learned the authorities had recently outlawed motorbikes for civilian use in the city, as well, they had made illegal the use of car horns, something I frankly believe could improve the urban noise pollution in most Asian cities. Mt new friend led me to a massage parlour hidden around the corner. "Would I like sex massage? What kind of woman would I like?" I asked for a girl with strong hands. We were shown a room with thin plywood walls, two meagre mattresses and a TV set playing a VCD of Celine Dion. Th two young women masseuses enjoyed singing along though they couldn't make out a single word. For an hour and a half,
Shwedagon Paya at dusk
L. Konagaman Shrine, R. Southern Staircase landing my body was stretched, kneaded, rubbed, fisted, pulled, cracked, ironed, walked upon and finally cured of my aches. She was amazing. When i returned late to the guesthouse, the owner showed his disgust. He was upset I had been with an Indian fellow. "money, money, money. They are no good." He said. Most businesses making money off the foreign tourist trade, are run by Indians, I would later learn on my travels.
Ye Min Kyaw, a handsome twenty-two year old student of philosophy, greeted me in the busy streets of downtown while I walked off my morning's big bowl of mohinga. Hello, he smiled, passing in the other direction. He turned and caught up with m and asked for my company. He showed me to a popular tea shop where I was introduced to my first cup lepeye, a thick, sweet Burmese tea, usually washed down with little cups of lukewarm Chinese tea. We boarded a local bus packed beyond a Westerner's belief, the ticket taker manoeuvring like a monkey to collect our fares. We sat on the bank of Kandawgyi Shwe. I had my first good look at my friend. His face was Burma to me, the crooked teeth,
the rich brown skin like fertile earth, full lips, and his curiosity. I'd read a few novels depicting the country's past century, the Kings, the Shan, British rule, Japanese Invasion, Independence, Aung San, Ne Win, the student crackdown. All of it without a face. Ye Min Kway and I discussed democracy. I played the devil's advocate. "You have clothes, food, education, so why do you need democracy?" I hoped he might explain to me what is this democracy I come from. Freedom is a terrible thing, I explained to YeMin and his buddies at a teashop that evening. With freedom comes responsibility. I can do terrible things to myself, to others. Freedom is choices. Democracy does not teach us to chose the right path. Democracy is money, is power, is freedom, is more power, is corruption, greed, vice. Education is power. On the bank of Kandawgyi Shwe I ask YeMinKyaw may I sketch him. I take my time. He is beautiful. My pencil marks are gentle kisses. He poses with eyes downcast.
I visit a barbershop run by a pack of boy in bright green shirts. My reflection is shocking. The sunscreen did not rub in and has been covered
in dust and dirt blown in my face off the street. Ye Min Kyaw takes me to another massage parlour where two girlfriends of his work. It smells of wet paint. We climb into a cab and are dropped off at the eastern gallery steps of Shwedagon Paya. We climb barefoot past the shops selling images of the Buddha, in wood or plastic, big and small, simple or colourful and Nats and guardians too.
The great golden stupa is awe inspiring, surrounded by an other worldly realm of myriad ornate zyedi, pavilions, altars, smoking candles and people kneeling in prayer, or pouring cups of water over their guardian spirits, circling the great stupa. The sun dips behind the palms, the temples colours changing, before the sky turns dark and the many pavilions are electrically light. My friend and I continue wandering, him trying to explain what he can, me trying to absorb whatever I can. I return on my own the next morning to witness sunrise. I bring my guidebook to better understand the meaning of each statue or pavilion. I sit still and watch the pilgrims praying before their birth planet - a beautiful, timeless, peaceful commotion, then I
Shwedagon Paya, sunrise
in the background, you can spy the fountain at Kandawgyi Lake, the shores of which are crowded with morning walkers and Taichi practicioners am crying, feeling helpless, confused. Life looks all right on the surface, the Burmese appear to have what they need. I know better. They suffer under an oppressive dictator. I cry because I will never know their suffering and they shall never know my freedom. In the afternoon, Yeminkyaw takes me to his home where I am introduced to his sisters, his friend and his teacher. The latter and I sit and discuss Myanmar politics. The teacher is middle-aged, in spectacles and a ponytail. Her English i great. Her glasses reflect the low afternoon sun. She and I discuss freedom and suffering. I explain to her how I feel like the young Buddha when he is still the prince and has left his palace to discover the sick, the old and the dead.
Yeminkyaw sees me off at the train station. We promise to meet in a few weeks upon my return. A conductor shows me to my first class cabin. My companion is an Indian doctor with a large belly and asthma heading to Mandalay as he does each year to worship at his mother's grave. He is accompanied by a monk. The train trundles out of the city.
Shwedagon Paya, morning, planetary post for Tuesday
Burmese buddhists pour cups of water ( equal to their years) over the planetary post of their birthday. I joined the Tuesday born presided over by Mars and the guardian lion. The countryside emerges, a vast plain, fields indiscriminately dry or muddy, punctuated with thatched houses of woven palm leaves. Trees grow unattended. White oxen pull carts, women walk paths carrying baskets on their heads. The odd stupa stands like a giant golden Hershey kiss in the lowering sunlight.
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