BUS STATION BOOK-SELLER

AN INTERVIEW
Taking the bus from Mandalay to Monywa, I met a 19-year-old book-seller, with three dozen Myanmar-language books propped on a long strap and balanced on his hip at the scrappy station in central Mandalay. His girlfriend lives back in Monywa (three hours north), where he's from and soon plans to return for university. He's living with some Mandalay cousins to earn a little money before school starts. He gets around by foot or bicycle.

What kind of books do you sell?
Some education books, but most are 'honey books like this [shows skinny paperback with cartoon cover of silly-looking couple].

How many do you sell a day?
Oh, sometimes seven or eight in six hours. If I'm lucky, 15.

How much do you earn a day?
About 2000 kyat (US$1.65).

What would you like to do?
Go abroad. Probably Singapore or Malaysia. Best is Singapore - the salary there is about US$2500, Malaysia is only US$1000. I want to work at a restaurant.

As I got on the bus for Monywa he added, 'Today is a happy day because I get to talk to you.'

How to Carry a Basket On Your Head

MORE FROM MRAUK U

In Yangon bookstores it's easy to find a handful of English-language translations of local writers who wax poetic about the charms of rural life. I bought a couple for about $1.50 each and thumb through them during the trip. It's easy enough to see during a trip here, out the bus window, or beginning on the shortest bike ride out of a town or village.

On my last night in Mrauk U, I wandered atop an overgrown pagoda so thick with brush and cobwebs you can't see anything but the top of a pagoda-top Buddha from below. Above there are four entrances, each with a Buddha looking out. From the top, you can catch a panoramic scene of Rakhaing farming and farmers' lives, which bustle with energy in the cool hours right before dusk. Monks in saffron robes, women balancing baskets of vegetables on their heads or sacks of rice to be husked, walked along a skinny dirt road that cut a diagonal to the green rounded hillocks in the distance.

In fields, boys walked across the road to a creek and filled two rusted cans with water and carry them with a pole on their shoulder back to water, row by row, their plot of cauliflower. Below, a frightening tree with a veiny trunk and branches dwarfed a bamboo hut elevated on poles; outside it, a grandpa in a magenta sweatshirt, swept his clean dirt yard.

I got back to the bike, with a great Belgian scientist I met a couple days before, and we headed out - away from town - a couple kilometers, deeper into the farmlands and past some of the hills. Then stopped on the raised dirt road between a gold field of rice and a green field of cabbage and radishes. We returned 'bye byes' local kids offered us, and waved to a parade of passerby, mostly women carrying baskets on their head filled with vegetables, rice, sugarcane, sticks. Some looked stern or shy. Others giggled, even dared removing a hand holding their basket to wave briefly, and move on.

Soon a plumpish woman carrying a basket overflowing with neatly arranged radishes - white roots about 10 inches long - paused before us. Signalling to the basket in near panic, we rushed to help her take it down. My Belgian pal said, 'My goodness, it's at least 50 kilos - that weighs more than her.' The two of us very nearly dropped it. Her group - including a serious looking grandmother - stopped and we helped them unload to. And they sat with us for about 10 minutes. I showed the old woman a photo she let me take of her - frowning - and her eyes lit up like a teenager when she saw her digital likeness.

We helped them reload. They keep a small towel rolled in a circle on their head and balance the basket, just so, on top. It was getting dark, so we bid farewell and started to drive off. Teenage boys jumped up and down in the ricefield just then - signaling to each other 'ho! ho! ho!,' which we joined in as we left. Laughter came from all parts of the field from people we hadn't even seen.

Sometimes to see things you have to stop a bit.

Owl Killer of Bagan

Bagan, a 48 sq km area of thousands of red-brick temples in the desert-like plain along a curve of the Ayeyarwady River, was a big powerhouse capital of Burma for a few hundred years, but fell to ruin after the sword-yielding Mongols came rushing through. It's now easily one of Myanmar's top-two favorite attractions -- along with Inle Lake in the Shan Hills -- with tourists going barefoot up and down pagoda steps, followed (on occasion) with locals selling copies of George Orwell's 'Burmese Days,' oil paintings, post cards, t-shirts and bottles of water. Some say it's getting too touristy, but at some of the pagodas, where -- with a flashlight -- I found 'hidden' passageways and more hidden passageways, to go up alone to the temple top and watch the sun dip over the hills to the west, it can be remote. Still, lots of restaurants are geared to the banana-pancake and pizza-slice crowd. Yet traditions long past lurk everywhere.

The other night -- after a couple gin-and-tonics with some west British balloonists (hard to explain) -- I passed a guy with a long pole that he was poking into the tree. I stopped to find out what was going on. 'Owl. Evil owl. I'm trying to get it out,' the guy said in surprisingly good English. He worked at a small roadside stand serving Burmese-style curries and beer -- all signs in local script. Is it OK? ‘No, dead. I shot it. With my catapult.’ (Small, wooden sling shot.) ‘Not easy to get out.’ He pointed to a giant white wing, the rest of the deceased bird out of view, lost in a hole where branches shot in all directions from the trunk. But why kill it? ‘It made my mother sick.’ How? ‘Its singing. If the owl doesn’t sing it’s OK, but when it sings it’s bad. Before, over there,’ he motioned across the road into the darkness, ‘A girl got sick from an owl. I tried to shoot it, but couldn’t kill it. The next day the girl died.’ She was two.

The next day I asked locals about it – most weren’t sure if it were just a local custom, others made fun of it. One asked, ‘Where were you, Big Pig Village?’ Indeed I was, named for a mythical big pig that used to terrorize locals before being killed by a king.

At one travel agent I stopped into, three 20-something women were huddled over a computer game when I dropped by for some information. I asked. One said, ‘Yes, some people belived these sorts of traditions, but I don’t. Some give an offering to the spirits of Tharabar Gate [an ancient brick gate to the king’s area of old Bagan – still standing] the first time they go through on a motorbike, horse cart or car. They give a bunch of bananas and a coconut. When I got a motorbike, my mother asked to give an offering, but I refused. The first day, I had an accident about half a mile after I went through! The next day I gave an offering and haven’t had an accident since – that was four years ago.’ She added, ‘But I don’t believe.’

Later, I dropped by the sick mother’s place to see how you were doing. Min Min – I learned his name – had on a Pink (the singer) shirt. I asked if he got the owl out. ‘Yes, yes. There were three more there too – but they don’t sing so they can stay. But if they start singing, I’ll kill them too.’ Where’s the owl now. ‘In the ground.’ How’s mom? ‘Very good today,’ pointing to his smiling 60-something mother, waving from the back of the roadside stand. ‘These are our beliefs and traditions. These, and the spirits, and the God [Buddha] – I believe.’

HOW TO ENJOY DELICIOUS TEA

The Ride to Mandalay Airport

'They are government police workers,' my 28-year-old taxi driver with glasses and unintentionally messy side-parted hair suddenly said, as he immediately slowed down the car at the turnoff for the Mandalay International Airport, an intolerable 48km from Mandalay center.

The 6am sun was only just turning the misty morning pink, but it was clear they didn't look like 'government workers.' Two women – one with a bright red longyi, a cranberry sweater and a pink towel on her head. The other with a thick white wood sweater, a floral green longyi and a fluffy red-and-white striped scarf around her head, and tight white gloves with little happy smiling suns on them. They both piled in the car, giggling at sharing a ride with a bleary-eyed foreigner, and carrying a plastic basket – each with nearly identical contents: a metal tin with that day's rice, a few tangerines, some tea mix packets, a tea cup stuffed with a couple gold flowers.

The driver had showed up at my Mandalay guesthouse early for my 7.55am flight. He was genuinely surprised when I said Mandalay was an interesting city. 'Really?!' When I told him I was an American, and that the temperature there now is below zero Centigrade, he paused, reflected then asked seriously, 'how do people live?

Just before we reached the turnoff, he volunteered stopping at a highway tea shop. And, with apparently a little time, I didn't resist. It was already starting to get early-morning business. We sat at a small wooden table in the well-lit, high-ceiling, concrete-floor, no-wall spot with a few tea ads around. One 'tea boy' just stared at me with a frozen smile. Most teashops in Myanmar have workers nine- to 11-year-old kids like him – poor boys from the countryside, who get room and board and a bit of pay in turn for long hours serving tea. I asked one what he hoped to do eventually. 'Make tea,' pointing to the 'tea man' pouring tea dramatically into cups with a spoonful or two of condensed milk.

We ordered, and I could hear staff scrambling with cassette tapes to end the silent morning. Soon heavily synthesized beat, topped with an endless guitar solo, heavily chorused, came on for my benefit. The driver told me his wife is 'six months baby' – I explained the word 'pregnant,' which he had a hard time with so I spelled it out in my notebook. 'Thank you for your lesson.' He insisted on paying for the tea ('only 200 kyat each,' about eight cents, 'it's so much cheaper than airport tea').

I wonder if my next New York City taxi driver wouldn't mind sharing some tea?

GIVE ME INDEPENDENCE, OR ANOTHER ROOM

Saga! On the loose in Shwebo

The guesthouse manager, beer belly hanging over his plaid longyi(skirt-style pants), thrust his finger at my shoulder, his voice
rising, as I tried to talk on the phone. Easily the angriest man I've
seen in the country in several months of travel here… saying things
like 'passport' and 'police' and 'immigration' in English, and
probably less kind words in Burmese. But I kept up my smile, and
tried to find out what was happening, talking with a friend in Yangon that I called in near panic. I simply wanted my passport back and to get the hell out of the guesthouse that likely doubled as a brothel.
But they were insisting I sign a form and pay something equivalent to
$15. Sometimes getting off-the-radar isn't exactly a breeze.

Before I got to Shwebo I knew it was going to be difficult. Guesthouses and hotels in Myanmar must be licensed to host foreigners,and three years ago none were in Shwebo. I spent a night in a pit, not daring spend long in the bathroom. This time I'd try to get something better. I tried to call a few day ahead to a nice guesthouse I
visited last time, thinking that might make it easier. I wanted to stay last time, but they were 'full' though let me see several clearly empty rooms so I could get the details for a LP review that would do no one any good.

I had a local pal in Mandalay call, and the hotel staff happily spoke,answering questions about how much rooms costs. As soon as we asked for the price for a foreigner – always about 500% the local cost, or more – they started pressing buttons, said 'Ha-lo?' and hung up. My Mandalay pal laughed, 'As soon as I mentioned foreigner, they acted like a child… pressing buttons like there was interference. I used to do the same thing when I'd call a girlfriend when I was a teenager, and her dad would answer!' We called another less-desirable guesthouse, and I listened to a riotously funny conversation, where my
pal spelled out 'R-O-B-E-R-T' five, six times… and they still couldn't get it. When he mentioned 'American,' I could hear the gasp five feet from the phone receiver. 'Oh, my. Please have him keep his bus ticket here. We will need to submit everything to the police.' The dingy room they booked me for – a dark, foul cell-like room, with just enough space to fit a mattress, and an attached bathroom with pit toilet and cobwebs you wished was down the hall, all for $15, easily the most
over-priced room in the country.

Foreigners are free to visit Shwebo – a scrappy, dusty town, with a few gold pagodas, some re-built palace buildings from its days as
capital three centuries ago, a portion of the old moat. But probably only about 50 come a year. That's one of the great things about this sort of work – getting to places you very unlikely would see otherwise. I arrived today on Myanmar's 60th anniversary. The government-line publication New Light of Myanmar published a hilarious poem in yesterday's paper called 'Historical Patriotic Pride' for the
occasion. But in Monywa, where I woke, and Shwebo, there was no sign of celebration. I stopped into a teashop on Shwebo's main street, and a father and son (dad in Dr Seuss-tall knit cap, son with long hair and dyed-red streaks) joined me to talk about Shwebo ('oh, very very big, maybe 60,000 people live here!,' dad said), rock bands in Shwebo ('Academy's OK – they do weddings,' son said, 'I can't play guitar,
but I sing very well'), and instructions on how to make a delicious cup of tea. They had no answer for why the independence day celebrations didn't exist, but gave me an Iron Cross CD (Myanmar's favorite rock band) and wouldn't accept payment for my tea ('this is for our friendship,' dad said with a handshake).

I wandered around that fake palace for a few minutes and past the central market, where banana sellers yelled out 'hi' after me. A few
men leaned over the dirt, facing a series of rounded holes making a triangle, trying to roll marbles into successive holes, and gaining 100 kyat (about eight cents) from each fellow player after a victorious roll. A lone elder man in a soft Burmese army cap that many locals wear casually, said 'From which country are you from?' and
tried to explain the rules 'One hole, two, three, four then five!' He lost every turn. I wandered on and a man with a long beard and skull cap drove by on a bike, suddenly turning to me, asked with a booming voice, 'You are feeling fine, gentleman?' Yes, very, and you? 'Very good, thank you.' Then drove on.

A fine afternoon after a rocky beginning. After reaching Shwebo on a three-and-a-half hour bus ride from Monywa, with a sleeping monk
occasionally leaning on my shoulder, I arrived at that $15 guesthouse,then after they took my passport to the police, and left me waiting for an hour, I wandered around the corner, where a brand new, shiny Chinese-style guesthouse stood with open arms. Staff spoke English, rooms have air con, satellite TV, big refrigerators, telephone, and spotless floors and walls. They knew how to process a passport without
making me wait, and asked only $12. I returned to the first, and let them know, sorry, but I didn't want to stay, and would be happy to pay a few thousand kyat for the inconvenience. When my friend on the phone from Yangon finally explained, I handed over the kyat and the manager gave a little wink and a salute, and even a smile, then shook my hand. 'See you later!'

FIREWORKS & HIGH FIVES

New Year's Eve under a Military Dictatorship

My guesthouse in Mandalay threw a dinner and party for its half adozen guests last night. Next to an open-air bar a long table was setout, with table cloth and place settings, where the group (a Frenchcouple, a Russian couple, a Canberran ex-pat and myself) gathered to try fruit juice-and-gin and Myanmar Beer over a dinner of friedchicken, grilled chicken and mashed potatoes ('Chicken a la Kiev,just for you,' the 80-year-owner said to the Russians), and frenchfries, while nearby the owner's 30-something son, with a rock hair cut, gathered with school friends, their girlfriends and wives, and a couple kids. Joining us -- the foreigners -- was the engaging 69-year-old mother of the family. We talked about everything from the Korean TV shows she watches from 7 to 8 pm nightly ('it's a priority -- if my grandson wants cartoons on, I give him a little tea money,' she laughs) and the traditional nat spirits she honors along with 'Lord Buddha' nightly ('I spend 60 to 90 minutes a day praying, usually half of it in the morning, then half before I go to bed'). Some of the sutra she offers is for another son, who at 47, suffered a stroke several months ago and is still recovering.

'I repeated the prayer 50 times daily when he was in the hospital, then after he got out I still do it 18 times a day.'
' Why 18?'
'Well, 40 was too much, 30 too, so 18.'
'A lucky number perhaps?'
'Yes, that too. Nine is always lucky.'

Eighteen, you math fans will have noticed is twice nine, and 1+8 is 9 too. She excused herself at 11pm, and I started to feel bad about the sudden segregation between foreigners and locals, so got up to offer a couple pre-midnight toasts, which were returned by the guys. Then we shuffled our feet, listening to particularly profane Snoop Dogg songs,when -- not realizing -- 12:02 had arrived. The son turned down the rap and matter-of-factly announced 'happy new year' (no exclamation point needed), and we all had another toast or two. Subdued but nice.

Less subdued was the next part. The Russians and I took up an offer to drive around town and 'see what's going on.' We could already hear a few fireworks, and we got in the back of a car driven by a couple who barely spoke any English. At Mandalay's huge moat-surrounded palace, where Burma's last king (Thibaw) lived until 1885, hundreds mingled in the streets -- guys weaving around cars on motorcycles in the dust, guys standing in the middle of the road and drunkenly yelling 'happee newww year' and giving high fives to passing motorists. I joined in, as the car nudged forward, past the town ring Sedona Hotel -- 'this is like our Times Square,' the car driver turned to say. Eyes lit up when they looked in to see three foreigners in the back seat of a passing car. 'Where are you from!' yells --more statments than questions -- flew out as we passed. At one point we stopped, and a large guy with eyes out of focus and wearing a hip-hop knit hat, peeked in, mumbling, trying to recall a few English word he knew, but couldn't get anything out that made sense in any language. We drove off, and all burst into spontaneous laughter, even the driver's otherwise-silent wife. Soon someone slapped the back of the car, and our driver -- in a cruelly expensive vehicle in a land where black-market cell phones cost $1200, and locally-made copies of WWII-era US military jeeps $9000 -- got worried and edged away from the crowd. At one corner, he pointed to two middle-aged guys in leather jackets watching passively. 'Military.' Two police cars, and only two, sat parked nearby. Probably a few thousand were drunkenly celebrating a new year in a land that didn't recognize the world calendar not that long ago -- and everything was OK for the night. And this came after local authorities warned teashops -- the usual setting for groups of people of all age, to get together and talk -- to keep to a 11pm curfew. It was 1am and in central Mandalay, things looked manic. 'In Soviet times,' the 37-year-old Russian man suddenly said, 'If the government said there was no groups allowed to be together, it would never happen. They would not allow it. Maybe things are a littlemore free here than we were led to believe.'

For a night anyway.

Some Signs (cont.)

Some Signs (more)

Some Signs