Burma: Land of my birth Part 2

Leg two of my trip to Burma in December 2010

Rangoon

This was the city of my birth. We had barely spent any time in it and we would not be again. We had an afternoon to visit the Shwedagon Pagoda, the fabled gilded stupa that is the synonymous with the city. My father arranged to hire a driver to take us and wait. As it turned out, the driver talked incessantly to my dad and stayed with us the entire time, or rather stayed with my dad saying it was good to talk to him and he wanted to talk more. I could not help but be suspicious of why he was doing this. In a country where the secret police are notoriously prevalent and suspicious of foreigners, I started to look at anyone who took an interest in us with great suspicion.

The road to the Pagoda was manically busy. It was a hot afternoon and everyone seemed to be heading there. The car park seemed prodigiously busy, but the driver found a spot. Getting out of the car, I noticed for the first time a bus load of Europeans. I had not seen any on my travels on far! They were indeed a rarity. We headed to the entrance and were immediately wowed by the ever rising monument of gold. It glistened in a mesmerising way which made plausible all the fables it has inspired from this part of the world. We duly removed our shoes and the driver offered to look after them as we walked around. There was so much to admire inside. The delicate glass work; the many buddhas; the fragrant jasmine; the monks in orange and saffron robes, themselves enjoying behaving like tourists, taking pictures with their earthy digital cameras! Wherever one looked, there was something to delight the eye and bring a smile to the spirit. I noticed a girl, hands clasped together, offering a prayer with deep shut eyes; a monk sat in classic meditative pose, perfectly still and calm amidst the din of chatter and shutters snapping.

Suddenly, a row of people with brooms gathered in a neat semi circle. At regular intervals, this was repeated. After an interval of some ten minutes to organise themselves, they all started sweeping in a circle round the pagoda. It was quite a sight. Everyone moved out of the way to let these volunteers fulfil their task. It was quiet a poetic sight. Leaving the Shwedagon, returning my cooled feet into sandals it made me immensely proud that on my passport, my place of birth is registered as Rangoon....

Taunggyi

The following morning, we woke again at some unearthly dark hour to be picked up for our alleged 8 hour drive from Rangoon to the main town in Shan state. I had requested we visit Taunggyi as it was the last place I remembered living in before we emigrated to England. I remembered it as a cool and temperate place; verdant and charming. I recalled the Catholic Church where I had had my first communion; a disastrous day when my headwear fell into mud and I abandoned my ill fitting shoes full of cotton wool in the aisle! I don’t think my poor mother has lived it down since! I also recalled the house, where my father had a surgery at the front and we lived at the back. I remembered the kitchen area where my mother squatted to peel onions and ginger and cook, the dining table where I did my homework with an oil lamp and the small bedroom I shared with our housekeeper and nanny Lucy. I think she was about 18 years old at the time, petite with a very dark complexion. She was perhaps Tamil in origin. She never struck me as being pretty, but she was infinitely kind and I loved her for always helping me with my school work and most memorably for making me her three dimensional house models which I loved to colour in and play with. Taunggyi was where I had my first crush on a boy at church and where I had to say goodbye to my first recalled best friend. It was a place I remembered with rose tinted glasses and the full flush of nostalgia. It seemed unthinkable that I would not take the opportunity to go there on this visit. So, my father had the trip arranged and off we headed, accompanied by his relatives - Cherry, her mother and ‘Baby’....

I slept through the first two hours of the journey until we stopped at the only service station on the main highway. I looked out as we parked up and noticed a row of restaurants. We got off and walked to one of these, apparently a known chain! There seemed to be a small army of youngsters dressed incongruously in Chelsea shirts ready to give us their undivided attention. Cherry and her mother had prepared a tiffin dishes for us and we were treated to some home fare which was delicious. My father and husband ordered ‘3 in 1’, a coffee brand well known and it seemed loved in the country.  We did not stop long and I noticed once again, we were the only ‘foreigners’. I decided to brave the toilets and made my way to the back of the buildings. The whole place had clearly been set up for foreigners as well as Asian visitors as there was a choice of squatting toilets or ‘western’ toilets, with images behind the door giving instruction! i.e. do not climb on and squat on a western toilet! I also noticed lots of sinks and thanaka tablets. Clearly, some of these youngsters lived in the ‘restaurants’. One was conducting his morning ablutions and seemed embarrassed to see me. It struck me there and then that schooling had little significance for many.

We set off again and within a few hours were at Nay Pyi Daw. This was the new capital in the making. Approaching it, I noticed an amazing amount of electricity lines and cables. So far I had barely seen any.  It struck me as insidious that so much was spent on this fake site when Rangoon was left to ruin.  They had even built a fake Shwedagon! My father joked with the young driver but I was surprised that Cherry and her mother found it beautiful. In a way, compared to what they saw in their daily lives, it was like a Florida holiday resort and indeed on that level it was beautiful. Huge houses, grounds and what looked like landscape gardens to come. Nevertheless, it seemed peculiar to me that they did not question why it needed to exist. There seemed to be lacking a real sense of enquiry. I wondered whether this was because it had been knocked out of them for 60 years by the prevailing dictatorship. Yet, these were intelligent people. They had chosen, it seemed, to shut away that part of the human nature since it had come to nothing for so long. Even monks had been silenced in times of protest. The dictatorship held nothing sacred. Keeping their positions secure was all they wanted and needed to do.

We drove on and after several hours came to a cross roads. The young driver, whom we had trusted to know the way, was not too sure if the ‘new road’ was ready to take us up to the Shan State. He asked a few folk and seemed assured that although there might be some bumpy patches, it should be fine. So, we started on our epic voyage on this dust ridden road, which would take another twelve hours or so. It has to be the most fascinating, stunning, arduous and nerve shattering road trip of my entire life. The road was far from ready. Most of it was still just freshly dug dry earth. The amount of white dust we blew up with the van was blinding! At first, it was all fascinating; the hair pin bends, the lush vegetation, the novelty of being the only vehicle on the road for miles. At one point, we had to wait for a JCB type excavator to finish digging into the side of the mountain! We stopped off in villages for quick cups of tea and toilet breaks and looked in wonder at odd passing vehicles wondering where they were headed! We passed what I called the Great Wall of Burma at one stage. It indeed stretched for mile after mile, and shielded new military barracks we were told. I suddenly felt, we really should not be on this road. After ten hours or so, we started hitting fascinating outcrops of rocks with tiny white pagodas aloft. It looked surreal to see these sloe black rocks, shaped like mini mountains, balancing these delicate stupas. Dusk was beginning to fall and there was no sign of Taunggyi. There were no road signs, nothing to follow. The young driver drove on, chewing on his betel leaf as is he chewed it for divine inspiration. We stopped and asked various locals who could in no way predict the distance or the time it would take for us to get there. We drove across what seemed like a Mongolian plateau for hours as darkness drew in. We saw random square cement houses, oxen tied outside and freshly lit fires. It started to feel cold. Now after thirteen hours on the road, it was cold and dark and there was no sign, not a sliver, of civilisation. I started to feel terrified. We in reality had no idea where we were going. We had no mobile phones or signal for that matter. I stopped talking as did the lady passengers at the back. I held on tightly to husband’s hand who declared that this must be the most remote place he had ever been to! We drove on and on and I began to pray we would not break down before some sign of reaching a town or village. We also had the added worry of getting into a ‘foreigner’ registered hotel! This was not a country where you could take the first available room at the inn!

So far, I had not spotted any other vehicle like ours. There had been mopeds, oxen carts and the odd rickety truck but nothing that looked like another set of ‘westerners’ touring the country. We soldiered on. It was night now. Complete darkness. Eventually, in our fourteenth hour, we started seeing buses sardined with people and loaded on the roofs to the hilt. One of the silent ladies in the back seat read it was the Express bus from Taunggyi. We must be on the right road. The bus had come from Taunggyi! We all breathed a little easier and now felt it was now within our reach. No one dared predict how long, least of all the driver. He seemed to think it was taboo to give us any indication of time! I found it impossible to think there was anything ‘express’ about anything in the country. Those night buses would be driving on dark dangerous roads all through the night. Where ever they were going, they would not be getting express service as I knew it!

We trudged on, my heart still in my mouth, dreading and fearing we would break down. Eventually, we turned into what looked like a main road. It meandered up and then passed the gates of a vineyard which husband had heard of!  My father seemed more relieved that we were on the main road into Taunggyi. Soon, there were street lights and the semblance of a town appeared. We had not booked anywhere to stay and by law we had to stay in a government approved hotel.  So, we kept our eyes out for tourist friendly hotels. We all saw one at the same time, and shouted it there was a possibility on our left. We stopped on the road just outside the hotel. My father and the driver went in and a few minutes later, they came back out. We could not stay there. It was full. We had arrived too late! The driver remembered the ‘Taunggyi Hotel’ from his past and headed further into town. In the darkness, I could remember nothing. We drove up and down the main street several times looking for signs for this hotel. All the shop fronts were shut and the only sign of animation was the night market. After what seemed like yet another anxious eternity and stopping to ask odd passer bys, we did find it and it looked like something out of a 70’s B horror movie!  The two white buildings were set in woodlands and looked like an abandoned asylum. We walked to the reception and were struck by how cold it was. The ladies and I were desperate for the toilet and found disgusting ones which looked unused and uncleaned for a millennium. The whole place looked and felt inhospitable. We checked in and the youthful clerk allocated us rooms in the ‘foreigners’ quarter whilst the three ladies had the local quarters. We wished them good night as the same clerk porter took our bags to the foreign wing. We agreed with dad, who was allocated a room in the same corridor, that we would meet up in ten minutes to go and get something to eat in the night market. Our room had twin beds (we had yet to encounter a double bed as a couple!) and seemed Spartan in style and content. We abandoned our dusty suitcases and headed back to the van to head into ‘town’. The night market was in full swing but there did not seem anything lively about it. We went to the food stalls and looked at the steaming choices. We all opted for Shan noodles and took our seats on wooden stools. A smiling lady appeared and took our orders. Huddled and cold, we ate in silence. I’d long lost my appetite and did not really enjoy what I was eating. There seemed to be no flesh to the chicken sauce except crushed bones. As always, husband and I got stared at, a lot! After his first bowl full, my father wandered off to order more food for himself.  He came back saying he’d encountered someone who knew an old colleague. He’d also been asked by the stall owner, if I was a famous actress! Apparently, I looked like the actress from the Titanic! I told my dad to tell her I was indeed Kate Winslet and that my husband was George Clooney. We might not look as good as we did on film at the moment as we had been travelling for 15 hours! We all had a giggle and left shortly after eating.

That night, I barely slept at all. I dressed up to go to bed anticipating it would be freezing and it was. Husband was optimistic and had his boxer shorts and T shirt on. Sure enough, in the early hours, he crept into my bed, teeth chattering, suffering from near hypothermia! I encouraged him to put on more clothes and get back in his own bed. The bed was not designed for two! As soon as could, we got up and got dressed. Neither of us wanted to risk a shower that might not work and be confronted with cold spray! We made our way to the main building and joined the ladies and my father for breakfast. They seemed cheerier and had apparently slept well! My father had kept his coat on and had stood under a hot shower for a long while thawing himself that morning. The ladies I think slept in what they wore the night before! I helped myself to some steam starchy rice and had a cup of coffee. I’d woken up with my legs covered in red blotches and began to feel our trip here was cursed! My dad said it was some sort of allergic reaction to something and suggested a cream. By the time we came out of breakfast, it was gloriously sunny and the air felt crisp and fresh. I looked at my surroundings and was struck by how beautiful it was. There it was, the Taunggyi of my girlhood; lush green mountains rising all around the town;  snow white Pagoda peaks on the ridges;  bright colourful flowers, even in mid winter. Husband commented what a beautiful location it was. What amazing potential the place had. It would be perfect for a Spa boutique hotel with an open Jacuzzi, with views to the mountains! Maybe some hotelier would see its potential one day and turn it into a gem!

Dad had agreed with the driver that after a whistle stop tour of the town, we would head to Mandalay. I had pleaded with him on the long drive the evening before, that heading to Pagan the next day was madness. It had taken us fifteen hours to reach Taunggyi. I would not survive another 10-15 hours driving cross country the following day. It was pointless me being in Burma after three decades if all we did was see everything from a van! After a heated exchange, my father agreed. He said, we could go to Mandalay as there was nowhere else in between worth stopping at! I said I would be happy to see Mandalay again as I had been there frequently for the water festival and remembered the home of my mother’s aunts. However, first, there would be our nostalgia tour around Taunggyi.

Our first mission was to find the house we had lived in. I remembered it vividly. It was near the corner of a road and had been painted in sugared almond colours of blue, pink and purple. My father had his surgery at the front of the house and we lived at the back. I shared a room with our nanny and housekeeper. My parents and brothers had a long room adjacent to ours. There was an eating area with a simple dining room table and chairs and a cooking area where my mother and Lucy squatted on stools preparing meals. There was a ‘patio’ area of sorts at the front of the house, where Lucy swept daily. I remembered the landlord lived above us. I had no recollection of what he looked like or his children. I never played with them and had no idea who they were. We drove around a couple of streets but none seemed familiar. We then stopped outside a house which looked very much like the one we had lived in. I told my dad I did not think this was it. A woman came out as we were gawping at the house and she told us the family we were looking for were on another road nearby. So we graciously thanked her and headed on. Indeed, the helpful lady had been right. Turning a corner, we came to a stop. The house was nearly the same colour as I had remembered it. Aspects of it seemed entirely alien to me now, but it had unmistakably been our home for the two years or so we lived in this hill town. This was where my father had earned his small fortune treating insurgent Shan soldiers fighting the ethnic war. He had had expertise and equipment for treatments they could not easily get elsewhere. They paid him in cash and handsomely so it seems. My mother had been accountant to this small amassing fortune and kept it all in biscuit tins! It was during this time that they confirmed their plans to leave the country and emigrate. This place had funded our exit out of the country! I looked around me and noticed a dilapidated wooden house right next to ours. It must have been there whilst we lived there but I had no recollection of it. I then walked to the end of the road the sure enough, looking down to my right; there was the mosque at the end of the street. There was also a row of tea shops which I remembered well. As my father talked to a maid who appeared at a window, I noticed a trail of novice monks coming down the road for their morning alms. I took picture of them and they seemed happy to pose. I wonder if they thought I was Kate Winslet too! Turning back to my father, I noticed a lady had appeared and was chatting to him. She was the wife of one of landlord’s sons and he had tragically died in a motor bike accident a few months earlier. She said his brother had a tyre shop and she would take us there. My father remembered the nicknames he had given these boys, but I could not share in his joyous recollection of such details! We piled into the van and headed to his shop. The young man recognised my father instantly and they got into conversation. I was more interested in the folk I saw about me. After having wished him well, we headed for the church where I had had my first communion. It was a disastrous day with me abandoning my cotton wool stuffed shoes in the middle of the aisle and my headdress falling into a puddle of mud! It was also the place where I had had my first crush on a boy and where I had seen a bishop who looked like Father Christmas. To my surprise and delight, the church and grounds were as I remembered them.  They were in remarkably well kept condition and against the cobalt blue sky, the church itself looked magnificent and bright. I took a photo of it and breathed in the memory of those days like taking in the scent of a favourite perfume. After that, we headed into the town for quick snack before heading on the road again. Taunggyi seemed to have prospered my father felt. There seemed to be quite a lot of new buildings and all seemed well looked after. The old cinema where I had been taken to ingest dreadful Japanese flicks and noisy Bollywood movies seemed to have disappeared. I felt a sadness the building itself was no longer there. For it was also at this small cinema that I first saw Zeferelli’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’. I had no real idea what was going on, but I felt the tragedy of it all on the face of Olivia Hussey and the power of cinema captured me once and for all. As we ambled up the road with well kept pavements, husband and I noticed what looked like WW2 Nazi helmets on men and women alike! At first we thought they must be imitations but on second look, he assured me they were real! Clearly, this country had a penchant for such curios. I took a photo of a lady with rotting teeth who seemed very proud to be wearing it! We made our way to a small tea shop, now ready for some sweet milky tea and my husband his customary 3in1 coffee! We walked to the back of the shop and a young boy came to take our orders. I wondered how old he was and asked ‘Baby’ if she could ask him. She seemed a little reluctant, looking around her as though she was being listened to and watched. I told her not to ask if she did not feel comfortable. She just asked me to wait. When he arrived with our drinks, she asked his age. He replied 13. I asked her to ask him if he was on holiday from school. She relayed the message and said, he was done with school now. We looked at each other knowing and understanding the reality of such lives.

Late morning, we drove out of town, pass the neat terrace of shops, quieter residential areas and then the hospital where my mother had worked and where my brother Nigel had had his tonsils taken out! It looked remarkably the same and I smiled as I saw the nurses in their red skirts and white peaked caps come out of the gate. I was glad to have made it to this town again. The journey had been hard but it had polished and distillled long held memories of childhood happiness.

Kingdom of Love and Hate

Cairo, I have come to discover, is not a city for measured responses. This is a place which incites utter joy and beauty AND utter rage, usually at the same time!!! Regarding the latter, let me update you on Crane Canaveral!

Since October last year when a huge hole the size of a large bomb blast appeared just to the left of our apartment’s front door,  I have been living next to a building site. At first, apart from having the road cut off, it did not bother us one bit. They dug the hole, built a wooden frame inside it, took it apart, covered it and installed a watch man over it. He started to build a shack, which soon became a shed lined with duvets. He made friends and his pals came to smoke shishas with him and altogether, they made tea on his little stove. It all looked quite poetic; almost like a dying tribe of Maadi Bedouins having moved in! The New Year soon brought with it the Revolution, but the watchman and his pals stayed on. To look at the trio, it was hard to believe the country was in any state of turmoil or uncertainty or indeed in a state of revolution! However, once we came back after the evacuation, the serious orange metal army had arrived!! The loyal band of brothers remained amongst the satanic cranes, dwarfed but nevertheless not insignificant. Unfortunately, as the bad boy machinery started their thunderous assault, the shed disappeared as did the guardians of the crater. For nearly four weeks, from sunlight until late into the night, six days a week, the loud drumming drone of the generator signalled digging. We discovered it was to be some well project, but no one really knew what it was about or more importantly for us, when it was about to end. We suffered the days of noise discomfort chanting the maxim in our heads, ‘it will be over’....Sure enough, the huge digger came to a halt one day and the hole got covered over. We almost sighed with relief. But, the orange army of equipment did not move. Suddenly one day, on the other side of the railway tracks, opposite our crater, another was being dug! Was the process going to be repeated?! Indeed it was! On our side, jackhammers removed the compacted earth and dug up the concrete, powered by mini generators. Wire frames were put in place and then filled with concrete again. Whilst the noisy digging supported by the noisier generator has been in full swing on the far side opposite our road, another crane has been digging up the earth exposing water! This has now being going on for over three weeks. At times, there is a false sensation that the noise levels have gone down. This is only the ears growing numb to it all! Added to this, the noisy freight train passes at certain intervals, honking at full hilt. I am beginning to think most Egyptian workmen are deaf. They wear no protective head gear and work entire days with his noise right next to their ears! As Sandy was telling me, there is rarely the same gang of workers. They get rounded up in the mornings, get given their tools on site, work and leave. It’s not like there is a foreman we can approach each day to ask questions! Our tolerance levels have worn thin and we did start to look at places elsewhere. We love the apartment itself, our neighbours are wonderful and ideally we don’t want to move. When Landlord Captain O came to collect two months’ rent a few days ago, the generator was still on and we explained our displeasure at the whole process. He sympathised but felt he could no more give us an answer than anyone else. We then had to mention to him the very strong possibility that if on our return, the whole thing was still going on, we would need to ship out! He looked quite alarmed at this. He did not entertain a conversation about it and promised us double glazed windows on the spot! He mentioned nothing about increasing rent and left promising he would try and find out as much as he can about the project! Half an hour later, he calls husband. Apparently, the generator and the orange army were due to be removed in two weeks time and the road on our side returned to normal!!!??? The road building which is also going on was due to finish by the end of August.  Where he got any of this information is beyond us!  Maybe he cornered the Lord Lucan Bowab after he saw us?? Husband and I looked at each other bemused. We were not convinced! We have only three more weeks here before we leave for the summer so we shall suffer what we must until that point. If on our return, the fiasco continues, we are away...within the month if at all possible!!! The muezzin at the mosque is one thing, the freight train is another but all combined with the infernal generator sound is sheer purgatory! This aspect of Cairo living, I hate, hate, hate!

TG Services, the local heroes I had come to depend upon have now been seriously demoted in my estimations! For a while now, the shower pressure and temperature have been playing up to infuriating degrees! Within a week, I had what husband called Legions of Genius plumbers coming to look at the problem. Their verdict, we needed a special pump for the apartment. The cost of this was to be a princely sum of 5500 LE (approx £550!) Landlord Captain Osama, understandably, was not so sure! He wanted a second opinion, so arranged for the Bowab to send another plumber to check the water pressure. Sure enough, there was no problem. However, the non English speaking plumber took some time to work out the problem I had been describing for weeks. My patience waned to dangerous degrees and my frustration must have come across! I told Captain O, ‘I am now seriously upset because no one seems to be listening to what I am saying!’ Almost with alarming alacrity, Captain O spoke to the plumber and within five minutes, my words were being echoed regarding the problem! In the end, it was a matter of changing the pipe size going from the boiler to the hot tap! It all took two hours, but at least the shower temperature and pressure have some consistency and can be adjusted! I have yet to telephone TG services to say I will not be paying you for such bad advice! That conversation, I am looking forward to....

When all is said and done, the Egyptians on the whole have endeared themselves to us as individuals.  My driver Salah is so dear to me now. I look forward to seeing him drive up the road everyday and hear his throaty cheery ‘good morning miss’. He is always respectful and apologises even if he is a few minutes late! I have discovered he speaks more English than I thought. We do not have conversations, but it makes it easy for me to communicate with him. I have also finally met Muhammed Ali, who has been organising my drivers since last September. He turned up at my door last week as husband needed a courier for some documents. He is a dark stocky man, again very respectful in manner with grey eyes. I was actually delighted to meet him at last. Until then he had felt like some anonymous benefactor!

I was also fortunate enough to be invited to a brunch with a bunch of Egyptian ladies from school. Wonderful Sandy hosted at her beautiful home in Kattamaya Heights and I had the loveliest of afternoons in their company .They all work at the school, so their level of English is impeccable. They were amazingly considerate in speaking English for the most part and I enjoyed hearing about their days and families.  All were keen shoppers and looked fantastically well turned out. Two removed their head scarves and I was privileged enough to see them with their manes down! They all felt uncertain about what the new Egypt would bring, and in some cases were not optimistic. However, with citizens like them, Egypt in the end will not go far wrong. We feasted in Mediterranean style outdoors, copious amounts of food spread on a long table under a leafy trellis. I tasted ‘foul’ for the first time. It’s like Mexican refried beans, but tastes better. I learned to make cat’s ears with the flat bread to scoop up the ‘foul’. I also loved the large falafel dish I think called Tamaaya. However, my favourite has to be Fettir. Layers and layers of golden filo pastry cooked in the shape of a tart, to be eaten with dripping honey or molasses! That afternoon, sitting in the sun in the ample garden looking out over the golf course, I felt pleased to be in Egypt....

We have also enjoyed forays into Zamalek for meals and thoroughly enjoyed our walk around Garden City, all thanks to Sandy. Garden City certainly bears witness to former grandeur. Most of the majestic formal villas are incredibly well preserved albeit in need to some love and attention. With the climate being so dry, the wooden shutters have survived as has ornate ironwork. The Art Deco style is very much in evidence, with its easily recognizable sleekness. The Art Noveau-esque structures still bear their ornate carvings and fabulous detail. Cairo was certainly the Paris of North Africa going by this evidence and given the chance, being in this city from anywhere in the 1920’s to early 1950’s is somewhere I would have loved to have been. The Cairo of Olivia Manning and her wonderful tome ‘Fortunes of War’.

We have also enjoyed evenings with Sandy and her pals. Dodo (pronounced Doo-doo), Tata, Loulou, Ali to name but a few! They are all highly educated and Dodo and Tata very politically aware. They are revolutionaries if truth be told. They are determined someone good must come out of the recent turmoil, but are circumspect about prospects. 70% of the population are illiterate and can only think very short term. The parliamentary elections are in September and Presidential elections in November. By the end of 2011, what will the political landscape be in Egypt? We as those who cannot vote, can only wait and see. In the meantime, Dodo is attempting to make Cider having fallen in love with the drink on a recent business visit to the UK! He had just returned and when asked if he had discovered any fine ales, cited “Strongbow”. He was most surprised to be informed that this “ale” was, in fact, made from apples. Having been further advised that cider is technically not too difficult to produce and that the ingredients to that end are readily available in Egypt, some further Internet research on the specifics of cider production has convinced him to try a bit of home brew. Following the recent purchase of requisite materials, we wait with bated breath to see if he will survive his experiment.

More than anything, the trees in Maadi enchant me the most. The spring blooms were stunning then about a month ago, the Flame Trees started blooming. They are amazing trees. The leaves are fern-like and delicate, almost lime green in colour. The flowers are heavy and voluptuous, and hang like burnt orange overgrown grapes. They make me smile and are my daily dose of Divinity amidst the heat, dust and noise of the cityscape. Frederick Leighton’s painting ‘Flaming June’, with its languid air very much evokes the feeling of June of Cairo...minus the torturous din of Crane Canaveral!

I am indeed in the Kingdom of Love and Hate....

Burma, Land of my birth Part 1

December 2010:

There it lay, the flat plain around Rangoon, studded at regular intervals with gilded pagodas. I was about to touch ground in the ‘Golden Myanmar’ as is billed by the current Military Junta which had been in power for 60 years. They had not been a benign force in the country and are certainly not admired by any of the western nations. I looked at this scene as the plane descended slowly. The paddy fields shimmered in the sun and it really dawned on me that I had not seen this land for 33 years. I wanted to feel I recognised it, but I did not. So many plane journeys in my childhood seemed to be have taken place at night and all I could recall were the landing strip lights which to a 6/7 year old looked like fairy lights. I always seemed to have been sick on these trips and dreaded my stomach flipping as the plane lost altitude in its descent. It always seemed to be raining too, so my first views of Rangoon airport were seen through the beaded rain drops of the aeroplane’s windows.  This time, it was daylight, I an adult, and I would now bear witness as such.

Queuing for passport control, I looked at the crowd behind the Perspex glass all peering in like we were the latest acquisitions to some zoo. I looked out for my father amongst the crowd, now realising he would look like a local instead of a diminutive slightly hunched man of uncertain Asian origin. Many of the men wore ‘longyis’ (the sarong like wrap commonly worn by men in Burma), but I doubted he would be in one. He only ever wore one at home now and I doubted he would have packed any! Lots of shoes, yes! My father had always had this odd proclivity for shoes. It was a running family joke.

I also looked in slight stunned amusement at what I considered to be a gross fashion faux pas. The official ladies were in beige outfits which consisted of an ill fitting jacket, a blouse, a mid length pencil skirt, socks up to their calves and court shoes with a mid heel! Hideous came to mind! Did these women think they looked good! Were full length mirrors now banned in Burma?! This is a nation in which the traditional dresses of a ‘tamein’ with a top made every woman of any shape or age look elegant.  This was not a good first impression.

Looking at the crowds beyond Arrivals, I noticed a man waving at us with a wide smile! He was in a blue and white Singaporean top, giggling as we noticed him. It was my father! He was there as he said he would be. Walking out with our suitcases, he stood in the middle of walkway, with his arms stretched out. I went and hugged him hard. He was delighted to see us. He introduced us to a portly dark man in a longyi and shirt holding a mobile phone. This was one of his nephews, Fizu who had been put in charge, it seemed, of all transport for us. This was not a country where transport was easy or cheap.  We made our way outside into the tropical sunshine and humidity. Our luggage was loaded onto a white people carrier by a cheerful young man with whom we would spend many hours in the days to come.

The road into downtown Rangoon was not as traffic ridden as expected. Both husband and I were delighted to notice the locals using the pavements! I immediately said to my father how road conditions were far superior to Cairo. The city was clearly underdeveloped and decaying in many ways. The colonial buildings were literally crumbling. Many areas were aesthetically challenged and although there was the odd shiny mall, it was clear prosperity for the general populace had not been seen for many decades.  We passed the famed Kandawgyyi Hotel, a smart white and timbered structure, which overlooked the lake and was the preferred residence of many tourists. However, Fizu had reserved a modest hotel for my father, where a room had been booked for us. My dad warned me it was not ‘posh’ but since we were leaving early the following morning for Maungmya, it seemed the sensible option. We pulled into a busy street, which seem to be lined with electrical shops. The outside of the New Aye Yar Hotel looked acceptable enough. We checked in. Fizu seemed baffled that I could understand everything being said in Burmese and yet could not respond! My dad and I conducted conversations, with me talking in English and him in Burmese. It was clear the young people at reception respected him as an elder and he joked with them having been guest now for well over a week. We had to pay for rooms in US dollars, but all other monies could be settled in kyats. Our room was spacious, the bed huge, an air con that worked and there were views to the river and although it was not beautiful, it was fascinating to look over this neglected city to the rusting cranes on the river side. The bathroom looked like it was recently badly tiled and grouted but it seemed to have running water and a western toilet that flushed! It would be sufficient for one night!

That first evening, my father had made a reservation at the Karawaik, a huge permanently moored boat garishly decorated in brick red and gold, where a dance and dinner show was put on for tourists nightly. I had remembered this boat as a child but had never been inside it. Driving onto the grounds, it all looked rather picturesque. The thing that caught my eye was the fabled Shwedegon Pagoda, a golden marvel, which could be seen in the distance, reflected magically in the trembling waters of the lake. As we entered the boat, two characters in historic court dress of pale peach greeted us, unsmiling. My father asked if he could have a picture taken with them, and they happily complied. He of course beamed his characteristic camera smile. We were them cordially ushered to the main dining room. It was near empty. Most of the tables were for tour groups with only a few for groups like us. We were seated near the back but with a good view of the stage. The dinner took a form of a buffet and comprised of many cuisines readily and easily available in the country; Burmese, Chinese, Indian and oddly Japanese. I recognised the Burmese dishes and was delighted to see desserts I had not seen for years. The waiters were dressed in traditional Burmese dress and the waitresses were in an array of tribal costumes from the various ethnic groups in the country. The show was a gentle mix of delicate and intricate dances in glittering costumes, all based on courtly entertainment. The music, percussion in nature was not to my taste, but was unobtrusive. We watched, ate, and chattered. My father gave me a wodge of the local currency as we had none and there were no banks to exchange our dollars. He had done so at the hotel and it seemed the black market where the rate was better. All the notes were in large denominations and it felt strange to me to be carrying so much cash around. Given that there are no ATM’s, there was no choice. During the evening, as anticipated, large tour groups came and filled the set tables. There were mainly Chinese it seemed and one set were dressed all in white. They all seemed to have a tour uniform of the American outfit variety. They ate noisily and departed shortly after they had gorged, having taken a few pictures or video footage of the show. I thought to myself, ‘my idea of hell!’ By the time we left, the place was as empty as when we arrived. We graciously thanked the waiters who had moved us to a better table as the tour groups left and took in the dimly lit street scenes as we headed back to the hotel. The following morning, we would join my father’s relatives for a bus journey to a town in the Irrawaddy Delta where he had grown up during the Japanese occupation, where his story had begun.

Myaungmya

We had hastily unpacked and packed our two suitcases into one the night before and had had cold showers as no hot water seemed to be had. I made sure I told my father about this at breakfast. Nothing puts me in a worse mood than a bad shower in the mornings! He said they had probably forgotten to switch on the boiler! Breakfast was not the wonderful affair we had loved in Bangkok as the bread was stale and everything else looked completely unappetizing. We were fetched to go to the meeting point for the bus which was about 45 mins from the hotel on the outskirts of town. The city was fully awake by now. Street hawkers dodged traffic balancing their wares on bicycles their shoulders or on their heads, workers men and women scurried along with their shiny tin tiffin boxes. Nearly all the girls wore ‘thanaka’, a pale yellow paste made from the bark of the thanaka tree which acted as a natural moisturiser and sunscreen. They all looked so well groomed in their bright and colourful ‘tameins’. To look at this bustling crowd at rush hour, it’s hard to realise they live in State where Buddhist monks are shot and killed for protesting peacefully on behalf of the oppressed and who all have little rights and certainly no political voice. Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, we hit a traffic jam going over a bridge. We were already late but it seemed there had been an accident. We crawled along and eventually pulled at a large gate where a group of people looking like they were heading for a huge picnic were gathered. We noticed Fizu on his phone looking worried. My father introduced us to his cousin Khalid, a cheerful man, dark skinned with alert eyes who spoke beautiful colonial English. I was desperate for the loo and was led away by Fizu to what looked like a tea shop across the road. I knew I would not be led to a western toilet and braced myself for what I would find! Yes, it was a squatting toilet, but cleanly kept and easy to manage. I was proud as I would need to get used to this! Back at the gate, the bus arrived. It looked like a rust bucket on wheels which had done a million journeys. The others relatives stood by staring at me, smiling. I must certainly have seemed a novelty. There I was dressed in blue shorts and a baggy top, looking every inch the tourist. I asked Khalid how long the journey would take. He said 5/6 hours. He warned us the roads were not as we were used to. I prepared myself for a bumpy ride. After hanging around for what seemed like half an hour, we were allowed to board. My father, husband and I got on last. There were small suitcases to load and baskets of food to arrange. I boarded and looked at the crowd. They watched my every move it seemed, beaming and nodding hellos. I felt so stupid not being able to talk to them. Eventually, we set off, settling into worn seats, with the breeze billowing into the bus. Husband noticed a television screen bolted onto the back of the driver’s seat, and I noticed a young man, his mouth red and his teeth stained black, standing in the doorway of the bus. It was clear he was not going to sit down. It soon became clear he was there to warn vehicles to get out of the way and to pay any tolls or fees along the way. It seemed a curious arrangement, but who I was to question? The stains on his teeth were as a result of constant betel chewing. It is as common in Burma as smoking in other countries. Betel nut, which is brown is packed into a green betel leaf and chewed. It is addictive and as it cannot be swallowed, has to be spat out at regular intervals. This explained why he did not sit down. The driver was also chewing and would regularly spit out of the window. Something else I needed to get used to.

The countryside as we left the city was sparsely populated. There were more wooden houses to be seen, the poverty became apparent but the lushness of land stopped it looking depressing to my eyes.  Seeing green in the sunshine made you forget the harsher realities of their lives. It was not a comfortable ride, and after a few hours, we stopped for a break.

The place was clearly a well established ‘service station’. It was a spacious wooden hut structure with tables and chairs instead of plastic stools. The toilets were to the side of the building and I raced ahead wanting to get the experience over and done with. As I came out, there was a queue of smiling ladies from the bus, all patiently waiting and smiling. I heard of them say, ‘she understands us, but she can’t speak Burmese anymore’. I returned their smile and joined my father and Khalid in the restaurant. As I walked in, I noticed a monk enjoying a lunch feast. Peculiar as they are only meant to eat breakfast as the only meal of the day. Perhaps this one had had a lie in! Clearly, someone had ‘offered’ this to him. There was an array of small dishes in front of him, and he ate without looking up. I had no appetite at all, and sat down to just pick at some starchy rice with ground salt/sesame and a cup of sweet tea. Khalid explained dishes to husband, but none were necessary for me. I started to realise, the culinary part of me was still very Burmese. A young woman with long ebony hair served us at the table. She was a like a highly attentive Michelin waitress, always watchfully reading the needs of those at the table. Her name was Cherry and she was the sister of Fizu. Unlike him, she was pretty and fair skinned with a beautiful stained free smile. She had a cheerful manner and dainty demeanour which was quite serene. I envied her looking so comfortable and at ease. I felt ungainly by comparison. After everyone had their fill, the women tidied away all baskets. Husband remarked how wonderful it was that you could bring your own food to a place like this. I remarked, we had bought some coffees (Three in One! A concept he was already used to in Egypt) and quite a few cups of clear tea had been drunk from the large thermos flasks at each table. Clearly the tea boys had no food orders to shout to the kitchens at the back, but they had made money and would very likely get the return trade. We piled back onto the shaking bus and bumped along again.  Shortly afterwards, the bus was stopped at a check point. An official came on board and asked where we were going and why. Khalid replied and said it was for a charitable trip that we were heading for Myaungmya. He asked who ‘the westerners’ were. He replied relatives. They asked to see our passports and then took them away. Khalid told me not to worry. He said they would need to copy the visa page for ‘security’. It struck me as odd that my father had not been approached or spoken to. He in turn said nothing. Moments later, our passports were returned and we were on our way. Khalid remarked how my relatively paler skin and western aura would always draw attention. Husband being a Scot, would never escape notice either. My father however, still had that Burmese way which let him get away with much!

The rest of the journey became progressively less comfortable. I nodded off at some point despite the constant jostling and awoke to see the road get dustier and decidedly stonier.  Fizu offered us face masks, but being used to the Cairo air, we refused. We continued jostling in our seats for three or more hours. We noticed sections of the road were being repaired by small groups of double bent folk. It was hard to tell if they were women or men or children. They wore large rattan hats, cloths covered their faces so only eyes could be seen and they had pick axes to break the stone. This sight made my heart sink. This was more likely than not coerced labour. I very much doubted they were paid a fair wage. Maybe a meagre meal was provided. At our next loo stop, I asked Khalid if there was another route. He said there was, but the conditions were much worse! This was the road most commonly used. I asked if it existed in my father’s youth. He said, indeed it had. And conditions were no better. He said he used to prefer the steamer from Rangoon as it was reasonably comfortable but it took much longer. I learned later that my father had preferred the steamer himself. This was how he came home for his holidays whilst he was at University and it was on a steamer that my mother and he had brought me to meet his relatives as a baby.

After six hours in the rickety contraption, we drove into the town. We noticed more houses, all wooden and in various states of disrepair. The tarmac on the road was worn but the lush green trees and the shrubs made it all seem oddly fresh even after such an arduous journey. We were met by nephews of my father’s who all had betel stained teeth. They treated my father with great respect and took our bags. We were not in the main part of the house which seemed like a well maintained old merchant’s house, but in newly built bungalows. They were clean and well laid out with adjoining bathrooms. I decided to check we had water supply which was a good move as it had not been switched on. A young woman ran around, switching on taps, assuring me the water was on its way. I told my father to make it clear we would need hot water early in the morning. I was not prepared for yet another stone cold shower! We had arrived later than anticipated and had half an hour to freshen up and change before the official reopening of my great grand father’s home which my father and we his children had funded to have rebuilt. I realised this was going to be quite an event for my father to reopen the house he had been born in and grown up in. I put on a long red linen dress, touched up my makeup and brushed my hair through. There was no time to make any more of a fuss. Fizu arrived in a hired car to take us to the house. I was astonished to find the journey only took two minutes! We could have walked!! I told my father there was no need to pay for car hire whilst we were there. We could always walk to and from the house. He agreed. We all got out of the car to be greeted by relatives. There were cousins I had never met, second cousins I did not know existed and many others who were all related somehow. These were all my kith and kin smiling, waiting and watching. My father was handed a pair of scissors to cut the ribbon in front of the main door. He wanted me to hold the scissors with him as he quietly said a few words before cutting the red ribbon. There were cheers as we walked into the building. The ceilings were high; the whole place had been white washed. It was a handsome structure, with a courtyard at the back. My father explained how the large rooms had been used and how he and his parents had lived on the one wing whilst his uncle and his family had lived at the far end. Upstairs was a wonderful terrace, with a beautifully moulded balustrade. The kitchen had been modernised by local standards and a small bathroom had been built for his two elderly sisters to live in. In the main living room/dining area, there were photos of all of us and wonderful sepia photos of my grand-father and great grandfather and uncles. There was a real sense of ancestry. Waiting for us in the main living room was his sister whom I had known as a child. She looked tiny and frail yet greeted me warmly saying how I still had my girl’s face. Her elder sister then came through. I had never seen her before. She looked like she had had a stroke, as one hand seemed paralysed but this was due to a broken arm being badly set. My father had been angry about it and had asked her to get it redone but the hospitals had not obliged saying she was too old now to really bother. As with so many, she had developed a stoical attitude and  greeted me too with warmth and pride thanking us for making the trip. They were both chatty with my father who was quite mobbed by all those who wanted to talk to him.  Over the next few days, my father held audience with many family members, almost as an elder statesman giving advice and counsel. The more I listened to their conversations, the more I realised how phenomenal his life achievements had been. As a boy and young man, he had ambition, vision and ability. He had never forgotten where he came from and I at last understood him mantra to us as we were growing up, ‘nothing is impossible’. He had steely determination for a boy who grew up in a jungle in the far reaches of the British Empire, lived through the Japanese occupation, hopeful independence then the burgeoning brutal military regime before finally bribing his way out to England with his young family. It took him a year going from pillar to post, getting the documents and passports for us to leave. Many members of his family were not so lucky. They had never left Burma and would never be able to afford to go. The world I knew and had grown up in, they could only ever imagine.

We took all our meals at the house, waited on hand and foot by the various ladies of the family. Cherry was present for every dish, watching us intently as we ate. Mitti and Maju, who were my first cousins, kept looking at me to the point to staring. They commented on my looks and clothes, paying compliments I knew I did not deserve. Mitti was especially wonderful in making dishes we particularly enjoyed. A tea leaf salad called ‘lapet thowt’ was a particular hit with husband.  One early evening, we walked down the street to eat ‘mohinga’, a dish served all day in the tea houses and small eating huts. It consisted of rice noodles served with hot clear fish sauce, flavoured with lemon grass. We loved it and had two bowls each, avidly watched by an audience of at least a dozen people. They seemed delighted my western husband was relishing the experience! Mitti promised to make it for us on our next visit. I also tasted and Mitti bought a dessert dish called ‘chout-chaw’, which is like a jelly with a layer of coconut cream on top. That dessert has always been synonymous with my childhood. That evening, as we walked back to the house, Maju holding my hand, I realised what a privilege this visit was for me. 

However, there was an underlying sense of menace throughout our entire stay. Every day, we walked ourselves to the house from our hotel in the morning, but always followed or accompanied by a member of the family. In the evenings, we returned to the hotel accompanied by the ladies. We asked one day if we could just walk around the village and in principal there was no problem, but we had to be accompanied, most of the time by Khalid, who acted as a guide. The secret police came to the house daily asking the men of the family what our intentions were for the day, where we had been and where we were going. There was an old gaol at the end of the road which my great-grandfather had built and the ‘authorities’ seems concerned we would want to nosey around that!  Husband and I found this insidious as we knew the family felt hassled but we were left alone. They did not have the gumption to bother us but they nearly terrorised their own people. This was an aspect of our entire stay in Burma which I disliked enormously. That constant Orwellian Big Brother ‘watching’....One day, we asked to go to the downtown market area by the river. One of my father’s nephews took us but he didn’t want us to wander around on our own for long. He kept a safe distance as we looked at the wares and took photos. At one point, an old monk with near perfect English asked husband, ‘Are you looking for anything?’ Husband replied he was just impressed with the quality of chillis! He asked where we were from and when it was explained to him that my father had lived in the village once, and we were here on a family visit, he seemed to know all about it! We were impressed by how fast news travelled and also wary that maybe he wasn’t just a well spoken curious monk. After waving him farewell, we rejoined our car and left the market to my cousin’s relief. 

Our journey back to Rangoon again took about eight hours, but this time, I felt the jolts and discomfort less. Instead, I was amazed by the dark jade green luminous beauty of the paddy fields, the tipsy wooden houses on stilts, the young sows suckling from their mother lazing in the mud. This pastoral scene would have looked the same for centuries. There were no electricity poles, no roads beyond the one we were on. The poetic beauty of it all was undeniable. The people were undoubtedly poor and lived in an oppressed state, but they had a dignity of being which was enviable. I watched a girl brushing her teeth, squatting on the edge of her house, looking out at our bus as we drove by. I would never see her again in my life but I will never forget her serene face.