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.