Karen girls; simple and beautiful.
-a wise fellow passenger on the bus ride to Hpa An.
Few months since Burma, there's just a few things I wanted to say.
Few months since Burma, there's just a few things I wanted to say.
Betel Nuts
It was curious to see dried red stains across the ground of Yangon. Not long after I discovered its source the betel nut, wrapped in betel leaf mixed with bits of tobacco and some spices.
Something new, so I had to try it. Soon after became slightly addicted. My mouth just started becoming watery with this pungent taste shooting right down the throat. I might have swallowed a bit even. Not long after I felt a sudden high of quite a unique nature. Nothing like smoking cigarettes. Lasting a minute or two while I roamed the streets of Yangon. Then you eject the red slightly solidified spittle onto the side of the ground, just anywhere. And then it dawned on me that this was 檳榔 chewed in Taiwan. Wonder how this tradition was spread.
Then I just had to keep doing it for the rest of the Burma trip. Betel nuts served with different side spices and textures. My oral health condition was also on the decaying trend. A worthwhile sacrifice? Maybe.
Yangon - impressions
A natural heritage of colonial buildings, Buddhist pagodas, and 60s multi-purpose buildings; a rare scene in Southeast Asia. They come in all colors, quietly embedded in the extended boulevards near the harbor. Thanks to the stale development over the past century, many of these buildings have remained intact; some still functional.
It's quite a bustling town. It is a melting pot of different peoples, all speakers of the same tongue, one of many others. You can see things are happening, and perhaps a sense of purpose on people's faces. Petty traders dominate the sidewalks, drawing the passers-by's attention with their counterfeit or not counterfeit goods, street foods. Those who are talking business take the pause in a cafe, served with tea, with or without condensed milk, and the occasional pastry.
There are legends that capture the city's soul, which really is on one part superstition and on the other the political reality over the past decades. Yangon's drivers drive on the right side of the road, but their steering wheel is also on the right front seat. They once used to drive on the left, as the Brits did. The switch is rumored to be the result of astrological observations. You also see no motorcycles around, unlike other parts of the country; well an official was once hit and it was banned.
The Rohingya Journalist
He started talking to us during a morning snack, making quite a grand entrance. The subject caught us off guard, but it was also rare to see a Burmese with fluent English.
"Did you know that Rohingyas are being persecuted in this country still?" Somethings on the lines of that.
He has apparently pulled the same stint on other tourists as well, but did not receive much reaction. On this occasion though, there was one PhD candidate whose research focuses on Burma, and the other who just loves a good chat.
He worked for a weekly magazine. We had a chat, and followed him to the main office and publishing house, and made plans to meet for the next day. And on that next day, he came along with a Rohingya MP.
I see why his topic doesn't interest many foreigners. Many who come are here to see the happy country liberalizing economically, catching on the last ride for Southeast Asian economic integration. They might know about some of the different ethnic groups that reside in different parts, but very few will know about their political struggle.
And the journalist's angle is technical. He first goes back to the history of electoral laws of the country, details of which I can only vaguely remember. In areas where there were higher concentration of Rohingya population, efforts were made so that non-Rohingyas get elected; redrawing administrative maps, bribery and whatnot.
Another thing was the ID card that defines citizenship; some law was passed to ensure religion (and birthplace I believe) is mentioned on the ID card. That required replacing the original ID cards with new ones. Naturally during this process there already exists many ways to manipulate one's citizenship at the will of those in power. For example to get a new one you might have to prove your ancestral roots in Burma or whatnot. Rohingyas have long been described as immigrants from Bangladesh in official discourse.
The young film makers, and the underground night club
Brenner had met them somewhere on the street. The street is the best place to meet people.
We met one night on the shores of Kandawgyi Lake, in Japanese restaurant, overseeing the palace. It was a pleasant spot. Only two of them were actually film makers, the others were their flatmates, one worked in a hotel, the other a driver?
General conversations over fish and beer. Politics, movies, women, metal bands, Hilary Clinton's hotel during her visit and underground nightclub. The latter sounded like a good night out/anthropological observations, so there.
Passed by an "underground" band practicing, which was really not so underground but looked more like a church band. Wandering the streets of Yangon at late night; it was a Muslim neighborhood I think, not far from Clinton's hotel. We reached the guys' place before; never saw a place so worn out place, 400 square feet, no bed but a nylon sheet, no shelves but things scatered, dust on cement ground. They paid 200USD for this or something. We calculated the guy who made the least (70USD) had to pay more than half of that for rent. Yet he was also the one with the most expensive phone, in a country where the mobile industry is so underdeveloped that a simple sim card can cost up to 25USD.
Anyhow, the nightclub. 鑽石夜總會, Diamond Nightclub, the Chinese words read. Looked like a 80s Hong Kong nightclub; none of that fancy club stuff today, but places where businessmen go to maybe find women company. It was hidden behind a Soviet style functional building, with a carpark outside. The Soviet building was apparently a one-stop service, offering top notch massage services, showers, hotel rooms etc. As we entered pimps came around offering to lead us in. They apparently get paid close to nothing, which means their sole survival means was the amount of girls they sold.
We walked into the lift. Looked at one of the girls with Chinese cheongsam. She smiled back. Picked a table, beer, cigarettes. So this place ran like a beauty pageant. Girls came out to center stage dancing to the hittest Western pop songs, Lady Gaga included. They line up towards the end of each song, and the ones that get picked receive a Hawaiian flower ring. Some dude hosts this thing, and every night a queen gets picked. We discussed who had the biggest chances for queen. People on tables around seemed less interested; many Caucasians, and I mean actual Caucasus kind of Caucasians hanging around, each with a girl or two dancing around. All waiting for the big fish.
We were naturally crowded out by cigarette and beer smell, which was rare for us. Showed how toxic that place was. It was definitely a part of Yangon not everyone saw. As with many developing countries, leeway between the law and the occasional bribing allows such semi-clandestine place to make business. Who knows who it is run by? White and black were always a fine line in between.
The Karen Festival, and Our Great Friend that Night
Motorcycle rides and caves; largest part of our Hpa An activities. Yet it was precisely such adventures that brought us to the not quite anticipated Karen festival, more like a carnival. On a good word of advise, we stayed to see what awaited us.
The festival was at the entrance of the Lumbini Garden, where a thousand Buddhas stood. There stood also the statue of the Father of Karen music. To this day I have not figured out the reason for festival. It was not new years even according to local calendar. But it need not matter, for a festival is a festival.
And that's where we met our friend and tour guide of the night. Curious man approached us after we took our cameras and rolled around a bit. Started speaking to me and I just kept nodding. My company was using his few talents in Karen tongue as usual but to no avail. It was only a while after that I realized he was speaking English words. But no matter, it was a night to chill. Sometimes all you need as communication is beer and cigarettes. And that's what we did, until we went on the man-powered Ferris wheel. Yep, a man-powered Ferris Wheel.
Simple mechanics, combined with calculated human physiology. Back to basics; that's civilization.
It was a peaceful scene, great carnival. The young come in couples, old with smile. Wonder whether they have fought wars, or will fight them. Which army would they belong to? Will these lands succumb to economic development? These lands, after all, have only been opened to tourists for several months. Still a refreshing land, and lovely people. And I do hope it stays that way.
The Boys at Kawkareik; religious tensions and the beginnings of youth transformation.
Rejected on a counter traffic day on the swerving road towards the Thai border, I was stranded a night in Kawkareik. Customs officer treated me ice-cream, a good consolation I suppose. But what's an ice cream if you can't cross the border?
So I wandered around the township. Buddhist monastery. Monks playing football. Trash river with kids bathing. Houses with the hollow bottoms. Local village. Grass and wheat fields.
And that's where I met the boys. It was a bunch of children at first. Boys came out told them to go home. One leader, one blind, a few other younger ones. Made gestures of drinking deep inside the village, and then rubbing their fingers slightly, signalling money.
Saw no reason not to follow them, so went deep into the fields. 25 minutes later, an elder came out and greeted me, speaking in perfect English. He was part of the National Education Council and was the representative of this township. He told of how different peoples were living in this village together, showing unity. Sounded like the official discourse, but perhaps there could be truth in it. One of those things that you see in many parts of the world - you're a great honored guest, probably first they have received at that spot in ages, because after all normal people don't wander around like a lunatic. So they treated me this local palm wine, made directly from the fruit of the palm. It had this sourish taste, a bit like yogurt, but also felt like horse milk wine that you would taste in the steppes of Central Asia.
It was getting dark. He sent the same boys to send me out. Boys being boys, with the leader of a gang, who was apparently 26 but looked like he was 18, they now seemed to be up to something. Anyway took a few pics for them since they were pushing for it. Passed by a betel nut place and got some. It was evident that they were trying to knock a buck off a traveler, but I just played along. I wouldn't give money, but drink? There's always room for a drink.
A good way to see where the locals go to chill. A few turns over corners in complete darkness, we reached a shady bar. Boys were in charge, so we got a few beers and a whiskey. Whiskeys in Burma are named with colonial touch; High Commissioner, Grand Royal, but none of that stuff is really good. It's really a grassroots drink these days. Always makes for a good laugh. Anyhow, they mixed whiskey and beers together, and I wasn't really into it. A side dish was some oily nuts, and another super oily omelette. Poor stomach.
Now approached by a dude who spoke English. A taxi driver who got a scholarship to Turkey to study engineering. Then his family ran out of money so he had to go work in Japan for a while to wire in some expat money. For some reason he came back to become a tuk tuk driver in this town. There must be a twist I was missing.
The night was not to end well. We were on our way back to the hotel, the boys found out the tuk tuk guy was a Muslim, so they just pushed him away. I felt bad; it was good convo. In any case I wished him luck. The boys just gently escorted me back to the hotel, which happened to have a few mosques crossing our path. So they brought me onto the other side of the road, spitting on the ground.
Such are Buddhist-Muslim religious tensions.
At the hotel lobby, the boys were now literally begging for money. Quite a voracious appetite, considering all the free meals. Hope I wasn't setting a bad precedent. Hotel manager saved my ass, and I went straight in to finally reflect upon what was happening.
The older generation of rural Burma was still very much in their welcoming mindset. But the younger ones, with the opening up of tourism and economic development, are undergoing a turn towards immediate materialism. And it's not surprising, considering such a great gap between their income and an average tourist's possessions.
The Porous Border; miniature of Southeast Asia
On the recommendation of Brenner, walked along the Thai side of the border, just outside of Mae Sot, looking back at Myawaddy.
Border trade towns are always bustling, full of all varieties of people. A Burmese man already took the opportunity to tell me about situation of Burmese migrants, and proposed to organize a visit if I was interested. Having a plane to catch, I was on tight schedule. But the walk down the Moei River was worthwhile.
Coming from where I come from, one could not quite imagine people crossing the national border freely literally meters away from the official border crossing. As one walks along temporary piers can be observed, and numerous Thai trucks transport cargo of goods down to this area, waiting to be shipped across. There were established structures on the Burmese side waiting to receive such crossings.
Officials certainly are aware and tacitly allow this. After all, it is a window of gold mining opportunity that might not last for a very extended period. There are motorcycle taxi drivers waiting for passengers at the border. One can assume similar transportation is arranged on the other side of the border, often having to pass checkpoints on sensitive areas. Different from more clandestine border crossings to facilitate different causes that I know of, these ones are open illicit border crossings. None of the goods traded here will be listed in official national books. But given the scale from observation, such trade seems to sustain the economy of the regional population.
It is a lucrative business. I don't know if Singha Beer is really banned in Burma as I have come to understand, but it being sold on a cheaper price than local Burmese beer makes no sense. The observable illicit trade probably large margins of profit with the import tariffs avoided.
A miniature of Southeast Asian borders? Thus far I have had only ASEAN summit images in my mind. Glad to have seen this.
For more serious analysis of some issues in the country, best check this out.
It was curious to see dried red stains across the ground of Yangon. Not long after I discovered its source the betel nut, wrapped in betel leaf mixed with bits of tobacco and some spices.
 |
| Betel nut beauty. |
Then I just had to keep doing it for the rest of the Burma trip. Betel nuts served with different side spices and textures. My oral health condition was also on the decaying trend. A worthwhile sacrifice? Maybe.
Yangon - impressions
A natural heritage of colonial buildings, Buddhist pagodas, and 60s multi-purpose buildings; a rare scene in Southeast Asia. They come in all colors, quietly embedded in the extended boulevards near the harbor. Thanks to the stale development over the past century, many of these buildings have remained intact; some still functional.
It's quite a bustling town. It is a melting pot of different peoples, all speakers of the same tongue, one of many others. You can see things are happening, and perhaps a sense of purpose on people's faces. Petty traders dominate the sidewalks, drawing the passers-by's attention with their counterfeit or not counterfeit goods, street foods. Those who are talking business take the pause in a cafe, served with tea, with or without condensed milk, and the occasional pastry.
The Rohingya Journalist
He started talking to us during a morning snack, making quite a grand entrance. The subject caught us off guard, but it was also rare to see a Burmese with fluent English.
"Did you know that Rohingyas are being persecuted in this country still?" Somethings on the lines of that.
He has apparently pulled the same stint on other tourists as well, but did not receive much reaction. On this occasion though, there was one PhD candidate whose research focuses on Burma, and the other who just loves a good chat.
He worked for a weekly magazine. We had a chat, and followed him to the main office and publishing house, and made plans to meet for the next day. And on that next day, he came along with a Rohingya MP.
I see why his topic doesn't interest many foreigners. Many who come are here to see the happy country liberalizing economically, catching on the last ride for Southeast Asian economic integration. They might know about some of the different ethnic groups that reside in different parts, but very few will know about their political struggle.
And the journalist's angle is technical. He first goes back to the history of electoral laws of the country, details of which I can only vaguely remember. In areas where there were higher concentration of Rohingya population, efforts were made so that non-Rohingyas get elected; redrawing administrative maps, bribery and whatnot.
Another thing was the ID card that defines citizenship; some law was passed to ensure religion (and birthplace I believe) is mentioned on the ID card. That required replacing the original ID cards with new ones. Naturally during this process there already exists many ways to manipulate one's citizenship at the will of those in power. For example to get a new one you might have to prove your ancestral roots in Burma or whatnot. Rohingyas have long been described as immigrants from Bangladesh in official discourse.
 |
| "National" cause: quite telling Karen country. |
The young film makers, and the underground night club
Brenner had met them somewhere on the street. The street is the best place to meet people.
We met one night on the shores of Kandawgyi Lake, in Japanese restaurant, overseeing the palace. It was a pleasant spot. Only two of them were actually film makers, the others were their flatmates, one worked in a hotel, the other a driver?
General conversations over fish and beer. Politics, movies, women, metal bands, Hilary Clinton's hotel during her visit and underground nightclub. The latter sounded like a good night out/anthropological observations, so there.
Passed by an "underground" band practicing, which was really not so underground but looked more like a church band. Wandering the streets of Yangon at late night; it was a Muslim neighborhood I think, not far from Clinton's hotel. We reached the guys' place before; never saw a place so worn out place, 400 square feet, no bed but a nylon sheet, no shelves but things scatered, dust on cement ground. They paid 200USD for this or something. We calculated the guy who made the least (70USD) had to pay more than half of that for rent. Yet he was also the one with the most expensive phone, in a country where the mobile industry is so underdeveloped that a simple sim card can cost up to 25USD.
Anyhow, the nightclub. 鑽石夜總會, Diamond Nightclub, the Chinese words read. Looked like a 80s Hong Kong nightclub; none of that fancy club stuff today, but places where businessmen go to maybe find women company. It was hidden behind a Soviet style functional building, with a carpark outside. The Soviet building was apparently a one-stop service, offering top notch massage services, showers, hotel rooms etc. As we entered pimps came around offering to lead us in. They apparently get paid close to nothing, which means their sole survival means was the amount of girls they sold.
We walked into the lift. Looked at one of the girls with Chinese cheongsam. She smiled back. Picked a table, beer, cigarettes. So this place ran like a beauty pageant. Girls came out to center stage dancing to the hittest Western pop songs, Lady Gaga included. They line up towards the end of each song, and the ones that get picked receive a Hawaiian flower ring. Some dude hosts this thing, and every night a queen gets picked. We discussed who had the biggest chances for queen. People on tables around seemed less interested; many Caucasians, and I mean actual Caucasus kind of Caucasians hanging around, each with a girl or two dancing around. All waiting for the big fish.
We were naturally crowded out by cigarette and beer smell, which was rare for us. Showed how toxic that place was. It was definitely a part of Yangon not everyone saw. As with many developing countries, leeway between the law and the occasional bribing allows such semi-clandestine place to make business. Who knows who it is run by? White and black were always a fine line in between.
 |
| The bike that I had just learned to ride. |
 |
| The reclined Buddha in Saddar Cave. |
 |
| Our driver through the paddy fields. |
 |
| The ox that had a thing for me, and his masters. |
 |
| The Father of Karen Music. |
 |
| Fitting toys. |
 |
| She's smiling. |
 |
| Our man. |
 |
| Musicians preparing for performance. |
 |
| Excellent angle. |
|
| Preparing for top-down motion. |
 |
| Weight induced pull. |
 |
The Boys at Kawkareik; religious tensions and the beginnings of youth transformation.
Rejected on a counter traffic day on the swerving road towards the Thai border, I was stranded a night in Kawkareik. Customs officer treated me ice-cream, a good consolation I suppose. But what's an ice cream if you can't cross the border?
 |
| Beauty. Made in 1960s. Still in use. |
 |
| Can't get enough of this. |
 |
| The noodle ladies. |
 |
| Kawkareik local market. Close of business. |
 |
| My ride to Kawkareik. An old lady held my hand to steady her body the whole way. The whole bus laughed. |
So I wandered around the township. Buddhist monastery. Monks playing football. Trash river with kids bathing. Houses with the hollow bottoms. Local village. Grass and wheat fields.
 |
| Yep, just on the other side of the same river. |
 |
| Village houses. |
 |
| Gift from UNICEF. Wonder the alternative toilet. |
And that's where I met the boys. It was a bunch of children at first. Boys came out told them to go home. One leader, one blind, a few other younger ones. Made gestures of drinking deep inside the village, and then rubbing their fingers slightly, signalling money.
 |
| The crew. The elder was third from left on top row. |
 |
| As requested. The tree of the fruit that made the alcohol. |
A good way to see where the locals go to chill. A few turns over corners in complete darkness, we reached a shady bar. Boys were in charge, so we got a few beers and a whiskey. Whiskeys in Burma are named with colonial touch; High Commissioner, Grand Royal, but none of that stuff is really good. It's really a grassroots drink these days. Always makes for a good laugh. Anyhow, they mixed whiskey and beers together, and I wasn't really into it. A side dish was some oily nuts, and another super oily omelette. Poor stomach.
Now approached by a dude who spoke English. A taxi driver who got a scholarship to Turkey to study engineering. Then his family ran out of money so he had to go work in Japan for a while to wire in some expat money. For some reason he came back to become a tuk tuk driver in this town. There must be a twist I was missing.
The night was not to end well. We were on our way back to the hotel, the boys found out the tuk tuk guy was a Muslim, so they just pushed him away. I felt bad; it was good convo. In any case I wished him luck. The boys just gently escorted me back to the hotel, which happened to have a few mosques crossing our path. So they brought me onto the other side of the road, spitting on the ground.
Such are Buddhist-Muslim religious tensions.
At the hotel lobby, the boys were now literally begging for money. Quite a voracious appetite, considering all the free meals. Hope I wasn't setting a bad precedent. Hotel manager saved my ass, and I went straight in to finally reflect upon what was happening.
The older generation of rural Burma was still very much in their welcoming mindset. But the younger ones, with the opening up of tourism and economic development, are undergoing a turn towards immediate materialism. And it's not surprising, considering such a great gap between their income and an average tourist's possessions.
 |
| On the way to Myawady. |
 |
| Karen Posts crossing the mountain to Thai border. |
On the recommendation of Brenner, walked along the Thai side of the border, just outside of Mae Sot, looking back at Myawaddy.
 |
| Stateless mode. |
Border trade towns are always bustling, full of all varieties of people. A Burmese man already took the opportunity to tell me about situation of Burmese migrants, and proposed to organize a visit if I was interested. Having a plane to catch, I was on tight schedule. But the walk down the Moei River was worthwhile.
 |
| Towards Burma! |
 |
| I would like to sleep there. |
 |
| Suspect that to be a pier. |
Coming from where I come from, one could not quite imagine people crossing the national border freely literally meters away from the official border crossing. As one walks along temporary piers can be observed, and numerous Thai trucks transport cargo of goods down to this area, waiting to be shipped across. There were established structures on the Burmese side waiting to receive such crossings.
 |
| Storage room. |
 |
| Yea illicit trade! |
Officials certainly are aware and tacitly allow this. After all, it is a window of gold mining opportunity that might not last for a very extended period. There are motorcycle taxi drivers waiting for passengers at the border. One can assume similar transportation is arranged on the other side of the border, often having to pass checkpoints on sensitive areas. Different from more clandestine border crossings to facilitate different causes that I know of, these ones are open illicit border crossings. None of the goods traded here will be listed in official national books. But given the scale from observation, such trade seems to sustain the economy of the regional population.
It is a lucrative business. I don't know if Singha Beer is really banned in Burma as I have come to understand, but it being sold on a cheaper price than local Burmese beer makes no sense. The observable illicit trade probably large margins of profit with the import tariffs avoided.
A miniature of Southeast Asian borders? Thus far I have had only ASEAN summit images in my mind. Glad to have seen this.
For more serious analysis of some issues in the country, best check this out.
Comments
Post a Comment