Burmese Waves

Choices come in waves; so does happiness, sorrow, life in general. Surfers talk of catching the perfect wave, businessmen of opportunities, lovers of the one. Sometimes we wait for the perfect wave. Sometimes we wait for ever. But sometimes we try to ride the waves that come. Some we let go past us thinking we shouldn’t have taken them, some we mourn over. Some pass underneath us, right by us, over us, and leave us behind with anger, and we wish we had taken them because of all the things we imagine we could have done with those waves. But some we take, some take us. And when we take them and they work out, then they are meant to be. Then its karma, then its maktub, then it was written before, it was the right decision. I wonder sometimes if this thought is an easy way out in order to make up for all the not taken ones… But at least we got waves.

In Burma, Nga Yin, the giant that was buried beneath earth’s crust hasn’t shaken in a while; the strong winds haven’t blown for decades; and the people have been floating on a calm sea without opportunities to catch waves that could take them somewhere. Usually the term ‘calm sea’ is associated with positive feelings, with a constancy and an absence of unexpected danger. However in Burma’s case it has exactly the opposite effect. Somewhere in the 1950’s the most decisive wave came, that left the people deprived of their freedom on all fronts. The government was dissolved, taken over by the army, in a true military style. When the armed boys stepped in with their strong arms, and switched off brains, they didn’t do so with the “viva la revolucion”, or “nema odmora dok traje obnova “ (there is no resting while reforming) slogans; there were no waves of common vision, ideals, and beliefs, nor of encouraging buzzwords. It was an army that made sure no waves came anymore, no waves of thought, of change, of progress. They created a calm sea with a force meant to last.

Over the years a few people tried to stir the seas, but you can’t expect people to ride a Tsunami when they don’t even know how to behave in stormy waters. Most of the wave riders end up smashed against the shore that’s meant to be their savior. In 1990, the military regime allowed open elections, where the democrats convincingly won. The green uniforms used this occasion to place Aung San Suu Kyi back into house arrest, and imprison or liquidate all of her now known followers. She received the Nobel Price for Peace, a room that she cannot leave, and the country received sanctions. She is still in her room 16 years later; and the Burmese borders with China, Thailand and India became just the thing sanctions are good for, - a haven for the black market. Not to mention the French Total’s pipelines, dissecting the country, hauling Burmese oil and wealth away from its people, and pouring money into the military pockets. Total exonerates its business by supporting UN development projects. In the West we call it corporate social responsibility. In Burma they call it theft.

This same pipeline cuts through the garden of an old history professor, banned from teaching at the Yangon University by the regime. Since the French petrol giant took away his land, for which they paid their bribes to the government and nothing to the man, he has to travel daily three hours to Yangon to scout for tourists to earn some money of which pays 40% to the government. Then he commutes back to his village for another three hours in order to care for his 95 year old mother. Once she dies, he will become a monk. The history professor gave us a tour of the Shwedagon Pagoda and Burma’s brutal but fascinating history, while the scorching Yangon’s sun made no shade, His walk was that of an old man, but the chance to share his knowledge and give us a little piece of his country to take back home, created a storm of colors in his eyes only waves can offer.

The locals like to talk about their country’s appalling reality, but they choose different ways to go about it. While the patron of our guesthouse groans at the frequent power cuts and the boys at the switch, the owner of the internet café mimics a typical military raid on his shop, pointing out that the guns are acquired from China. In broken English, using arms, and legs, and his broken fingers, he explains that the only unrestricted internet server in the country is that provided by the government. Hotmail, Yahoo and Gmail are only accessible through complicated proxy servers which enable access to their weird ‘light’ versions. The Burmese should use Webmail provided by the government, of course for a fee.

Because of a serious shortage of filters for cars, trucks, buses and other vehicles seemingly running on a cocktail of oil, piss, and alcohol, the pollution is blinding. Maybe the shortage is a result of the government’s excessive filtering of information given to the people. Even the rickshaw drivers contaminate the ground with bloody red spits of beetle root they chew on most of the day. The mixture of the root combined with tobacco wrapped in a leaf gives a slight high, two burning red lips reminiscent of a monkey’s ass, and a black smile. The dark teeth are actually regarded as a privilege: the black layer protects the gums and reduces dentist expenses.

Unlike in Bangkok’s taxis filled with intense incense smell and freezing aircons, I felt at home in Burmese taxis without window handles, stormy drafts and a penetrating aroma of good old fully leaded petrol. The honk and its usage have nothing to do with its western purpose. The honk serves as a greeting tool, as a: “watch out, I’m approaching”, or a: “hey man, I’m passing by”, not to mention the: “yo yo, I just drove by”. The occasional: “get the fuck out of my way”, is also there, but it is not nearly as rude as one would interpret. But most of all I love the one:”I’m just cruising, and you need to acknowledge me.” When we rented the bicycle out, it was clear that most repairs are done on the little ringer. A bike without it is like a dj without speakers.

When we first arrived to Yangon and sat down on a rickshaw, my interpretation of the constant ringing was a very different one. Dejana and I sat down back to back on the two padded seats attached to the vehicle, and the old man started riding. He gave us two extra cushions to prevent the bike’s misconstructions from penetrating our arses. The poor guy must have been in his 70s, and the two of us weigh double his age. When he started ringing, we thought he’s dying and giving out his last wishes to his comrades. Dejana told me I should take over and paddle, but somehow I thought I would deprive the man of his last achievement. He survived, we survived, and we learned that the Burmese men can take a lot. Soon enough we realized that they can carry a much bigger burden that doesn’t come in meters or kilograms. And they still manage to keep a smile without complaining.

Once you are forced to walk because the roads are too narrow for cars, or you have to cycle because car suspensions can’t take the holes in the ground, people essentially become very similar simple beings, despite how much difference religion, culture, and history make. They smile, they sing, sometimes they cuddle with the dog they just kicked violently, and they talk of good times, bad times, and at times they perform when language doesn’t allow them to express all the emotions needed for a good story. But one detail differed in the art of storytelling to that what I am used to where I come from. The Burmese don’t complain! Sometimes self-pity and focusing on the negative brings out illusions of reality. Complainers live in the past, or generally in times when they think they were doing better, and tend to thrive on those feelings without realizing that things have changed in the mean time. The Burmese are different. They are focused and realistic, they offer facts, and live with them. They know they are suffering, they know that their seas are calm, but that the wind could blow. Right now they have to float; they have to stay alive for the times when waves will carry them again. Buddhism and its call to patience is a great influence in their attitude, or better said, their faith. For most of the people this is all they have left. But this is enough to walk or even crawl through life with a smile and a giving hand. At any time of the day these people were ready to share everything they had; and they had nothing.

Sometimes they even shared laughter with us, like the time when they informed us that the 250 km we are about to make, will take us sixteen hours on a boat. The ride includes: one sunrise, one sunset and one spot of the deck floor among the other two hundred passengers, a tractor, a few barrels of gasoline and loads of bananas. A cockroach safari, taking a dump in a river, and a mosquito genocide are bonus features obtained through learning by doing. A Spaniard traveler convinced us that the container of water where the boat chef washes his vegetables was not filled in the muddy Ayeyarwady river. Maybe he even wanted to prove it to us by eating four times in 16 hours at the highly unhygienic space of two square meters containing a fire and a pot, resembling a kitchen. He also ate eight bananas and four somosas bought from a lady who came onboard at one of the stops along the river. We met him the day after, sipping on Coca-Cola, brownish drops coming down his pale forehead. I suppose the diarrhea spread out through all his pores. Juanito admitted the recklessness of yesterday’s food binge , but proudly held up his machista style even during the confession. We also ate from the “kitchen”; we even had bananas, and the somosas, but quickly realized that there is no need to pig out in these circumstances. I admit it, I also had the Obelix fantasies of pigs roasting right there in that kitchen, on a fire burning up the wood ripped off from the boat’s deck itself in the moment of crazed hunger. But there are times for desire, for cravings, for urges, for all the things we cherish so much in the developed world. Burma is not the country where one goes to feed on these feelings.

I asked myself many times if it is better to have a choice, or not. In Burma I realized, there is nothing worse than being robbed of your choices, intentionally. Stormy waves don’t make sailing easy, but enforced calm seas don’t take you anywhere either.