The First Five Meters

The First Five Meters

The original title was “the first 50 meters,” but that was way too ambitious.

There is a security man outside my building.  At least he always sits there and his impeccably ironed shirt has a patch on its sleeve with “security” on it.  He sits on a molded plastic chair and I think he sleeps/lives in the ground floor hallway.  At least, I saw him lying down once in a small bed next to the stairs.

It is all guess work.  I cannot interpret even the simplest signs around me.

I have had two dealings with the security man.  On day 1 he pointed to a spot where I could deposit a bunch of discarded plastic and cardboard packing materials.  And over the last two days, he and I have communicated over a key I need for the front gate.  Apparently, the padlock goes on the building at 11 pm.  I got the key yesterday.  My security man showed me how you have to fiddle (a lot) before the key works. With the help of a bystander who knew the words “no original,” it is clear that I have a copy of a copy of a copy.  As I walked into my building, he gave me a solid thumbs up.  I returned the gesture:  we are good.

There is a narrow pathway between the electrical transformer right in front of my door and the stalls or vending carts.  It depends on the time of day.  In the morning, there is a fruit and vegetable stall.  In the evening, the same space is occupied by a crepe seller and a grilled meat-on-stick seller.  Right in front of the transformer is a beans-in-a-leaf seller.

I am a regular customer of the crepe seller: baharata-egg or beharata-no egg.  It is a joy to see his dexterity in taking a lump of (rice?) dough, flatting it, pizza-throw style, and frying it on his grill.  Dough first, then the egg and the ensemble is folded, sprinkled with sugar and condensed milk and packaged in a plastic baggie in bite-sized pieces, using tongs and a pair of scissors. He does good business, although at 300 Kyat (say $0.30) for Baharata-egg, his is a relatively low margin, high volume business.  He likes my patronage, but his somewhat stern visage is hard to read.  I think he is of Indian descent.  I haven’t yet bought any grilled meat-on-a-sticks from his neighbour. They look delicious and he is always grilling them fresh on a little charcoal fire.  The question of long ago they were put together keeps me from trying them.

Within my building proper and well within my five meter limit is the entrance to a diagnostic clinic.  I have not had the need to explore it, but I have visited the freezer in the little grocery store next door.  It packs passable ice cream, 300 kyat for a small tub of vanilla and 500 kyat for chocolate.  The young woman in the store hands you a little wooden spoon in a graceful manner typical of Myanmar; her right hand extended and her left hand touching her right elbow.  There is a hint of a bow and always a smile.

My Apartment

My apartment

Looking out the back door

I have spent my first night in my apartment.  The place is a 3-bedroom 7th floor apartment. It has many of the conveniences of home, including a fridge, a washing machine, an iron and an ironing board, a 2-burner butane stove, and a small sink.  No internet, except via my new phone, which cuts out more often than not.

The water situation is a bit more iffy.  Cold water only, which is hardly an issue in temperatures that vary between 25 C early in the morning and 33/35 C during the day.  The system is semi-automatic There is a small cistern to store water and provide water pressure.  Then there is a pump that fills the cistern, but overfilling the cistern leads to flooding in the kitchen.  Turning on the pump requires  a keen ear for gurgling sounds in the kitchen and rapid response with the pump switch.

The building  has an elevator, which is giving me some anxiety in view of frequent power outages. Getting stuck in a small elevator in 35C heat is not my idea of fun.  I think I'll climb the stairs more often than not.

My room is tiny, barely larger than the queen-sized bed.  But it has an air-conditioner, which makes the nights comfortable.  Again some anxiety about the power cutting out, but so far so good.  All in all, my living quarters are of a much higher quality than expected.

Unexpected is the noise of the neighbourhood.  I spent most of the night listening to honking cares and howling dogs. The taxi noise dies out after, say, one in the morning.  But there are always one or two dogs yapping and periodically there must be fifty that howl in unison. My room mate Floristan speaks of a recent religious festival at a pagoda across the street from us that included mighty drumming till after midnight. It will take some getting used.  Plus earplugs, which miraculously appeared in my travel bag. I think a left over from a flight in northern Manitoba where they were issued instead of inflight beverages.

Also unexpected is the view from my kitchen window:  Shwedagon Pagoda

The Cuso Cocoon

The Cuso Orientation Cocoon 

Cuso, in its wisdom, insulates its volunteers in the first days from the realities of life in Yangon.  It picks people up from the airport.  It puts people up in a good hotel for the four or five nights, and fills the days with a mixture of discussions and orientation sessions and free time/guided outings and dinners.

The CUSO office is part of the cocoon.  Located just north of the 8 mile junction, it is in a frmer house, now office, in a suburban part of town.  The mile count starts downtown. The office internet works; everybody speaks English; there is cold water in the fridge.  The Mile 7 Hotel is nearby, also just off Pyay road, a major spine road between the airport and downtown.  The first day, we were picked up; later we walked (roughly 30 minutes) or took a taxi.   The Mile 7 hotel is fully air conditioned; its elevator works, it has a back-up generator in case of power outages and has a pretty good internet connectivity.

Mostly, the cocoon is the CUSO staff and volunteers who have been in Yangon for some time.  They flag the taxi and negotiate a price, and pay.  They know restaurants where the food is good and safe.  They patiently help as some of us struggle with the fancy Huawei smartphones that connect us.

And so, at the end of day 5, the cocoon metaphore breaks down.  Maybe we emerge as Yangon butterflies; maybe not.  But the cocoon is no more.  Yesterday, I spent my first night in my apartment.  That is a story of honking taxis and howling dogs.

Connections

As a youth, I was told that all roads lead to Rome.  My status as a profoundly lapsed catholic notwithstanding, that still rings true.

I thought that roads to Yangon, on the other hands, would be few and far between.  The country is only recently emerging from extensive trade and travel sanctions by most western nations.

My first itinerary gave evidence of a direct air link between Seoul, Korea and Yangon, Myanmar (or Rangoon, Burma in old-speak).  Then I had an itinerary with a Hong Kong to Yangon flight, one from Bangkok to Yangon, and one from Hanoi to Yangon. A quick internet search shows that Yangon International has additional international flight to/from Bejing, Taipeh, Doha, Frankfurt, Guangzhou, and Kuala Lumpur.  

Once the gates open, modernity floods in fast.

Looking at the traditional land border crossings, there is now four direct road connection to Thailand.  Respectable roads, that is, on which regular buses drive.  There are, of course, many land links to Thailand, but those are not recommended for outsiders.  Too many drug smugglers, separatist movements, and brigands in what is at times designated as the Golden Triangle.  There is also a busy border crossing to China in the north.  China became a key trading partner for Myanmar during the sanctions.  With special permits it is possible to cross into India.  I know of no open border crossings with Bangladesh or Laos.  The northwestern Rakhine state knows many troubles.