Myawaddy

I’d like to think I didn’t have any outrageous expectations when I entered Burma for the first time. I’d had several conversations with other travellers and a few local Burmese which ensured that nothing really came as a surprise. Quite a few politically minded people urge travellers not to go into Myawaddy, as the 500 baht entry fee is pretty much pocket money for the junta. Yet on the flip side, others urged people to go and see for themselves exactly what life under an overbearing military dictatorship is like, to hear the stories and meet the people. With that in mind, however, Myawaddy probably isn’t the best place to get an accurate picture of life in Burma. As the main artery connecting Burma to the rest of South East Asia, Myawaddy (I’ve been assured) is abnormally affluent. It benefits very much from its proximity to Thailand, and the highway was actually built by the Thai government, which also supplies Myawaddy with electricity.

Before we were allowed to officially enter Burma, we had to stop at the tourist office in the ostentatious ‘Union of Myanmar’ entryway building. There, a customs officer took our passports from us while he welcomed us to his country, reminding us that we had to return to Thailand before 5pm that day. As soon as we exited customs, we were swooped upon by charismatic tour guides eager to show us around the town. Tactfully shrugged off by James- who used his Burmese to explain that we’d been before and knew where the Pagodas were thank you very much- we quickly veered off the main road and headed into the backstreets.

Two things struck me almost instantly. Firstly, the fact that everyone still wore the traditional sarong- known round these parts as the longyi. Second, that every street held such a cacophony of vehicles- from creaky, rusting bicycles, to cars with exposed engines and wooden bodies, to strange jacked up jeeps and rickety motorised trishaws. With my digi SLR draped round my neck, I felt ridiculously obtuse. Although I tried to take several photographs of the people and the street scenes, I found most everyone incredibly camera shy. People swerved out of my path or thrust magazines, umbrellas or bags in the way of their faces, and I couldn’t help but think that somewhat ominous. I found the street signs eerie, and couldn’t shake the impression that I’d walked into some kind of primitive version of Orwell’s 1984. The ‘People’s Desire’ slogans often feature on the front page of the New Light of Myanmar- the junta backed national newspaper. They can also be seen hanging on signs outside government institutions, such as police stations, fire stations and schools. They read (in Burmese):

PEOPLE’S DESIRE
* Oppose those relying on external elements, acting as stooges, holding negative views.
* Oppose those trying to jeopardize stability of the State and progress of the nation.
* Oppose foreign nations interfering in internal affairs of the State.
* Crush all internal and external destructive elements as the common enemy.

The extent to which the junta has a choke hold on almost every aspect of daily life became most apparent while we were sitting at quite a well to do coffee shop, enjoying some local tea. Hanging above the front counter was a large television playing a music DVD, and I watched thoroughly amused as a Burmese songstress strutted about the stage ripping off the likes of the Beatles, Kylie Minogue, and J-Lo (They even copied Kylie’s dance from ‘I can’t get you out of my head’!). Foreign media is banned here, and thus when I started singing along in English, the locals around me were delighted to hear that I knew a Burmese song. I tried to explain that as a matter of fact most of the songs were from elsewhere, but decided that knowledge would probably do more harm than good. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but feel somewhat heart sore knowing that not even music was safe from the junta’s iron grip.

Like most places, in Burma it was the young people who were eager to try and overcome language barriers and share stories with us. I was very much interested in seeing the Moei River from the Burmese side, so we headed off road and through the most peculiar mini agricultural project-tiny fields of vegetables and penned goats and pigs- emerging on the northern side of the Friendship Bridge. James and Emma sat down in the shade and- with the help of a Burmese language handbook- struck up conversation with a group of curious teenage girls. Unable to keep up with the exchange, I kept strolling towards the water, and watched from the high pathway as children played on the most peculiar looking beached ship- that may have been some kind of dredger now out of service- and women washed clothes in the river. I tried going down to the water’s edge, once again hoping to find someone somewhat fluent in English, but think I only managed to annoy the women, who were either telling me to leave, or asking me to join them in cleaning. Nonetheless, I didn’t have too much time to worry about it, as I was suddenly hijacked by a gang of delightful street rats; grubby boys with big voices and keen eyes, they’d spotted my camera and wanted me to take photos of them.

The next twenty minutes unfolded like some kind of bizarre flip-book performance, as some of the boys climbed on the boat’s strange, rusted pipes-posing all the while- and others just shifted themselves in front of my lens constantly- not striking a pose or smiling, just apparently eager to be recreated on my mini LCD screen. It’s perhaps the funniest thing about shy children; they dare not smile for the camera, and tend to just stand there somewhat insipid and frightened. Yet, when they see their image recreated on the mini screen, they never fail to burst into the most delightful and whole-hearted of grins, that I wished I had a second camera to photograph them genuinely admiring their own picture.

My trip to Burma certainly convinced me that if anything is to change within the bounds of that totalitarian state, it’s going to be effected from the outside, in. It’s no wonder the junta consider the activists in Mae Sot such a threat, because they dare to speak of politics and democracy, human rights and freedom. I still can’t quite comprehend the disparity between the wealth of the average Burmese citizen, and that of the junta and their henchmen. Myawaddy I’ve been told time and again is affluent, and while the occasional sign of prosperity- like the token internet cafe, or gambling room- was apparent, for the most part I saw poverty, making do. Houses built on top of fetid, stagnant pools of water, holey roofs, and scabby children, the people appeared content, but bored. There seemed to be a lot of sitting around going on in Myawaddy.

I’m sad I didn’t get to speak more with the people of Burma, but it really shouldn’t have come as I surprise and I shouldn’t have expected people to necessarily know English. I’ve certainly realised that if this is a place I am interested in getting under the skin of, it’s important for me to arm myself with a bit more than just token Burmese. On that note, I have had a couple of lessons with a one toothed Karen missionary woman, who tends to stop mid-class in order to pray to God that I learn quickly. An absolute hoot of a woman, yesterday she told me that her prayers were the single force which re-opened the Suvarnabhumi International Airport in Bangkok, following the political protests of November-December 2008. She also told me that the Thai boy shouting loudly in his English class next door was the devil.

It’s comforting to know that here in Mae Sot, there are so many stories of hope, humour and heartache, that I’ll never be able to hear them all. Of late I’ve felt a bit saturated by the magnitude of the life stories people have shared with me. I’ve heard firsthand accounts of murder and sabotage, of torture and human trafficking, and apart from deciding to write one heck of a mystery novel, I don’t quite know what to do with them. I’m still not sure if they are my stories to share.

Meanwhile, I have several classrooms full of eager students to take care of. I’ve started taking individual photos of all the students at the BLSO School and will hopefully be taking class photos tomorrow, provided everyone remembers to wear their proper school uniform. I've also started teaching the Kindergarten kids English; they apparently hassled their regular teacher as they were jealous all the other classes got a lesson with me while they missed out. I can't help but feel like a bit of a rock star at that school, I don't know how I'll cope with becoming bog-ordinary Zarah again. It takes a lot of energy to teach Kindergarten kids, especially considering they've done nothing but the alphabet. I've invented a heck of a lot games and tomorrow, I'm going to teach them 'If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands'. Yee ha!