first part here
I won't pretend to understand the relationship between the authorities and the monks in Myanmar. Nevertheless, it was prudent for us to pay a visit to the monastery. Down a path behind the house was a small store from which we bought gifts to take with us. Snacks, mostly. The monk himself was much like other monks in appearance, bald, tan, draped in crimson robes, though thinner and lankier than many. He sat with his back to the Buddha statues and faced toward us as we knelt and placed the gifts on the floor. The apprentices were gathered to one side, a little crop of dark scalps, miniature versions of the same person. They sat dead silent and stared curiously for a bit before reverting to an idle sort of boredom. At the monk's direction, one of them brought a plate of food for us. Aww zar thee, a fruit which could be mistaken for pineapple from a distance, but segmented inside, and very sweet with a grainy texture.
The only light drew in from the doorways set in each wall. We sat while the monk talked at length about the situation in the village. Money that had been donated for the school was instead languishing in the chairman's pockets, among many other problems. Though I was wholly ignorant of the law, it seemed that foreigners were not to stay anywhere but hotels in the country. A law which seemed to have no connection to reality. Or perhaps it was only in certain areas. All I understood was that there was some issue with the police. But of course, they didn't like to mess with the monks. It was suggested that perhaps I could just "stay" at the monastery. I sat and listened even though I couldn't understand. Thanks to my travels in the past few years, I'd grown used to being a passive member of most conversations.
The next day, we went to the farm. Down the dirt road, which was finally drying out after the rain, cows lingering along the side. They're used as pack animals and to work the land, but not livestock. On the way, we stop at more houses for lahpet and tea. One old couple lives in a two-story house with plaster walls and a real roof. They both look carved from wood, wrinkles and all. They are hardened instead of saggy, experience manifesting physically in a way that commands respect; for them specifically and perhaps for all who live their lives in the sun and wind, in the world as it is. Or maybe a life of watching that world on TV, in movies about the beyond, documentaries, old Walker Evans photos of the Dust Bowl in the Depression, has conditioned me to romanticize.
Fields of rice, chilis, chick peas, and beans. The farm is segmented and divided between different members of the family, though most or all worked by her brother-in-law and his hires. The three of us cut along a creek bed and up to the fields as he clears a path with his machete. The air is much more clear here than down around Yangon, the sky almost reminiscent of home, clouds like veins of light in a blue sky near sunset. Wild stretches of growth and palms mark the borders between fields. Along the far edge of one, several strangers stand like statues, watching us pass. "They come to steal the cows' food when we're not around," my friend explains.
In one small patch, the crops are not growing. The brother-in-law points to it. "My friend sends American seeds, they don't grow." He laughs. I feel a sudden urge to defend my country. I mean, of course they wouldn't grow in soil on the opposite side of the planet. Right? Back home, I do nothing but complain about my country. But anytime a foreigner does the same, I switch sides.
Back by the house, he's harvesting corn in a small field with a sickle. He passes it to me, and I try my city slicker hands at it, while he laughs.
During my stay, it's been repeatedly suggested that I should get a haircut. There is one barber in town. My last haircut was a year ago, so I finally relent. We track her down and she borrows a pair of scissors from a friend. I take my shirt off and sit on a tree stump in an open spot of the village. My skin is rrreeeeaally pale. Anyone nearby gathers around to watch in a big circle while she cuts my hair.
Bathing is usually outdoors with a spigot, a plastic bowl, and a longyi. A longyi is just a big cloth tube you wrap around yourself, part of the traditional dress for both men and women. Fill a metal tub a bit with water from the spigot. Less of a haven for mosquitos than the big open cisterns they use at my school. Soap up and throw some water on yourself with the bowl. I'm not good at it at all. My friend doesn't believe that I actually bathed. Maybe that's why, on the second day, her brother-in-law is there throwing water on me and laughing.
Ealier that day, I'd asked my friend if I could buy whiskey for her brother-in-law. Her sister quickly chimed in: "No whiskey." For that last night, we had settled on beer and palm wine with dinner. A sort of going away, maybe a chance to repay a little hospitality while getting further in debt at the same time.
I stepped back into the house, dressed, and went out to the front porch, where a crowd had gathered, having a somber discussion with two police officers. One a jovial fellow with a wide face and protruding stomach, an old friend of the family, apparently. Next to many of the villagers, he looks like a dirigible floating through a flock of sparrows. The other a thin, twitchy man with red teeth that I've never seen before. He exhudes an air of anxious disdain for those around him, which makes me uncomfortable. They ask to see my passport again, and examine every page of it for what seems like hours, while having a serious talk with the locals. I can't understand any of what's going on, of course, except for the occasional question put to me. I'm conscious of their holstered pistols, especially the twitchy one. Little hints of the situation reach me, but I still don't really understand. I'm waiting for them to ask me about my expired visa. They eventually do, and I tell them what I know while my friend translates. I suggest we should call my principal, but of course there is no phone service except for the house's landline, which is hooked up while the generator is running. Nobody gets called, though. The officers don't seem to want anyone else involved. The state of my visa is irrelevant to them, anyway. All they want is a bribe from the villagers or they kick me out. I'm not aware of any of this until afterwards, of course.
The jovial one maintains his good humor throughout. He tells me he went to school with their uncle. "Coco, you know? Drinky-drinky." It's true, I had met Coco earlier, and learned that he drank himself out of college, and it seemed to have taken a permanent toll on him, both physically and mentally. [Many people in Myanmar don't drink at all, but the ones who do don't mess around.] All the same, there was something I didn't like about this guy's tone when he spoke of his 'friend'. And that anyone could be so friendly and nonchalant about extorting money from the people he should be responsible for protecting leaves me fuming inside. Outwardly, of course, I'm agreeable and passive - if quiet - while he claps me on the shoulder or tells a joke in broken English.
In general, the position of the police in a place like Myanmar is strange. In the US, of course, the relationship between the public and the authorities isn't always a bed of roses, but at least in principle, our police force exists as a public service, like the government itself. To Protect and Serve and all that. Not so in Myanmar, a place where I often felt that if there were any police at all, they only existed to protect the government from its people. Just a week later, I would read an article about gangs of taxi drivers in a Yangon neighborhood who had organized to dispense street justice to local criminals by ambushing and beating them. The police weren't part of the equation. Without true popular support, the government only has the manpower to protect and serve itself, while its citizens get through daily life on their own. A symptom of the massive disconnect between politics and reality.
Confused and disoriented, I start saying goodbyes. I hug my friend's cousin and then try to hug some random old woman in the crowd for some reason. She's having none of it, so I give up. I collect my bag and head down to the clearing in front of the hayloft, where my friend's brother-in-law and uncle are already on their motorcycles; ready to make the dark trek into town instead of eating dinner.
Living in Myanmar, one of the hardest things for me was the culture of hospitality. Whether people were driving me around, watching me eat the food they cooked, serving as interpreters, or any of the countless little sacrifices they insisted on making; I could never escape feeling like a burden, one of my least favorite things in the world. It took me until I left to get used to it. Out in the country, of course, there is absolutely no choice. Without my friends to ferry me around, feed me, and show me how things work, I would have been completely helpless.
So I hopped on the back of the motorcycle, the cops waiting to escort us out of town. With that charmingly earnest nature so characteristic of many people I met there, my friend's cousin runs up and grabs my hand when I wave goodbye and she says, "I will never forget you." My eyes are misty. I won't get to drink wine and eat curry. And I already know how much I hate long motorcycle rides, especially at night. I grip the handle at the back of the seat as we speed out of the village. We won't beat the rain, but at least it waits until we're off the mud roads. When we get into town, we stop at the police station, they examine my passport again, and then we move on without them. We're still very far from the nearest hotel. The road is pitch black and not really wide enough for two cars. We speed through the rain in silence, not slowing down for the wet asphalt. The occasional night bus flashes out of the dark going the other way and taking up the entire road. When it does, my driver shuts off his lights, either balancing on the edge of the pavement, or cutting away into the mud and gravel to avoid the bus. At one point, we pass a man and his motorcycle laying right in the middle of the road. He sits up and watches us. We don't slow down, let alone stop for him.
Most places are closed when we get into town, but we stop somewhere for a Myanmar beer and a salad. A large porch area of wooden tables and plastic chairs, only a few patrons watching soccer. The mood is somber. Our drivers will find somewhere to stay in town instead of making the long trip back home tonight. Back onto the motorcycles and we finally reach a hotel. But my hopes of a soft bed and a hot shower are dashed. They see my expired visa and turn me away. Ironically, the only solution is to stay at my friend's cousin's house instead [My friend refers to her as her sister-cousin. I've only just learned that this is how they teach it in Burmese high school English classes, which explains why I've been so confused.]. Staying there probably breaks the exact same law those cops were enforcing. As we sit in the concrete front room, I immediately notice all of the mosquitoes that were absent from the village.
