Sunday, February 27, 2011
Letting Go
Monday, February 14, 2011
A Revolutionary Spirit
A brown hand appeared in front of me and placed a bowl of peanuts on the floor where I was sitting. I had been listening to an elder monk read Pali texts out loud at Ananda Temple when this curious bowl of peanuts appeared. When I looked up, a young monk pointed to another monk across the room. The second monk smiled broadly showing teeth stained by betel-nut. His eyes were warm and sparkled with a bit of humor and mischief something I found uncommon in stark Buddhist settings. I looked at the peanuts quizzically. Where I come from, you give monks food as alms not the other way around. He noticed my confusion and proceeded to illustrate to me how to crack open a peanut. I laughed. He thought I did not know how to eat peanuts from the shell! I proceeded to eat the peanuts and called out a polite "Thank you" in Burmese. He offered me some tea. I accepted and joined his circle of monks for a little cup of tea and a lot of conversation.
His ordained name is U Ya Thanada. He joined the monastery when he was a teenager to escape the poverty and suffering that the people of Burma experience. At 36 years, he has been a monk for over 20 years, splitting his time between meditation and reading Pali texts. He explained that once he became ordained as a monk, his basic life needs of food, shelter, and clothing were provided for, and thus, he could focus on his spirit. The role of the Buddhist monk as he explained it was to provide education on the spirit. He provided insight into people's lives on suffering and how to ease that suffering.
I made eye contact with him across the small circle of monks on the floor. I asked him for permission to speak frankly and prefaced that by saying he did not have to answer my questions if he felt uncomfortable. I felt every monk around us hold their breath. He nodded his permission. I leaned my head closer, lowered my voice, and attempted to speak, but found myself opening my mouth and then closing it. As I tried again, he stopped me, "Wait," and he scooted closer. Everyone in the circle exhaled and laughed. The tension eased. I asked him what his feelings were on the government and if he thought there was any hope for freedom.
He answered emphatically, "I do not support the government and one day it will be overthrown. I have no fear in saying this."
"Will this happen in ten years?"
"Yes."
"Five?"
"No."
"Seven?"
"Likely."
"How do you think this change will come about?"
He tried to explain to me in a Burmese metaphor of a wheel rolling down the road. It would be slow at first and as it kept spinning, it would gain momentum. He believed that the Burmese people would unite and build this momentum. The Buddhist community was there to provide spiritual guidance but from what I can tell they would not be the leaders of the revolution.
 |
| U Ya Thanada |
I made eye contact with him across the small circle of monks on the floor. I asked him for permission to speak frankly and prefaced that by saying he did not have to answer my questions if he felt uncomfortable. I felt every monk around us hold their breath. He nodded his permission. I leaned my head closer, lowered my voice, and attempted to speak, but found myself opening my mouth and then closing it. As I tried again, he stopped me, "Wait," and he scooted closer. Everyone in the circle exhaled and laughed. The tension eased. I asked him what his feelings were on the government and if he thought there was any hope for freedom.
He answered emphatically, "I do not support the government and one day it will be overthrown. I have no fear in saying this."
"Will this happen in ten years?"
"Yes."
"Five?"
"No."
"Seven?"
"Likely."
"How do you think this change will come about?"
He tried to explain to me in a Burmese metaphor of a wheel rolling down the road. It would be slow at first and as it kept spinning, it would gain momentum. He believed that the Burmese people would unite and build this momentum. The Buddhist community was there to provide spiritual guidance but from what I can tell they would not be the leaders of the revolution.
 |
| Ananda Temple |
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Too Hot for Burma
One of the biggest perks of staying in a fancy Burmese hotel was the Al Jazeera network (only available at the Katumadi Dynasty Hotel in Bagan) and Movies on Channel 5.
Channel 5 played movies, mostly American, 24/7. After a long day of navigating the streets of Burma, coming back to the hotel to an air-conditioned room with a 40 ounce of Myanmar beer and watching Channel 5 became the moment of the day where I could exhale. It just seemed like every other channel was either some distorted version of the news: Today Lieutenant Colonel XXX donated 10,000 pencils to XXX Primary School or a ridiculous Burmese drama: But I'm in love with him and you can't stop me! However, my new-found comfort was an uneasy one.
On Day 2, during a communal pre-dinner nap, I woke up before my roommates and turned on the tube. (Is it possible that I am the annoying roommate?) To my excitement, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is showing on the movie channel. When it debuted, this movie was given poor reviews that criticized its snail-like pace and plot development, but visually, it is serious eye candy. Who isn't curious what an aged Brad Pitt looks like? And who doesn't want to see him get hotter over the course of 166 minutes? I might add that Cate Blanchett looks flawless, the setting is romantic, and the wardrobing is impeccable. I savored watching the interaction of a senior Benjamin and child Daisy. The distorted visual of the old man and young girl pushes your threshold for what love should look like and you ache for Benjamin to be normal. Although I have seen this movie a few times, I still look forward to part when they both meet in the middle (at a comparable age, of course) and consummate their relationship. As I watched this scene unroll in my jet lagged stupor, the great moment came, and it was skipped! Watching this movie on Channel 5 actually left me craving more.
On Day 3, our nap times finally started coordinating, and we watched X-Men Origins: Wolverine together. Do you remember the scene where Hugh Jackman, err Logan undergoes an operation to reinforce his skeleton with adamantium? He is laying on the operating table, with a sheet draped on the lower half of his body. The camera pans in closer and reveals that he is shirtless. The viewers can see his pecs, but as the camera scans lower on his body, Hugh Jackman's abs are censored! I know I've seen shirtless men on Burmese TV before, but Hugh Jackman's abs are deemed too sexy for Burma. Is it abs in general? Do they have to be a six-pack or as they say in France, une barre de chocolat (you gotta love the French) to be censored? Who is the gatekeeperIs it because Jackman was laying down, which is perceivably (is this a word?) more sexual a position than standing up?
 |
| Myanmar (Burma) Beer |
On Day 2, during a communal pre-dinner nap, I woke up before my roommates and turned on the tube. (Is it possible that I am the annoying roommate?) To my excitement, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is showing on the movie channel. When it debuted, this movie was given poor reviews that criticized its snail-like pace and plot development, but visually, it is serious eye candy. Who isn't curious what an aged Brad Pitt looks like? And who doesn't want to see him get hotter over the course of 166 minutes? I might add that Cate Blanchett looks flawless, the setting is romantic, and the wardrobing is impeccable. I savored watching the interaction of a senior Benjamin and child Daisy. The distorted visual of the old man and young girl pushes your threshold for what love should look like and you ache for Benjamin to be normal. Although I have seen this movie a few times, I still look forward to part when they both meet in the middle (at a comparable age, of course) and consummate their relationship. As I watched this scene unroll in my jet lagged stupor, the great moment came, and it was skipped! Watching this movie on Channel 5 actually left me craving more.
On Day 3, our nap times finally started coordinating, and we watched X-Men Origins: Wolverine together. Do you remember the scene where Hugh Jackman, err Logan undergoes an operation to reinforce his skeleton with adamantium? He is laying on the operating table, with a sheet draped on the lower half of his body. The camera pans in closer and reveals that he is shirtless. The viewers can see his pecs, but as the camera scans lower on his body, Hugh Jackman's abs are censored! I know I've seen shirtless men on Burmese TV before, but Hugh Jackman's abs are deemed too sexy for Burma. Is it abs in general? Do they have to be a six-pack or as they say in France, une barre de chocolat (you gotta love the French) to be censored? Who is the gatekeeperIs it because Jackman was laying down, which is perceivably (is this a word?) more sexual a position than standing up?
I am flabbergasted. I wonder if the Burmese watch Channel 5 movies in a state of confusion, or do they not even realize something is missing? Can you miss something you've never experienced? Is this what it's like to be a citizen of Burma? Do you crave the freedoms that other people have? Are you resigned to accept the limitations of this life or do you dare to hope for more?
The next day I wore Randy's shirt, and when it became unbearably hot, I tied the front into a knot. I was reprimanded by David. Hadn't we learned anything from Hugh Jackman? Clearly my abs are also too hot for Burma.
 |
| Trish, Randy, David (Old Bagan) |
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Twin Beds
When you book a double room in a Burmese hotel, it comes with one big bed or with two twin beds. In booking my hotel room, I reserved a double room, emphasizing two SEPARATE twin beds and then requested an EXTRA and SEPARATE bed. (They charge by the person in Burma, not by the room size.)
Now imagine having two twin beds in a room. Logically, where should the third bed be placed?
Obviously, the last bed should be placed at the foot of the two twin beds to allow for personal space between all the beds.
Not the Burmese way. Upon entering our first triple hotel room, our beds were pushed together a la slumber party. One BIG bed for the three of us. Since my brother and I arrived at Hupin Hotel in Inle Lake before our third roommate, we both claimed the "bookend" beds. Additionally, our communal bed(s) had footboard(s), such that the person sleeping bitch would have to climb over the footboard to get out of bed (or climb over his bedmate).
For those who know me, I live, sleep, and travel alone. This was a major departure for me. As I crawled into bed that first night, I made sure my pillow was perfectly centered on my one-third of the bed and that my blankets and sheets were not co-mingling. I put on the earphones to my iPod, shut my eyes, and pretended I was alone.
As I listened to Death Cab for Cutie's Plans on repeat, I could not fall asleep. I turned over my pillow to feel the cool side against my cheek. I opened my eyes and peered over at my neighbor sleeping peacefully. I got up to go to the bathroom twice, maybe three times. By now, I am losing track of time, and my cheap Thai watch does not glow in the dark, (but ticks very loudly). My iPod is set to PST before daylight savings, which I can't recall is behind or ahead an hour, and lastly, Burma is a half hour different from other Southeast Asian countries. It was impossible for me to do the math at this point.
I finally sat up in bed and turned on the lights to read. As I am reading, my bedmate wakes up, looks over at me, and proceeds to go right back to sleep. Infuriating.
The next morning, he asked, "Why were you reading Jane Austen in the middle of the night?"
"I was not reading Jane Austen. It was Somerset Maugham," I answered haughtily. I did not reveal to him that I am actually a modern Janeite (as opposed to an original Janeite).
"It looked like the cover of Wuthering Heights."
"Isn't Wuthering Heights by Bronte?" I knew it wasn't by Austen, but I didn't want to reveal my Janeitism.
He shrugged not seeming to care one way or the other.
***
I savor my alone time, where I can read Jane Austen in the middle of night, watch BBC's Pride and Prejudice dvd set, and/or eat saltines and strawberry jam sandwiches without justification. I love spreading my toiletries on top of the vanity table and then lining them up in order of use, and most importantly, I didn't want to be observed doing these things. As the days went by, my anxiety at sharing a triple room loomed larger until the night I woke up screaming.
During the middle of the sixth night, the sound of my own distressed voice woke me up in a panic. I sat up immediately and looked over to the right. David was sitting up in bed looking right at me.
"I had a nightmare?" I whispered hoarsely.
"Yes, you did," he answered.
"Ok."
With that gentle confirmation, I fell soundly back asleep. The next morning, I recalled what had happened. Usually when I have a nightmare, it is nearly impossible for me to fall back asleep. My mind races and my heart beats quickly. I told David that when I woke up last night I was a bit startled to see him sitting up in bed.
He replied, "I just wanted to be there."
And that's exactly what he did. He told me that my nightmare had actually inspired him to have a nightmare of his own. Maybe there was a conservation of nightmares theory in effect that night. Anyhow, I thanked him, and I really meant it. Perhaps it's not so bad to share a room after all.
Now imagine having two twin beds in a room. Logically, where should the third bed be placed?
Obviously, the last bed should be placed at the foot of the two twin beds to allow for personal space between all the beds.
 |
| Hupin Hotel, Inle Lake |
Not the Burmese way. Upon entering our first triple hotel room, our beds were pushed together a la slumber party. One BIG bed for the three of us. Since my brother and I arrived at Hupin Hotel in Inle Lake before our third roommate, we both claimed the "bookend" beds. Additionally, our communal bed(s) had footboard(s), such that the person sleeping bitch would have to climb over the footboard to get out of bed (or climb over his bedmate).
For those who know me, I live, sleep, and travel alone. This was a major departure for me. As I crawled into bed that first night, I made sure my pillow was perfectly centered on my one-third of the bed and that my blankets and sheets were not co-mingling. I put on the earphones to my iPod, shut my eyes, and pretended I was alone.
As I listened to Death Cab for Cutie's Plans on repeat, I could not fall asleep. I turned over my pillow to feel the cool side against my cheek. I opened my eyes and peered over at my neighbor sleeping peacefully. I got up to go to the bathroom twice, maybe three times. By now, I am losing track of time, and my cheap Thai watch does not glow in the dark, (but ticks very loudly). My iPod is set to PST before daylight savings, which I can't recall is behind or ahead an hour, and lastly, Burma is a half hour different from other Southeast Asian countries. It was impossible for me to do the math at this point.
I finally sat up in bed and turned on the lights to read. As I am reading, my bedmate wakes up, looks over at me, and proceeds to go right back to sleep. Infuriating.
The next morning, he asked, "Why were you reading Jane Austen in the middle of the night?"
"I was not reading Jane Austen. It was Somerset Maugham," I answered haughtily. I did not reveal to him that I am actually a modern Janeite (as opposed to an original Janeite).
"It looked like the cover of Wuthering Heights."
"Isn't Wuthering Heights by Bronte?" I knew it wasn't by Austen, but I didn't want to reveal my Janeitism.
He shrugged not seeming to care one way or the other.
***
I savor my alone time, where I can read Jane Austen in the middle of night, watch BBC's Pride and Prejudice dvd set, and/or eat saltines and strawberry jam sandwiches without justification. I love spreading my toiletries on top of the vanity table and then lining them up in order of use, and most importantly, I didn't want to be observed doing these things. As the days went by, my anxiety at sharing a triple room loomed larger until the night I woke up screaming.
During the middle of the sixth night, the sound of my own distressed voice woke me up in a panic. I sat up immediately and looked over to the right. David was sitting up in bed looking right at me.
"I had a nightmare?" I whispered hoarsely.
"Yes, you did," he answered.
"Ok."
With that gentle confirmation, I fell soundly back asleep. The next morning, I recalled what had happened. Usually when I have a nightmare, it is nearly impossible for me to fall back asleep. My mind races and my heart beats quickly. I told David that when I woke up last night I was a bit startled to see him sitting up in bed.
He replied, "I just wanted to be there."
And that's exactly what he did. He told me that my nightmare had actually inspired him to have a nightmare of his own. Maybe there was a conservation of nightmares theory in effect that night. Anyhow, I thanked him, and I really meant it. Perhaps it's not so bad to share a room after all.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Cherry Part II
I smiled at her.
Cherry's face lit up, and she asked, "Would you like to have a cup of tea with me?"
I'm one of those people that quickly warms to a person or never does. The more time I spent in Cherry's presence, the more I wanted to know about her. I could not resist. I informed my driver that I would be having tea down the street and asked him to wait at the Pagoda entrance for me. A quick glance at him revealed an uneasy look on his face. Perhaps, he worried about this American girl being swindled in Mandalay.
Cherry and I walked down the road to a typical Burmese tea shop that looked like an open garage with coffee table height plastic tables and chairs in the "driveway". Burmese tea shops always have "Chinese tea" free of charge (FOC, as they say), which is a lukewarm clear brownish liquid that comes out of a thermos suspiciously resembling a bug spray can (or it just had the remnants of a bug spray label on it). The tea you order is brewed very dark and bitter from dry Burmese tea leaves and comes with condensed milk. It arrives at your table in a small clear glass, and you can see the brown layer on top and the white layer of milk at the bottom. You stir blending the two components, resulting in a very strong milk-tea. It does not taste the same as Hong Kong milk-tea. I am not a milk-tea drinker by far, but I found myself craving this afternoon beverage at 3pm daily.
Cherry ordered two cups of Burmese milk-tea and an almond biscuit about the size of my hand. We chatted for a few minutes mixing English and Burmese phrases. She showed me an old photograph of a lovely young lady in a pink satin formal gown. She asked me to guess who it was. I had no idea as the woman in the picture was young, beautiful, and obviously a princess. Cherry laughed. It was her! She is a former Miss Burma (Myanmar). Currently, she is a private English teacher, but barely anyone can afford a private teacher these days. She made her "living" coming to the Kuthodaw Pagoda every day. I ventured to ask her if the situation in Burma was any better after the recent November 2010 elections. I knew this was a topic that should not be discussed in public, but I needed to find out for myself. She answered an unequivocal, "No, it only gets worse."
Suddenly, my driver pulled up to the tea shop and warned me that I would miss the sunset viewing at Mandalay hill if we didn't leave soon. I had to bid Cherry a premature good-bye. We "fought" over the bill, as is the custom, but obviously she let me win. As we parted, she forced the partially eaten almond cookie on me, but I pushed it back to her. This went on for a few moments, until she said, "I'll just take it with me to feed to the dogs."
And we said good-bye.
Cherry's face lit up, and she asked, "Would you like to have a cup of tea with me?"
I'm one of those people that quickly warms to a person or never does. The more time I spent in Cherry's presence, the more I wanted to know about her. I could not resist. I informed my driver that I would be having tea down the street and asked him to wait at the Pagoda entrance for me. A quick glance at him revealed an uneasy look on his face. Perhaps, he worried about this American girl being swindled in Mandalay.
Cherry and I walked down the road to a typical Burmese tea shop that looked like an open garage with coffee table height plastic tables and chairs in the "driveway". Burmese tea shops always have "Chinese tea" free of charge (FOC, as they say), which is a lukewarm clear brownish liquid that comes out of a thermos suspiciously resembling a bug spray can (or it just had the remnants of a bug spray label on it). The tea you order is brewed very dark and bitter from dry Burmese tea leaves and comes with condensed milk. It arrives at your table in a small clear glass, and you can see the brown layer on top and the white layer of milk at the bottom. You stir blending the two components, resulting in a very strong milk-tea. It does not taste the same as Hong Kong milk-tea. I am not a milk-tea drinker by far, but I found myself craving this afternoon beverage at 3pm daily.
 |
| Burmese milk-tea |
Suddenly, my driver pulled up to the tea shop and warned me that I would miss the sunset viewing at Mandalay hill if we didn't leave soon. I had to bid Cherry a premature good-bye. We "fought" over the bill, as is the custom, but obviously she let me win. As we parted, she forced the partially eaten almond cookie on me, but I pushed it back to her. This went on for a few moments, until she said, "I'll just take it with me to feed to the dogs."
And we said good-bye.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Cherry
Kuthodaw Pagoda, Mandalay
"Excuse me, miss, are you from Thailand?" came a woman's voice in perfect British-inflected-Burmese English.
I looked down at myself. I wore a 3500 Kyat white graphic-wanna-be-punk t-shirt from Toungoo, over my two hundred baht lavender linen-esque capri pants, a desperate purchase made in Bangkok to gain entry into the Grand Palace (No camisole tops or skirts shorter than the ground allowed!), and for the final touch: a men's white plastic wristwatch with a Crayola green dial that had faux digital numbers on it, a watch that my constant fear of it not working at any given second spawned one of many nightmares during my trip.
 |
| Cherry, Kuthodaw Pagoda |
"No, I'm actually from San Francisco."
"Oh, San Francisco! You're from the hometown of my grandmother."
"Have you ever been there?" I asked.
"Are you kidding me? Of course not," she chuckled.
With that short statement came an unsaid understanding. Cherry and I became fast friends.
Cherry is one of 52,000 (thank you Wikipedia) Anglo-Burmese people that became stuck in Burma after 1962. She is part of a distinct Eurasian community that resulted from the British colonization of Burma and the ensuing European settlers. Her father, a German soldier, fell in love with her mother, a stunning Burmese beauty. Cherry reminded me of an Anglo-Burmese character in Emma Larkin's novel, Finding George Orwell in Burma. I forget now the character's name, so let's call her Strawberry. Larkin met Strawberry during her search for Orwell's relatives in Maymo. And here I was in Mandalay, (near Maymo!), meeting my very own Strawberry. The parallels in their stories awed me. Both Cherry and Strawberry live in the outskirts of Burmese society, not fully accepted due to their mixed heritage, yet unable to leave because of the regime that took over in 1962. I tell her about Strawberry and asked her if she had ever read this book. Stupid question.
She told me she isn't allowed access to books because of "you know who" and points her finger upwards.
She whispered, "Do you have a copy of the book with you?"
I didn't. I had been warned that you could be searched when going through customs, and I didn't want to bring any type of controversial reading material with me that might hinder my entrance. She asked me if I would give it to one of her American friends that would be visiting in the future. I said I would and gave her my email address. Satisfied, she reached into her Prada bag and pulled out a wrinkled copy of Reader's Digest from 2007 and offered it to me, kind of like an exchange. I gently declined.
To be continued...
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Clean & Crisp
How do you render an individual helpless in a foreign country? You cut off their funds. When traveling to the confused country formerly known as Burma (Myanmar), you have to bring cash, preferably safety pinned to your undergarments. I'm definitely from the school of plastic-as-currency, with the exception of Vietnamese Pho restaurants and happy hour at the bar (it's just more efficient). Not having access to ATMs was already making me nervous, but having to carry thousands of dollars on my body throughout Southeast Asia (I wonder if those guys at the beach in Krabi noticed the bulge in my bikini and if that made me more or less attractive?) made me sick to my stomach.
To continue, I had my best couture seamstress whip up a white cotton muslin pocket, grabbed a handful of safety pins, and I was ready for my trip (This is a gross exaggeration on my part as I had to get many vaccinations and take anti-malarial medication that gave me nightmares, but more on that later). I was forewarned by my mother that the Burmese love clean, crisp one hundred-dollar bills (envisions rap video on a yacht...), but I did not take this seriously enough.
In my first attempt to change my brand new hundred-dollar bills, I walked into this travel agency that doubles as a black market money changer.
Trish (in tentative Burmese), "Can I change dollars here?"
Burmese Girl, "Yes, the rate is 830 Kyat per dollar."
Trish, "Great. Here is three hundred dollars."
The Burmese girl takes my money, unfolds it, presses it flats, holds it up to the light, scrutinizes it, scrunches up her face, and says, "I can only give you 800 Kyat per dollar."
Trish, "But it's new."
Burmese girl, "I'm sorry, but your bill was folded in half."
Trish (resignedly), "Ok. Fine."
The irony is that every time I paid a Burmese bill with my crisp 5000 Kyat note, I received my change in disturbingly unsanitary looking bills. Anything less than 1000 Kyat denomination came back as a crumpled blackened mass of paper that felt like used Kleenex tissue in your pocket. I am a chronic pocket-emptier and would frequently reach into the pocket of my hoodie and reflexively dump my 200 Kyat notes into the wastebasket and then quickly retrieve it once I saw the dark mass amid the various white receipts (the Burmese loves to give official-looking receipts that never get checked) and white napkins in my peripheral vision. Three second rule, right?
This predilection for fresh C-notes does not stem from aspirations for riches and fame, but rather a calculated method of currency control by....er... the guys upstairs (as Cherry, my new Euro-Burmese friend in Mandalay, referred to them). By arbitrarily limiting the number of dollars that flow into the economy, they can keep exchange rates artificially high and more importantly, prevent the US dollar from becoming the major form of currency; you know in case they decide to print new Kyat in multiples of six or some other random number that is now the fortuitous number because some high level official dreamed it so. As a traveler, you consciously know you have money in your pockets, but if it can't be used, it really loses its value. Next thing you know, you're over-tipping the luggage porter at the airport your slightly used US dollars because they are worth(less) to you now.
To my non-Asian friend that joined me on the trip, let's call him Darren, I'm sorry I didn't make it more clear when bringing in bills that you have to request clean, crisp bills from the bank-teller. I especially berated him for accepting five hundred dollars worth of used 1's and 5's. Who does that??? Everybody knows that it's an unsaid rule when requesting 1's and 5's from the bank, it should be crisp, clean bills, right? Sorry, my bad, Darren.
To continue, I had my best couture seamstress whip up a white cotton muslin pocket, grabbed a handful of safety pins, and I was ready for my trip (This is a gross exaggeration on my part as I had to get many vaccinations and take anti-malarial medication that gave me nightmares, but more on that later). I was forewarned by my mother that the Burmese love clean, crisp one hundred-dollar bills (envisions rap video on a yacht...), but I did not take this seriously enough.
In my first attempt to change my brand new hundred-dollar bills, I walked into this travel agency that doubles as a black market money changer.
Trish (in tentative Burmese), "Can I change dollars here?"
Burmese Girl, "Yes, the rate is 830 Kyat per dollar."
Trish, "Great. Here is three hundred dollars."
The Burmese girl takes my money, unfolds it, presses it flats, holds it up to the light, scrutinizes it, scrunches up her face, and says, "I can only give you 800 Kyat per dollar."
Trish, "But it's new."
Burmese girl, "I'm sorry, but your bill was folded in half."
Trish (resignedly), "Ok. Fine."
The irony is that every time I paid a Burmese bill with my crisp 5000 Kyat note, I received my change in disturbingly unsanitary looking bills. Anything less than 1000 Kyat denomination came back as a crumpled blackened mass of paper that felt like used Kleenex tissue in your pocket. I am a chronic pocket-emptier and would frequently reach into the pocket of my hoodie and reflexively dump my 200 Kyat notes into the wastebasket and then quickly retrieve it once I saw the dark mass amid the various white receipts (the Burmese loves to give official-looking receipts that never get checked) and white napkins in my peripheral vision. Three second rule, right?
This predilection for fresh C-notes does not stem from aspirations for riches and fame, but rather a calculated method of currency control by....er... the guys upstairs (as Cherry, my new Euro-Burmese friend in Mandalay, referred to them). By arbitrarily limiting the number of dollars that flow into the economy, they can keep exchange rates artificially high and more importantly, prevent the US dollar from becoming the major form of currency; you know in case they decide to print new Kyat in multiples of six or some other random number that is now the fortuitous number because some high level official dreamed it so. As a traveler, you consciously know you have money in your pockets, but if it can't be used, it really loses its value. Next thing you know, you're over-tipping the luggage porter at the airport your slightly used US dollars because they are worth(less) to you now.
 |
| Darren (not his real name), counting the "good" bills |
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