When the chill of Northern Europe is in the air, and Vienna’s stony streets are cold and dark, thoughts turn to Southeast Asia. I hear the siren call of sweaty, humid days, and warm sultry nights. Where have we not been? Where could we, should we, go? We spin the Asian Destination Wheel (ADW) and, voilà, this time it is Myanmar.  

Formerly known as Burma, and as a down-trodden English colony, post-WWII Myanmar languished under a series of juntas and military rulers. Following two and a half decades of civil unrest, political intrigues, and the protests of Buddhist monks, the Myanmar government in 2015 held open elections. As a result of these elections, the National League for Democracy won an absolute majority. The military remains a powerful force in Myanmar politics, yet the country is moving towards a modern democracy, albeit in fits and starts. This is in contrast to Myanmar’s neighbor, Thailand, which is slipping back into a military junta.

There will be much more to say about Myanmar’s politics and history, but for now we need to be leaving cold, gray Europe for hot, humid SE Asia.

Roaming the globe means paying the piper. Thus it has always been, and shall always be, unless we suddenly invent teleportation. “Beam me to Myanmar, Scotty!” Alas, we are still getting there the old-fashioned way, with hours of time spent in the aluminum tube. Two hour early to the airport for an international flight, ten hours to Bangkok, two hours in Bangkok, then a short hop to Yangon (Rangoon). About sixteen hours of planes and airports. Pay up, Traveler.

My secret to air-travel is to get stupid. I try to dial that brain activity down to about a three. I watch lots of movies, particularly Pixar movies. Sure, I’ve seen them all, but cute, animated movies are a great way to sooth that impatient brain. Thinking about time is a killer. I’d rather watch Woody and Buzz do silly stuff. Always have a book, an e-reader, something. Eat the airline food slowly. Play games with the little plastic food trays. The time will pass if you don’t engage with it. 

The time does pass, and then we are wandering though the vastness of Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi airport. This is familiar ground, and the pull of my favorite neighborhoods in the Big Mango is strong. But there will be no stopping over on this trip. We thread through the maze, through the next security check, and eventually onto the little plane. I hear the whisper; almost there.

The plane drops in over a painfully green landscape. The rainy season in just ending. Below us, shimmering water threads in every direction. Electric emerald fields roll out across the flat bottom land. Then there is Yangon sprouting up along wide, shining bands of rivers. 

The legalities of entry go off without a hitch. Our visas are accepted and our passports are stamped by the unsmiling immigration folks. Both backpacks slide down the baggage carousel; always a welcome sight.

Then there is a smiling young man holding up a sign with my name on it. We will free-lance the rest of the trip. booking guesthouses as we go, but it is always a good idea to have that first place locked down. Searching for a place to stay after a long flight is a fool’s errand.

Stepping out of the airport is to step into a wash of heat and humidity, that familiar first sultry, sweaty embrace of Asia. You are back; welcome home. Our driver pilots us through the cramped streets of a new Asian city, yet the scenes are familiar. There is the tangle of traffic, the open shop fronts, life being lived out of doors. He asks us the direct, yet polite questions typical in this region. How old are we, how many children do we have. I let My One answer him while I take in the passing cityscape.

We have arrived in the morning, the worst of hours for Mr. Jet-lag. The best possible option is to stay awake, push through until bedtime at the local hour. After twenty hours of no sleep, this is simply not an option. We opt for a three-hour nap, cast ourselves down on the bed, and slip into oblivion.

With rest and a shower, there is the need for real food. We set out on foot, exploring our new neighborhood in our new city. The method is always the same: find a joint that is packed with local folk and settle in. Wandering down narrow streets, past food stalls and vendors, we are the only Farang. Folks look at us with serious faces. We try out our first words of Burmese: MING-ga-la-BAH. The reward is bright smiles all around, a nodding of heads, greetings in return. So it passes as we search for our place.

When we find it, we know it is the noodle joint we were looking for. There are bright fluorescent lights, lot of people, and the atmosphere of a crowded bus station waiting room. The kid waiters are friendly, amused by the Farang in their midst. The noodles are wonderful; hot, full of fish-balls, the perfect antidote to airline food. Sated, we make our way back to the guest house as the tropical night falls.

A ubiquitous fact of life in Southeast Asia is that it takes place in full view. Work is done in shop-houses that are open to the street, and to the world. When the time for work is done, families relax in front of the same shop-houses. Meals, drinking, arguments, games, haircuts; they all unfold in the open. It is free theater. All one needs is a rickety plastic chair, a cool drink, and perhaps a good cigar. We whiled away the rest of the evening watching folks do what folks do. 

The night was warm and humid, the neighbors loud and boisterous. There was no need for anything else, until the lack of sleep crept over us. We climbed the stairs to the top of the guest house, threw ourselves down on the bed, and slipped into the sleep of our first night in Myanmar.

Thanks for your interest in my blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here, how about a free short story? My short fiction piece “Ghost Hats” has been featured at Literally Stories” You can check it out here:

“Ghost Hats” by Marco Etheridge — Literally Stories

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