On Heat in Asia, after Several Days in a Row of Temperatures above 40 Degrees Celsius

"Fish manage better; fish, as the tanks dry, wriggle into the mud and wait for the rains to uncake them. But men try to be harmonious all the year round, and the results are occasionally disastrous."

~ EM Forster, A Passage to India

After Eight Days Away

On returning to burgeoning Yangon, the first thing you notice isn’t the city’s attractive sides, of which there are many. Rather you see the clutter, the thread bareness, the cobbled-together nature of life in SE Asia’s once-bad-boy brother.

Here is the smiling though smudged pair of children, scurrying along the corrugated iron fence that hides a construction site. At first they seem bound for a secret entrance, nimbly skipping over ditches that only the experienced would know to look out for. On reaching the comparative seclusion of a droopy-limbed tree, they slow. Will they suddenly drop into the rabbit hole that allows them access to the other side? Is another pair, hiding and counting slowly somewhere just out of sight, about to begin the seek phase of the game?

No, these kids have reached the peeing place. Not an especially private choice of toilets, alas, but perhaps the easiest spot to get the job done quickly so the day can move forward. Mom and older sister have to hold it in until after dark before they can venture out on a similar errand, but nobody pays particular notice to these two, being just the latest in a long line of village children whose families have brought countryside customs to the big city. They’re not too recent—brother knows enough to stand watch while sister squats. Then he turns and splatters the fence before they skibble off.

Now comes the old-style loudspeaker, shaped like an ear trumpet, pushed and pulled through the street market by white-shirted men broadcasting a virtuous Buddhist message. Inevitably this procession ends with a donation—small change, usually, but every little bit helps. These things add up.

Around the corner is parked the most recent string of vehicles imported from Japan, windshields still marked in grease pencil with shipping numbers or destination identifiers of one kind or another. These cars and SUVs will be scrubbed and spruced at one of the many auto detailing establishments along this thoroughfare. The owners’ instructions will specify that while everything else must emerge spotless, the windshield markings are not to be messed with—the better to indicate the car’s vintage to jealous admirers in the neighborhood.

Now finally you’re almost home. Grandma holds court on her usual corner with this morning’s cheroot cheerfully lit. A bus coughs. The rummager-recyclers make their way back to wherever.

Ah, Yangon. Welcome back.

Lottery Day

It’s fun to be ignored here in my mother-in-law’s village. Most times I visit, Mom talks to me nearly non-stop. Today there’s a queue of people waiting to talk to her about their lottery numbers.

This scene gets re-created on the 1st and 16th of every month. The foot traffic increases steadily all morning until just before 1pm, when the betting officially ends and all purchased tickets get sent to some neutral site to await the televised drawing at 3pm. One time I walked in from the train station just as the frenzy was peaking. Mom didn’t even notice I had arrived for several minutes.

Another time, when I knew lottery day was coming up, I had the presence of mind to pick up one of the many titles published around the New Year that claim to have an inside track on lottery rhythms for the coming 12 months. Normally she accepts my gifts with a thank you before putting them down on the kitchen table and changing the subject. In this case the book hardly left her side throughout my visit. She proudly showed it to neighbors (though didn’t offer to loan it, I noticed), saying, “John knows what I like.”

How could I not know? This is a woman, after all, who has subscribed to the same daily paper for two decades, ever since her son was hired to write for it. Yet on last day of each month, and on the 15th, she also takes a competing paper, because she prefers its column about how to pick winning numbers. The delivery person doesn’t have to ask—she just forks over both broadsheets on those two days. How cool to watch life in a place where everyone knows everyone’s routines.

Tea Time

Soe Soe phones to say that she and a Western tourist from her guest house want to meet me for tea. She describes a small stand tucked in the corner of an old market near my place. Business has been a little slow for the owner, Soe Soe hints. The tea is made the classic way, she says. "Less sweet. You will never find 'no sweet,' but here you can at least request 'less' sweet."

We meet up and I see that it really is a small stand. There are only three stools, including the one used by the aging proprietor. He insists on giving up his stool so all three of us can sit. He serves me and the tourist. Soe Soe doesn't order anything for herself. I protest, pointing out that it's weird to invite but not to join. "He only has two nice cups," she explains. Once again Myanmar changes the picture in my head of how things are supposed to be.