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.