Back Briefly in Thailand

Thailand looks different now. I’m back briefly to renew the Myanmar visa.

It’s stunning to see the elevated highways here. They go on for miles and miles. Probably they cost millions and millions. Somehow I can’t imagine the Myanmar government ever providing such infrastructure. Currently Myanmar people must be self-reliant in so many ways. Often they pay directly for generators to offset power cuts, for improvements in the roads that pass in front of their homes, for education, and even for defense if they are not the majority race, Bamar, or the majority religion, Buddhist.

Like lots of Westerners, Thais seem to have their heads buried in their devices. That day will probably come soon for Myanmar, but at the moment you can still look into people’s eyes and see a smile rather than the reflection of a screen. And speaking of Westerners, they’re everywhere in Thailand. After a month next door I’d gotten used to being a rare species.

Thailand feels constant. Having lived here a total of more than ten years, I usually know how to navigate and negotiate. It will take a while to get used to the Burmese, who tend to be more direct, and less likely to say what the outsider wants to hear. I’m also slightly less on my guard in Thailand. While the days of being very cautious about what you say in public places and in email messages are on their way out in Myanmar, there’s still a bit of unease in the air, especially since some weird recent reports of explosions. Nobody has claimed responsibility—were they trying to unsettle the government on the eve of its 2013 showcase event, the SE Asian Games? Sending a message about Myanmar taking over the chairmanship of the Association of SE Asian Nations? Or an ornery loner?

Two Yangons

People in Myanmar occupy less space than in other places I’ve lived. They squeeze into and on top of buses. Markets and sidewalks are rarely wide enough for everybody.

My days in Yangon begin in a narrow room at the BikeWorld guest house. The single bed takes up most of the room’s footprint. It’s tight, but I’m not complaining. Most folks in Yangon have many fewer square feet to call their own. Space is expensive here. Three-bedroom apartments downtown rarely go for less than $2,000/month. Office space commands higher rents than in Bangkok and Singapore. At the end of a contract, landlords often raise prices by as much as a third. The tight supply is expected to last a few more years. Wealthy Myanmar people use real estate in place of a bank—everyone thinks investing in land or buildings is a no-brainer.

This situation partly explains why overall contentment in the city isn’t rising. Academics who measure this stuff report that gross national happiness has dropped in Myanmar since the country began to open up. Most citizens haven’t seen much benefit. Way too many people remain poor. The construction worker building the new wing at BikeWorld still makes about $3/day, and considers himself lucky to have a job, but now he fights traffic on the way home. The rooms in the new wing will be about the same size as the one I’m in now, and at $60/night will be some of the most reasonably priced in town.

When I return from a quick visa update in Thailand next week, I’ll begin sharing a place in a new building on the northern edge of town. My American flatmate has been living there alone since July, when he signed a lease that is common in this crazy environment—the entire year’s rent upfront in Myanmar currency. Having parted with sacks full of kyat worth $14,400 for his own bedroom, another room he uses as an office, and a guest room, he soon realized that he wasn’t hosting many guests. That’s where I come in, at $500/month.

Unbroken Circle

This story is too good not to share. It’s about an American friend of mine and a Burmese guy she ran into while both were living in New York, around 1990.

First, you have to know that 25 years ago things got pretty bad in Burma. The so-called “Four Eights” protests on 8/8/88 ended with a government crackdown; thousands were massacred; many student activists fled the country.

One of those exiles—call him Myat—met my friend—call her Tina—in Central Park. He was lonely, missing his wife and baby back in Burma. She was struggling, a single mom whose ex-marriage to a Thai husband had not much to show for it besides a two-year-old. The two of them became good friends. Myat babysat. Tina helped him navigate the process for bringing his family to the U.S.

Six years later, when Tina was back in Bangkok with an American husband who had formally adopted her daughter, now-green-card-holding Myat learned that his immigration petition had been approved. Just one snag: Burmese women weren't being allowed passports by the junta. This prohibition was their when-you-got-a-hammer-everything-looks-like-a-nail response to the embarrassing revelation that a few Burmese female sex workers had turned up in Japan.

Myat’s wife, Su, left anyway. She and her son crossed over to Thailand with a day worker's pass and hid out in a small Thai town. Somehow Tina tracked her down, despite having no language in common. Together they went to Bangkok's airport with legal U.S. immigration papers and fake passport. A Thai official spotted the fake immediately, but Tina argued for an hour that he should look the other way, given that America was essentially solving his problem. Amazingly, she convinced him. Su and her young son got on the plane, speaking neither English nor Thai, and soon were reunited with Myat. The family managed to do just fine in the States for nearly 20 years.

Then their outlook changed, as outlooks tend to do. Myat had heard about other ’88-generation students beginning to return. He and Su realized that the U.S. wasn't the country where they hoped to finish out their lives.

Eleven months on, they are pleased with their decision to come back to Myanmar (their son stayed on in New York, where he has a good job). They have purchased a house in the town where they both grew up, and are beginning to contribute to their community in countless ways. Recently it occurred to them that the person who would most appreciate what they’re trying to do with this life chapter was Tina.

They invited her, along with her now-24-year-old daughter, to visit them for the first time on Burmese soil. I was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time, so I came along this past Wednesday for the overnight. What a reunion! What a swirling mix of emotions!

Though Tina, Myat, and Su have never lost touch, and their children have sometimes flown across the U.S. to spend time together, during this meetup it felt as if they hadn’t seen each other since New York. They told story after story about the first days of their friendship. We ate and joked and ate and walked and ate and admired the distinctive light of Myanmar’s delta region. Myat eventually hopes to start up a newspaper there; in the meantime he is volunteering with various groups and teaching English. He proudly introduced us to a few of his students.

He also explained that to support education in the nearby villages, he and Su have turned the second floor of their home into a kind of hostel for kids who come into town to take certain exams. On the night we were there, nearly 50 people were staying under the same roof, almost all of them teenage girls.

What Myat didn’t mention was that the neighborhood teenage boys have figured out this arrangement. Groups of four or five of them turn up in front most nights. With their guitars and fine voices, they serenade the girls from the street.

So the fun reunion just kept getting better and better. The boys’ harmonies lulled us into hopeful dreams about the past and future.

Sticking My Tongue Out

Burmese language isn’t like Thai. It has a sing-song rhythm that generally makes the end of a sentence obvious. Verbs always come at the end, so that’s another clue. Puffs of air appear where I’m not used to hearing them, and it’s OK to stick out your tongue when pronouncing “th,” something the Thais never do. (Think of the UN Secretary-General during the ’60s, U Thant, whose name sounded roughly the same as the final syllable in the English word “marathon.”)

In my three jampacked weeks here, people have been very patient with my attempts to talk. They don’t interrupt me as I struggle with the new sounds, but neither do they usually understand much of what I try to say. The intensive course I took in Chiang Mai last month serves me very well for reading and numbers. Unfortunately, the risk with learning intensively is that it goes downhill just as intensively if you don’t maintain it. I’ll have to carve out time for that amid the whirlwind of all the other newness here in Yangon. Others graduates of the course have been talking about studying together. I’ll need that motivation, considering that earlier this week I signed a contract for a short-term writing job with a NGO funded by the Norwegian government. The group is involved with democracy promotion and livelihood assistance. I’m learning lots here about more than just language.

Early Days

The first few days in a new place are always fascinating and frustrating. Your ability to communicate is so limited that any tiny success in that department feels like a huge triumph. At this stage, getting on the wrong bus isn’t a big deal, because you’re not usually rushing to get somewhere, and something you discover while getting lost will likely come in handy next time. Even catching the eye of the waiter—a somehow more difficult task in these parts than where I was born—seems especially satisfying.



Mostly I spend my time networking and looking for paying work. Every night during my first week I had dinner with somebody new. I try to act as if I know what I’m doing, all the while sensing that I’m just a little bit off target most of the time. Everybody admires the effort, but they can see I don’t really get it yet. Happily, I am middle-aged and mature. Situations like these don’t intimidate me in the way they might have in my 20s. With a little luck I’ll be drawing a salary before the month is out.

Last weekend I took a wee break from the job search and popped up north to walk in the Inle watershed. Here’s a writeup about that trip, which was another confirmation that moving to Myanmar was the right move.

Change is the Only Constant

What’s Myanmar like? On the surface, the country is changing quickly enough that there’s a fresh answer to the question every day.

Included on the long list of things that are common elsewhere but were very rare here until this year are ATMs, opposition-party congresses, buildings over ten stories tall, and marathons. 

You want to start a good argument? Ask people how much of the change is real. Or permanent.

For the moment you can make a case for many futures. Nobody really understands the country’s economy. The laws are either hopelessly out of date or so new that people can’t believe they really mean what they say. Fashions and freedoms and the forces of capitalism are pouring in at a great rate.

One day I rode a bicycle through a shuttered branch of Yangon University that is near my guest house. I passed the sorriest-looking facilities imaginable. Just as I was beginning to shake my head about the neglect, a gleaming IT and computer center emerged in a corner of the former campus. Later I learned that the semi-private IT hub, MICT Park, was launched over ten years ago, making the contrast between the two sets of buildings even more remarkable. In many parts of Yangon, it appears, a fresh coat of paint has not been a priority for a long time. Mold is a common color here; the primary hues I saw at MICT Park appear only rarely.

Back at the guest house, Internet speeds vary widely, according to no pattern. But, in early 2011, when I first visited this country, going online was so painfully slow that I abandoned the idea almost immediately.

While Myanmar is clearly testing out directions that it hasn’t tried before, it isn’t likely to move too fast. The status quo serves most of the people in power.

I feel lucky to be surrounded by all this swirling. I’m not too late to participate in a very exciting process.

Betel in BurMyanmar

In the West when you want a buzz you maybe go for a double shot of espresso. Here, and across many parts of Asia, you go for areca, commonly known as betel.

It’s chewed, not swallowed. Along with chopped-up pieces of the nut, the plug in your mouth may contain regular tobacco, honey, and limestone ground into a paste. The blood-red juice leaves your teeth and gums looking like you just got in a fight. After you’ve savored the taste for a while, and your lips and tongue have become a little numb, you spit the juice out onto the street.

You needn’t look far to find a hit. Sidewalks and curbs in Yangon feature plenty of visual clues about where this ever-present product gets bought and used. Near traffic lights you also find brown stains on the road that suggest drivers are frequent betel chewers.

How Can I Keep From Singing?

People in Burmyanmar sing often. At construction sites, in offices, on buses, everybody seems to be carrying a tune. If you don’t hear a song, or a snatch of hummed melody, then frequently a loudspeaker nearby is spouting a chant. The cheerful sounds make it seem as though the people don’t notice that the wealth in their country gets distributed very poorly. Of course they really do know better, but for about half a century the vast majority of them haven’t been able to speak out on that subject without dire personal consequences. Maybe singing substitutes for protesting?

Welcome to BurMyanmar

Here at the northern edge of Yangon, I took a walk on my first night. The road was very dark. Suddenly I found myself escorted by a monk. He said he was afraid I might get lost without him.

His English was much better than my Burmese, but we settled into a comfortable mixture of both. Our occasional silence also felt right, given his “dayjob.”

We strolled for several blocks, passing homes, shops, and dozens of small stands where people sold areca nuts wrapped in betel leaves. In preparing these “betel nuts,” the seller slathers the leaves with lime paste, which to my nose has a lovely, timeless smell. Even in the dark, I could always tell when we were approaching another betel nut stand.

The mood felt simultaneously timeless and brand new. The other people in the road were doing what they have probably done forever: gossiping, bargaining, sweeping, playing. Compared to my first trip here thirty-two months ago, nothing seemed furtive, or cautious. Change really is in the air. People read newspapers that have been publishing for only during the few months since five decades of censorship ended. Despite what is reportedly the lowest cell phone penetration in the world, places selling handsets nearly outnumbered places selling betel nut.

We reached an intersection where the monk felt comfortable pointing me the rest of the way. I thanked him. He said, "It is both our fortunes."

Time to Move Along

Chiang Mai is delightful and lovely and low stress. But it’s not paradise. Or maybe that’s the problem.

I hang around with perfectly nice people, but like me many of them have lots of time on their hands. There’s very little urgency.

When a new insight or revelation about Thailand hits me, I no longer kick it around with a big group of Thais until it blossoms into a fully formed thought. Last year, at my office in Bangkok, that kind of all-hands conversation happened easily in the hallways or at lunch. Here I mostly talk to people one-on-one or in small groups.

Next door, in Myanmar, things aren’t always delightful or lovely or low stress, but they’re very interesting. This month I’ve been studying Burmese (I can read!) and reading more than usual about issues there. The other day it hit me that there’s no time like the present.

So it’s time to move along. I bought a plane ticket. Starting October 2nd I’ll be living in Yangon and looking for ways to be of use.

Group Tour Buddhism

They handed us each a trowel and a bucket of cement. My friend Moey and I smiled. Masonry seemed an appropriate activity for the volunteer project she had invited me to at a Thai Buddhist temple. After all, spreading cement and meditation aren’t so different. They both require emptying, grace, strength, persistence, and a concentration on the middle distance.

The sun had just come up on Saturday morning. We hadn’t slept much, driving through the night to Wat Phrasonkaew in Petchaboon from our respective cities, Bangkok and Chiang Mai. The temple (“wat” in Thai) was about halfway between the two.

At first my work looked wobbly compared to Moey’s. I wanted to blame the cement but I knew better. I focused on my breath and gradually found a rhythm. My arms stopped wondering when it would be time for a nap. I thought to myself, “We’re applying the Buddha’s teachings to daily life. Practicing dharma by practicing a trade.”

Religious observance varies in Thailand, as everywhere. Some people here practice dharma routinely, through daily offerings, prayers, or meditation. Others get around to it when they need to. Some do it when their friends are doing it.

When we took a break for lunch, it struck me that this temple was packed with friends. Surrounding us in the large common eating area were groups of youngish, urban, middle-class women, chatting excitedly about the mosaics and gardens that have put Wat Phrasonkaew on the map. Its artistic exterior and beautiful natural surroundings have made it a “destination temple.”

Destination wats compete for clients, and so it helps to have a hook—a stunning physical plant, for instance, or a rock-star abbot. Wat Phrasonkaew has both. Part Ludwig’s Castle, part Chagall installation, it has generated several glowing articles in slick women’s magazines, as well as soap-opera episodes filmed on location. The head monk projects an air closer to a starting quarterback than a religious leader. I watched him give guided tours of the grounds, carrying himself like a man who expects to have groupies. His second-in-command regularly stopped by our construction site, but the abbot himself never showed up there. He seemed to understand that spreading himself too thin would undermine his appeal.

Moey had been to Wat Phrasonkaew before. She explained that the small volunteer group that she and I were part of was only a small fraction of the weekend population. Most of the people staying the night had come for a retreat of some kind. Those following “the course,” a series of mindfulness and chanting exercises, would spend three or four days there. People with a bit more time chose the “tudong”—a comparatively wilderness experience that takes full advantage of the national park bordering the temple.

Since the time a few years ago when the wat’s many unique buildings first began to blossom in Petchaboon, Moey was attracted to the area. She had tried both flavors of retreat. This trip, she was content to simply help with construction. We were staying just a day and a half before returning to our homes.

After lunch we went back to spreading cement. Our group worked inside the most striking of Wat Phrasonkaew’s iconic structures: five successively smaller Buddha images, sitting as if in each others’ laps, lined up on a spectacular ridge. About fifty feet tall at the highest point, the group of images can be seen from miles away.

Our cement reinforced and smoothed the inner walls. Soon it was hard to tell which sections were mine and which were Moey’s. I felt at peace. My arms didn’t hurt anymore and my head was clear.

By mid-afternoon everyone was ready for a break. We trudged up a long staircase in the dormitory for a shower and a rest. About 200 other people would be joining us in sleeping on mats in the building that night. There were three floors for women, one for men. My roommates, three men from Bangkok, told me that they and their pals took these “medita-vacations” two or three times per year. They weren’t the only ones. I looked out the window and counted 22 silver vans lined up in the parking lot.

No dinner was served. The retreat schedule called for two meals before noon each day, mimicking the way Thai monks eat. They told those of us who were there to work that the kitchen held a supply of ramen noodles for anyone really desperate after dark. Moey and I passed up that offer, but we did sit in on the before-bedtime and before-sunrise chanting.

These sessions, at 7pm and 5am, primarily involved recitation. Sitting cross-legged in a large conference hall, everyone was handed a prayer book written in Pali, the ancient language of the Buddha. We all pronounced the sound of the words, thanks to the transcription using Thai characters. I knew that basic Pali was taught in some Thai schools, but I suspected few of the people in the room really understood much of the chants’ meaning.

After breakfast on Sunday morning, we listened to a dharma talk given by the abbot. When he finished, many of the devotees, dressed all in white, lined up to have their picture taken near him.

Devotion, however, didn’t feel to me like the prevailing sentiment. What I saw during my time at the temple was more break-from-reality than search-for-insight. The people I talked to appeared to be looking for an ideal world where climate change has been halted, family strife healed, and the boyfriend found and fully trained.

Granted, in Thailand I’m an outsider who rarely understands more than half of what’s going on. I could have misinterpreted the motivations of these logo-sporting, group-tour Buddhists. Perhaps when they get back to their offices in the city, they’ll share with colleagues profound insights that came to them on retreat. Or, these members of Thailand’s first digital generation will tell others how liberating it felt to unplug for a few days.

But I suspect that more often, the souvenirs of the trip to Petchaboon will be the t-shirts or the tote bags they brought back. The lifestyle approach to religion isn’t about making merit so much as it’s about taking a holiday.

As for Moey and myself, we were happy to have helped beautify a Buddha.

Better than Good Enough

Several months back, an unusual dinner invitation left me scratching my head. This week, a return visit to the same home touched my heart.

In January, a woman I hardly knew, Da, practically demanded that I and my four American houseguests come to her house for dinner with a handful of other Thais and her Canadian husband. At the time I had no idea what prompted her to do that. All I knew about her, come to think of it, was her name and her speedy way of speaking.

The evening had been pleasant enough. Once or twice since then, Da and I have attended the same events and said hello. A mutual friend, Tik, has even suggested a reasonable explanation for why I was summoned back then: Da was considering a business venture that might have benefited from my experience. If Tik’s guess is correct, I must have said the wrong thing early on that night, because Da never raised the subject with me.

In any case, it was a pleasant surprise last week to get another call from Da, asking if I was free to come over again. Unlike the first time, she didn’t insist. Instead, she just explained that she was planning an informal meal on Thai Mother’s Day for a few people who like herself didn’t have kids in town. I already knew most of them.

As before, the food was delicious and the banter casual. The vegetables had been picked that morning. Traditional northern Thai dishes dominated the offerings. We joked in one language about politics, then switched to another to complain about the weather. For me there was none of the mystery and self-consciousness of the evening in January, when I kept expecting every comment to reveal the reason I was there, but none of them ever did.

I had called my mother-in-law earlier in the day. The idea of setting aside a special day to celebrate mothers doesn’t go back too far in this country. I wasn’t sure how many of the others at the table would have made a special effort to talk to their moms or their kids that day.

Da herself hardly ever sat down. Her hostessing style reminded me of a hummingbird: darting, hovering, suddenly buzzing off again to check something on the stove. Somehow she managed to stay part of all the conversations going on at the table, often initiating two or three simultaneously. Finally, as we were enjoying some fruit after the main meal, she took a breather and appeared ready to stay put with us for a while.

That’s when her mobile phone rang. She checked the screen and smiled. Her mom was calling. “Mom is 87 years old—she probably doesn’t remember that we already chatted today,” laughed Da, who remained at the table to take the call.

The rest of us kept talking, though a bit more quietly so Da could hear her mother on the phone. Their exchange had the tone that sometimes arises when the parent-child roles have reversed. We could sense that Mom knew what day it was, but had forgotten receiving Da’s call earlier. Da chose not to remind her, pretending they hadn’t already spoken, and cheerfully asking who else Mom had talked to that day.

As the two of them babbled on, I felt a little surprised that Da didn’t move away from the group. Suddenly she started singing into the phone. It caught me off guard at first, but after a few seconds I realized she was wishing her mom good night with a lullaby.

Then it hit me that the language wasn’t Thai. It had to be a prayer, I thought. Da was probably singing in Pali, the ancient language of the Buddha’s day that nobody uses anymore except when chanting at the temple.

We all stopped to listen. Da’s voice was beautiful. Even the neighborhood dogs quit their barking. I had no idea what the words meant, but it occurred to me that maybe Da had even learned them from her mom, once upon a time. Her eyes were closed. Our own eyes were all a little bit misty. I imagined we were each thinking about our own mom.

When she finished singing and signed off, we sat there smiling and feeling grateful for a moment. Then somebody grinned and the evening carried on.

Stand Your Ground

Several times during the past few years, old acquaintances of mine from the U.S. have written to ask about Thailand’s safety. A typical email sounds something like this:

Can you tell me anything about the safety situation there so I can be sure my daughter will be OK in Thailand?

She just got a job teaching English there this fall. I’m nervous. She’s my only one. I wish I knew how I could protect her.

Would you mind if I share your contacts with her? Although I know she is 22 years old, I still would feel better if she had some adult person she can get in touch with "just in case."

In replying to these folks I always say that Thailand is much safer than America. In most places foreigners go, people can walk down the street at any hour and not worry. Generally Thais avoid situations that cause them to meet force with force. “Standing your ground” isn’t a strong concept here.

This week, with gun laws again making headlines in the U.S., it feels to me as though most places in the world are safer than America.

No doubt statistics could be trotted out that would prove the opposite. And I know that the U.S. is such a big place that you can find evidence for nearly anything you say about it.

Just the same, I wouldn’t feel safest in a country where large numbers of people not only own guns but also want legal protection in case they end up using those guns. To me, the old saying about the best defense being a good offense works better with team sports than with individual security.

Here in Thailand, the best defense is generally a friend. People rarely go places alone.

The U.S. seems to me bound to see an increase in confrontations like the one between George Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin. Given the choice, I prefer Thai-style conflict avoidance.

No Exit

The bus from Yangon to Naypyidaw, along Myanmar’s best road, passes no village larger than about 100 households. It takes more than five hours to reach this newish capital city in the jungle, but my ticket on this VIP coach costs only 9,000 kyat, or just under ten bucks. (Even that small amount is the foreigner price. The printed receipt said 7,000. When I inquire, the agent simply smiles and draws a new number on the receipt with her pen.)

Nearly every structure along the way is built of bamboo and thatch, except for the occasional temple or shrine on a hilltop. Soldiers are posted randomly the whole length of the divided highway, presumably to be sure nobody leaves the road. Which wouldn’t be too easy to do even if there were a town to turn towards, as there are no off-ramps. Small roadside markers designate the distance traveled, measured in tenths of a mile. (Myanmar is one of only four countries that still put miles on their road signs, rather than kilometers. The other three are Liberia, the United Kingdom, and the United States.)

There is no trash, no petrol, and no commerce of any kind, except for a large rest area at roughly the halfway point, where travelers can fuel up and have a meal. The parking lot outside the sprinkling of restaurants is surrounded by a semi-circle of 19 billboards, virtually the only advertising signage along the entire highway. Five of the ads promote construction supplies; three tout colas (Pepsi, Star, and Sunkist). All are in English.

Eventually a toll booth and a large archway loom up, proclaiming the first true highway exit since leaving Yangon. We have arrived at what the government calls “the center of nation-building activities.” Built from scratch in the midst of rice and sugar-cane fields between 2002–2005, Naypyidaw managed to remain a secret, even from many of its neighbors. Now, the city almost goes as far as to welcome visitors, showcasing itself this past week as host of the South Asia World Economic Forum, and later this year, the Southeast Asian Games.

Suddenly, the skeleton of an urban metropolis makes an appearance. Bamboo and thatch give way to brick and cement, golden temples are replaced by pastel housing developments. None of the buildings has the communal feel found in the rest of the country. The bus rumbles past the Capital Hypermarket and the Junction Center Mall, both of which look strangely empty. I get down at the station. Motorcycle taxi drivers offer to take me to my hotel for 7,000 kyat. What a long, strange trip it’s been.