A Rainy Day in Yangon

Let me just start off by saying that life is SO FREAKIN' GOOD. I am truly loving life, and savoring all of my remaining time here.

Part of the reason why life is so good is that I am basking in the wonderful afterglow of my second trip to Myanmar. Now, Myanmar is a tricky and controversial place to write about, and I realize that by doing so I will possibly open myself up to some attacks. However, I also feel like if I can help raise even an ounce of awareness about this beautiful, sacred, and troubled place, that any negative backlash will be well worth it.


Sule Pagoda--the temple right smack dab in the middle of a traffic circle. Around its perimeter are a variety of shops and fortune tellers.

For starters, even the NAME of the country is tricky. Most governments--including the US--do not recognize the name Myanmar (as it was the name selected by the military junta), and instead continue to refer to the country as Burma, which is the name that the British gave it. However, I prefer to refer to it as Myanmar, as even though calling it this does somehow "give credit" to the evil junta, it is quite simply the name by which locals have referred to the country for several centuries. The British named the country Burma after its largest ethnic group. However, this name serves to exclude the other multitudes of ethnic groups that call Myanmar home. Myanmar is in a sense a unifying name that acknowledges all ethnic groups, and out of respect for those living there who prefer to call it Myanmar, that is the name that I shall use throughout the entirety of this blog post.


Rambutan. So freakin' good...

Aesthetically speaking, Yangon is by far the most beautiful city in Asia. It has an elegant, old world, charming European veneer to it, but its essence and flavor is distinctly Asian. It is the only place I've visited where both the men and the women wear sarongs around their waists (though the men tie theirs differently than the women. They leave a corner of the sarong hanging in front, which, I've been told, is, um, a phallic symbol...). The cheeks of the women there are smeared with a thick, white powder--part make-up, part sunblock, part moisturizer--which is made from the bark of the thanakha tree and mixed with perfume. There is a copious amount of greenery there--trees and shrubs and gardens and big, leafy, tropical plants--that you don't see in other cities (granted, Hong Kong also has a lot of greenery, but it is mainly in the posh residential areas. In Yangon, it's everywhere). The monks are ubiquitous, walking around in their burgundy robes, coating the air with calm.


Monks at Shwedagon Pagoda

What you do not see there are tourists. Last time I was there I saw a few, though they were mainly older Europeans on guided tours. This time my flight from Bangkok was basically empty, and I stood out like a compound fracture. Last time the line in the Myanmar Embassy in Bangkok took hours, and it gave me an opportunity to bond with my fellow travelers. This time I was in and out of there in no time, and the lack of friendly strangers provided me with an opportunity to see just how truly depressing the Embassy is.

Anyway.....


City Hall. I LOVE this building!

There are several reasons for the lack of tourists. One, people make a conscious choice to boycott Myanmar. Aung San Suu Kyi has asked tourists not to go to Myanmar, and several pro-boycott groups have stated that visiting Myanmar is seen as essentially condoning the evil military government, as visa fees, the departure tax, and entry fees to certain places (such as Shwedagon Pagoda) all go directly to the government. Two, people are scared to visit a place with such a violent past (and, um, present) and so much unrest.

With Aung San Suu Kyi's current **BULLSHIT** trial (Dear John William Yettaw: You are NOT the kind of friend that Myanmar needs. Thanks for ruining it for the rest of us, AND for screwing over the very person that "God" supposedly summoned you to help), I am sure that more people will be inclined to stay away. That is certainly understandable. However, there are also those of us on the other side of the argument. Namely, those of us who are pro-tourism, as long as it is done properly, respectfully, and with a significant amount of preparation. Those tourists who insist on guided tours, or who are going to only visit the Shwedagon Pagoda and ride around in an air-conditioned taxi without interacting with the local people and seeing what their lives are like shouldn't bother coming.



(As soon as I took that picture, a soldier LITERALLY jumped out of the bushes, blew his whistle, and began gesticulating wildly. Apparently I wasn't supposed to be taking a picture of that building. Common sense is also telling me that maybe I shouldn't post it on my blog either....????)

The people in Myanmar are beyond lovely. They are warm and friendly and want to practice their English and ask about life in America. The oppression is palpable, and the poverty crippling. They are not able to speak freely (and, as a note to any potential visitors to Yangon, DO NOT ask the locals questions about the government or engage in any sort of political discussion WHATSOEVER. Seriously, these soldiers are IN THE BUSHES...), and they are severely limited in their access to educational and informational resources. And yet there's a hunger, a curiosity, an unapologetic "go-with-the-flow"-ness that is absolutely pervasive and unlike anywhere else. I got meditation tips from monks, talked about The Godfather with university students (which, um, I have never seen in its entirety...apparently this is some sort of sacrilege to die-hard fans), and tried to peel my eyes away from the betel nut-stained mouths of my interlocutors. I got my fortune read (apparently I shouldn't swim in rivers) and gladly spread my money around purchasing lacquer ware and charcoal drawings made by local artisans. And, of course, I visited the Shwedagon Pagoda--an awe-inspiring sight that is part temple, part local hangout. The energy there is both ebullient and reverent.


The central stupa of Shwedagon Pagoda, which, according to legend, houses eight actual hairs from the Buddha

A lack of tourism (again, as long as tourists are independent, well-researched, and well-prepared...) hurts the private sector much more than the government. Many pro-democracy leaders have stated that isolation is the last thing that Myanmar needs. Myanmar needs to be a part of the world, part of the international dialogue. It is appalling that a government like this is allowed to exist. It is an unspeakable crime that the people there have to live in constant fear, and some must participate in forced labor. The only way that people are going to pay attention to Myanmar is if its shroud of secrecy is removed, and if they are willing to look beneath the gold leaf mirage to the beating, bleeding, tortured soul of this place that is comprised of unearthly beauty and an impossible warmth.

I don't plan on shutting up about Myanmar anytime soon.



For more information and ways that you can get involved, check out this site (which is permanently posted in my sidebar):

U.S. Campaign for Burma

Holy Crap....

It just occurred to me that my last day of work here in Thailand is exactly TWO MONTHS from yesterday. There is an entire cosmos of actions that must be completed between now and then, and I really don't know how it is all gonna happen. I'm still trying to finish my journal entries from my Hong Kong trip while I also plan for my upcoming trip to Burma. I'm also trying to scrapbook and finally, FINALLY upload some pictures onto Picasa/Facebook, and even on here, which I will hopefully do this weekend. I also have to ship about a gazillion more packages and somehow save enough money to transition from here back to the U.S. I have to get a billion massages ('cause, oh man am I gonna miss those) and put the finishing touches on the preschool curriculum.

Posts about previous and future travels coming soon!

Dear California,

Dear California,

I apologize for what I said before. I didn't mean it. I was just upset. The fact of the matter is that you are going to make it very easy for me to not only become fully certified in your fair state, but to become a reading specialist as well. Becoming a reading specialist is my dream job--I get to work with curriculum, struggling readers, AND provide professional development to teachers--and I am so very thankful that you are willing to fully accept and embrace my Arizona teaching certificate AND reading endorsement without making me jump through that oh so firey hoop of student teaching. I am glad that you can make it easy for dedicated teachers such as myself who completed Teach For America instead of a traditional teaching program. And, just so you know that I am giving credit where credit is due, it should be known that Arizona has made it very easy for me to acquire a reading specialist endorsement (I sent a lovely fruit basket to Arizona yesterday).

Now, Massachusetts is no friend of mine. MA has Harvard and a lot of famous dead white men, and certainly our country would not be what it is today were it not for MA. However, they are just jerks jerks jerks when it comes to teacher certification. Not like you, CA. Plus, your Commission on Teacher Credentialing folks are much more friendly and laid back than the DOE folks in BOTH AZ and MA. I envision them as wearing Birkenstocks underneath their corporate-looking cubicle desks and driving Subarus with bumper stickers that encourage recycling.

Thank you for having the largest population of non-native English speakers in the U.S. Thank you for all of your outdoorsy goodness. Also, thank you for providing a home for this dance company. As soon as Peter and I get settled in San Francisco we plan on producing copious amounts of blue-eyed, California-loving offspring who can grow up to become upstanding taxpayers, and who will enjoy helping to clean up your beaches and forests in their spare time.

Love,

Brooke

SpecRACKular

I'm feeling oddly sentimental today (well, who am I kidding, if you've read my blog for more than un second you would know that I am a sentimental sap through and through), and after sending a partially weepy e-mail to Kellyn--a fantastic wife, mother, and human being who is also about to be a first-time homeowner, and who was also my sidekick in many (mis)adventures in high school--about the fact that we are becoming grownups, I took a dazed stroll around my condo.

For the first six months that I lived in my condo, it did not in any way resemble home. It was huge and dusty with industrial strength lighting and eye-frying white walls. It echoed strangely, and I was locked out of all of the other rooms. When I had friends over for a dinner party, everyone was highly amused by my lack of decor, as were various sets of visitors. But it didn't feel like home, I was reminded in not so subtle ways by the owners that it wasn't REALLY my home, so I didn't bother nesting.

It's certainly no secret that Peter had wanted me to come back to the U.S. after one year instead of completing my two year contract. It's understandable why he would want this, especially given the fact that things had not, well, gone EXACTLY as I had hoped out here. However, I also knew that I had to stay. That there was something bigger than me pulling the strings in all of this. Over the summer when he (and two of my best friends from grad school) came to visit, I told him this. He hugged me and kissed me and told me he would wait for me. Then, he looked around my condo and said, "Let's see what we can do about making you feel more at home here."

He got to work hanging the pictures that he had bought for me in Cambodia, and covering vast sections of white wall with batik sarongs from Bali. He assembled my paper lamps, hung up some fabulous string lights, and bought me a hanging picture frame where I could put pictures of my nieces.

My friends Cayla and JJ gave me their plumeria tree when they left Thailand to return to the States. I have a bit of what you might call a "toxic thumb" with plants, and I had bet that within in a few months I would have figured out a way to kill the poor, beautiful thing. During the fall and winter it had lost all of its leaves and flowers, and I was pretty sure it was dead. I stopped watering it and tried to figure out a way to dispose of it (and by "tried to figure out" I mean I stood there with my hands on my hips feeling guilty and then thinking to myself "I should find a way to dispose of this dead tree" before shrugging and going back inside). Then, in recent weeks it began blooming again. It had miraculously come back to life. OH, THE METAPHOR. I could not make this stuff up if I tried.

As I was watering it last night I remembered that Peter had ridden through the streets of Bangkok in the back of a pick up truck to hold the tree steady while we transported it from Cayla and JJ's place to mine. The next day he also bought me a drying rack so that I wouldn't have to drape my wet clothes all over the living room furniture.

Sometimes true love and romance is all about violins and fireworks and gazing deeply into each other's eyes. And trust me, there is PLENTY of the above. However, sometimes you know that someone is The One because of a drying rack. And even though Peter has been on the other side of the world from me for two years, waiting patiently for me, he's also always been right here.

Overheard in Bangkok

Today at lunch I was sitting one table over from a French woman who was speaking on her mobile phone in beautifully accented English (seriously....I love the way French accents sound. My alter ego--the one I imagine myself to be whenever I happen to hit a rough patch--TOTALLY wears 20-eye boots and a leather corset and speaks with a French accent), and I couldn't help but overhear her conversation:

"Yes, I canceled my cable account last month, but I saw on my American Express card that you have just charged me for three more months. I would like you to remove the charges, as I should not be paying for an account that I no longer have............Yes, well, you see, I canceled my account last month and you have charged me for the next three months........No, I do not wish to pay you because I canceled my account...............Yes, you charged me for the next three months................No, I no longer have an account.............................I would like the charges removed.................No, I already canceled my account, I don't need to cancel it again............................"

Five minutes go by wherein the French woman is doing a lot of "yes....uh huh"-ing. And then:

"I canceled my account last month, but you have charged me for the next three months. I would like you to remove the charges, as I should not be paying for an account that I no longer have."

A wise man (or woman??)* once defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Sometimes, however, that is also the definition of an expat.



*Both Einstein and Benjamin Franklin have been credited with this quote, as has Rita Mae Brown.

Detour

Well, I have been Getting My Ass Handed To Me by departments of teacher certification in both Arizona and Massachusetts. The fact that I barely know how to spell Massachusetts, as indicated by the red line under my multiple tries, is perhaps the Universe's way of telling me that I shouldn't move there. I'm only joking when I say this, as MA DOES have this much going for it: the folks at the MDE don't yell at quite the decibel level that the folks at the ADE do.

Now, my time in Asia has taught me to go with the flow, that worrying is futile, and the only thing created by worrying is lines in one's forehead. I've learned how to have faith and know that everything always works out as it should. SO....to that effect, while my career may be veering frighteningly off course at breakneck speed for the time being, I have compiled a list of other possible professions that I can explore during this time of temporary road blocks:

-Beekeeper
-Telemarketer
-Burlesque dancer (not to be confused with stripper)
-Elevator operator
-One of the lost cosmonauts
-A participant in the wife carrying contest

By the way, the fact that the U.S. does not have universal teacher certification from state to state is an absolute crime. And California???? Don't get me started on California. I don't know who California thinks it is. No one is apparently good enough for it. It's sitting there on its west coast perch all, "Ooooo, just LOOK at my beautiful, frothy, glistening shoreline and abundant population of English language learners (I mention this because working with ELLs is my area of expertise and true passion in life). You wanna come here and teach?? Suck my redwoods, biatch!"

Forgive me. I worked for almost 13 hours today, and it is quite possible that the beer I smelled earlier in the lobby of my condo has actually succeeded in getting me drunk.

Any career suggestions/magic wands for making certificates appear out of thin air/talismans (talismans or talismen?? Doesn't it seem like it should be the latter?) for warding off evil department of education spirits would be greatly appreciated.

I'm gonna go sleep it off.

Smoke

My final trip to Cambodia was, as usual, fantastic. I bought a bunch of clothing and DVDs, ate gourmet chocolate, drank passion fruit smoothies, hung out at the Foreign Correspondents' Club overlooking the river, and read a fabulous book in the sprawling garden of the hotel where I stayed. I also bought some really awesome jewelry from an NGO, and these very colorful pieces are made entirely out of trash. I soaked in Phnom Penh's quirky beauty, and the feeling of having stepped back in time to an entirely more classy and romantic era. I love love love it.

I noticed that people in Phnom Penh are constantly picking their noses and hocking loogies (yeah, I really have no idea how to spell that word....). Like, CONSTANTLY. At first I was puzzled by this, as I had never noticed that before. However, since this was my first visit where I didn't have a krama (Cambodian scarf) wrapped around my face each time I climbed into a tuk tuk, I realized that the air there is unbelievably grimy. It goes so far beyond just being polluted or dusty. You get a mouthful of soot that accompanies each breath, and the mucus in one's nose instantly springs to battle. While I was a bit more discreet about it than the locals, I found myself needing to clear out my nose constantly. It just doesn't seem fair that the air there is actually capable of leaving a stain.

I took a taxi to the airport, which had a very kind man with a gently lined face behind the wheel. And while I've read quite a bit about the history of Cambodia, and about the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge, I've never had the guts to ask anyone about it. It's not the kind of thing that, you know, comes up in conversation. But, well, I figured that this was my last chance.

I started by asking his age, and then did some quick mental math. He was about six years old when Phnom Penh fell, and he was more than willing to talk about his life during "Year Zero," which is what many Cambodians call the period from 1975-1979.

"I wore black clothes and had to work very hard, even as a young boy. And I cried every day because all we could eat was a bowl of water with a few grains of rice. I used to steal food from my parents because I was so hungry." He hung his head slightly. "I was a bad boy."

He went on to tell me about his oldest brother. All of his siblings were sent off to the labor camps--what he called the "work very hard camp"--and one day when his brother was working in the field he found a small fish or crab and stuck it in his pocket. One of the other boys from the labor camp saw this and told the guard. The guard apparently gave the standard lecture about sacrificing for Angka, never stealing from Angka, never lying to Angka, and that thieves must be punished. And then he shot him.

"But this is kind," my driver, Hen, went on. "The people that were killed in front of me were hit over the head with shovels or sticks until their skulls cracked. The Khmer Rouge soldiers didn't like to waste bullets."

He also sang for me one of the brainwashing songs that the Khmer Rouge soldiers taught the children. It was a sickeningly jaunty tune. I felt like my skin was on fire when I listened to it.

"So, do people still talk about what happened? Do they discuss the past?"

He told me that he and his friends would gather in coffee shops and talk about their experiences. He also said that most people his age, who had lived through those years (and he did point out that there is a large dip in population numbers of people above the age of thirty in Cambodia today), were very eager to see the Khmer Rouge leaders and soldiers brought to justice. The hearings have been happening over the last few years, but the money funding these trials always seems to run out. Other countries have donated money, he explained, but it somehow always ends up in the hands of corrupt politicians and not in the courtrooms.

"Soon these men will be too old. They will get old and die without having been punished," he said.

Our conversation then led us to the subject of education. He was pleased to hear that I am a teacher, and all he wants for his children is a good education. He told me that school in Cambodia is free, but that if his son does not bring 500 rial--just over 1 USD--to his teacher each day, that his teacher will not let him in the classroom.

"Teachers only make about 50 USD per month, so they charge the students." He shook his head. "If the government just paid teachers more instead of giving all of the money to corrupt politicians in their Mercedes, then my son wouldn't have to worry about paying his teacher each day, and he could just worry about his studies."

My head was spinning as I listened to him, as I watched the scenery go past me. I watched children playing in piles of garbage, and beggars without limbs sitting next to buckets, pleading limply into the air. Hen really had no trace of anger in his voice. He was very matter of fact, and even chuckled a bit at the fucked-upness of it all.

"Well, I love your country," I said in a high pitched voice because I was trying not to cry. I felt like a freakin' idiot. Some smiley idiot tourist with absolutely no conception of struggle or grief or difficulty or injustice. I felt a hot twinge in my chest and wondered, really, how much one place has to endure before the Powers That Be will lay off already. My face was all screwed up and I could feel Hen's compassionate (and puzzled) glance in the rearview mirror.

"Why, thank you!! I love Cambodia too!"

Earlier that day I had climbed to the top of Wat Phnom to give a final offering to the Buddha, staring at its compassionate face through the stinging smoke of my incense sticks (three, as is the custom) that I had clasped between my palms. I love the Khmer Buddhas. Their faces are so expressive, their lips are so full, their eyes hold the hint of a smile, their fingers are thick and bulky and look like they could handle a rice harvest. Don't get me wrong--I love the various styles of Thai and Laos Buddhas as well, but they are a bit more rigid and refined, with thinner fingers and tense mouths and expressions that are pure business. I feel completely comfortable gazing into the face of a Khmer Buddha. Like everything is just as it should be, and that cultivating a sense of humor is indeed a spiritual undertaking.

"I won't forget Cambodia," I whispered, sending the smoke into the air in chaotic curlicues.