Burma Journal 5 Aug 2010

It’s late and I am tired. I don’t think I have digested today’s events well enough to provide analysis, but I have to write before I forget. Before I came to Burma, I had some e-mail correspondence with a guy my age that I will call “Tom”. I met him in Chiang Mai when he asked to interview me for a short documentary. I soon found out he was from Burma, and since I wanted to know more about life in Burma, I asked to exchange e-mails. When I decided to visit Burma, I contacted him. He is from here in Mandalay and asked if I wanted to meet some people who are working for social change in Myanmar.

All I really knew about Tom is that he ran a facebook group dedicated to creating social change in Myanmar. I envisioned myself meeting with a bunch of college students who got together and talked about change and revolution. I came all the way to Mandalay expecting just that. (8 hoursby bus to Bangkok, 2 hours flying to Yangon, 14 hours bussing to Mandalay) I went to the internet café this morning to see if he had scheduled a time to meet or responded to my e-mails. I read about 65 happy birthday e-mails, but nothing from Tom. I was a little discouraged because I had no other plans and no idea what I would do with my time in Mandalay. Then, on facebook, he chatted me. “where are you?”

“I am at an internet café in Mandalay.”

“You mean you are at NetCom on computer #2. I am behind you on computer #12.”

Shocked, but cautious not to cause a scene, I slowly turned around.

We shook hands without really saying anything, finished our computers, and left.

I rented an oversized rickety bike with no breaks and we rode off through the heat to meet his friends. We rode first to the YMCA where I was led into a dark room, all blinds closed, only the glow of the screen saver and the light from a cracked door. His friend was maybe 40 and runs outreach programs for youth. Education, English, computers. He says he helps the youth of Mandalay find hope. Our conversation was more like a formal interview. He simply asked, “Ok, you are here, what do you want to know?” I was not ready, but years of practice in awkward situations allowed me to proceed like I had a list of well thought out questions.

In Burma, its hard to get money, even if you receive a grant, there are no good banks to transfer the money to. You have to find someone to smuggle in cash. That is one of the main obstacles to doing work here. He says his staff get very poor wages. They need help translating for their website and people to help edit their fundraising proposals.

From there, lunch at a corner café, my first meal in over 24 hours. I had eaten since the snacks I bought in Yangon, which is a shame because I love Burmese food. We sat in the back room where we could talk without others hearing or seeing. From there, we rode our bikes on a grid of broken flooded streets to a large monastic school. It serves over 6,000 students free of charge. About 1,000 of which live at the school. Mostly they are orphans- 95 orphans from the cyclone in 2008- a couple hundred kids from various ethnic groups (Shan, Karen, Karenni, Kachin) and lots of little monks. The girl who showed me around moved to the school in grade 4. Now, 18 years later, she is a teacher and still lives at the school. There are over 200 teachers. Also, a free medical clinic, a library, internet, cabinetry school and sewing school.

The school started small and is run by a monk, whom I was privileged to meet. Same question, “So what do you want to know about my school?” I praised his efforts and then launched into my questions. He gets money through the bank of Myanamar, but at a disadvantaged exchange rate. In Burma you can deposit only in dollars and withdraw only in Kyat (pronounced Jet)- at the govt. rate (600:1 instead of the street rate of 1000:1).

He has been to America twice- to meet with congress and the state department about sanctions on Burma and their effect on non-profit organizations. He has a friend in San Francisco and promised to come to dinner with me on his next visit.

From there we rode around the oddly dusty yet muddy roads looking for other “friends,” finally arriving at an internet café. This time, a man in his late 50’s, “What do you want to know?” I did not even know who he was or what he did, so I began with, “Who are you and what do you do?” Turns out he runs a support group for people living with HIV/AIDS. He helps them combat discrimination and works with faith leaders to use their sermons to combat stigma. He helps them access medical help and is a friend throughout the struggle. In Myanmar, it is illegal to meet in groups of more than 5, but for faiths, it is rarely enforced, so he works with Buddhist, Christian, and Muslim leaders to network faster and disseminate information quickly to the masses. He is nominated for a special award from UNAIDS for his work.

About 5 minutes into our conversation, he asked if we could leave. He was uncomfortable talking in the internet café. We left to the same corner restaurant I had been to earlier with Tom. We sat at the same hidden table in the back. There, we talked about everything. We talked about social change and transformation, about the government spying and the lack of support for people living with HIV/AIDS. He told me of a current man he was working with. When he was diagnosed with AIDS, his family disowned him. He was kicked out of the house. He went to the hospital and was not allowed admittance. In time, he found my new friends outreach group who negotiated with the man’s family to let him stay in the sister’s extra room. He also found a doctor that was willing to see him. The man had terrible gain green from unattended bed sores and infections from the street. His health has improved, but he is still going to die. Hopefully with less pain and certainly with more dignity and support.

After that we went to another friends home. This time a peer, 25 years old, who works on environmental issues in Myanmar. I was invited into his home, which is sort of a risk for anyone. We drank gross Burmese orange soda and talked before all 3 of us loaded onto one small scooter and rode to Mandalay Hill. We walked up the hill cause the scooter would never have made it, me in my broken fake Puma sandals that I got in Guatemala a few years back, them in proper shoes. We arrived at the top just in time for the sunset, gorgeous views of the rice patties, spotted with temples, and the flooding Irriwady River. It looked like a giant lake, miles across. At the top, a Burmese girl stopped me. “Hey, I remember you from the internet today. You were computer 2, I was computer 1.” Its strange being noticed and remembered. The 3 of us watched the light disappear, conversation changing with the colors. Girls, politics, music, Burma. We hiked down in the dark.

We separated for dinner and met back up, all 3 of us overloading the motorcycle all the way across the city to an open air bar/restaurant, on the outskirts of town. There we met a man drinking whiskey and talking with other men. As soon as we arrived, he excused himself from the group and joined us at a different table. He is the leader of the United Muslim Association and the UDP political party. He was well drunk and talked openly about his political goals, to sow divisions amongst the top generals in Burma. He concluded that the people would not be able to have a revolution unless there was division within the government itself. “They are not robots. They are people, and some of them must yearn for change too.” However, he has very little hope of this happening anytime soon. We talked openly for about an hour. 3 Muslim men, smoking and drinking and me, with rice and a Coke imported from China. In time, the man got too drunk to make much sense and I was getting worried about riding with my certainly not sober friends on the motorbike. Turns out they were worried about something else.

We left the bar and precariously sandwiched ourselves back on the motorcycle. On our way over I asked where we were going and my friends replied, “we are going to meet another friend, actually it’s my brother. He is a member of Al Qaeda” I laughed, thinking they were obviously drunk/joking with me. “No seriously, he is.” “Al Qaeda Burma?” I laughed. “Yes, exactly, but its confidential.” Tom interrupted, “ But don’t worry, for some reason he likes Americans. He is not going to blow you up or anything.” They both laughed. We stopped at a nightclub of sorts. It was dark, lit only by a few neon lights and a stage where they were having what was advertised as a beauty pageant. The pageant consisted of pretty girls in nightclub dresses walking around and having beer-drinking contests. We walked over to a table where the brother was waiting, seats reserved just for us. To our left were 3 men who looked like monks in regular attire, smoking and drinking. The rest of the tables were full of middle aged, slightly overweight men. The waiters were all teenage boys and the entertainment, all girls, with numbers on them. The brother leaned over to me and offered me a drink. “No thanks. I don’t drink.” “Yes you do. Tonight you do.” “No, I really don’t, thanks though.” He seemed satisfied, but then hailed the waiter and ordered a drink for me. I told him again, “I don’t drink at all, like ever.” I put my arm around him and leaned in. “You see, I am a good Muslim.” He smiled a giant red beetle nut smile and cancelled the order. The other two laughed.

We sat and watched the girls dance and drink their beer until the music stopped and the lights came on. All the girls were loaded into 2 trucks. Tom explained that after the show they are driven to a hotel of sorts where they are auctioned off to the men who were watching. It can be as little as 5 dollars for sex and up to 60 dollars for a whole night with a girl. Tom says the girls only see a small portion of the money, as little as 50 cents. The rest goes to the club and the hotel.

As we left, Tom pulled me aside and explained what I had been wondering the whole time: why we had come to the brothel in the first place. He says they had good reason to believe the secret police had been watching us throughout the day and the best place to throw them off was a night club, where they all hang out. He said the place was full of police and army men because they are some of the only men who can afford it. Them, some monks, and apparently members of Al Quaeda. Who would have thought the safest place in Burma would be a brothel?

We rode, an awkward sandwich on wheels, back across the dimly lit city, the air getting cooler along the mote separating the old and new city. Now its time to sleep.

A story from "the middle"

This is an Al Jazeera report from Mae Sot, the border town where I suffered with Dengue Fever and wandered around for a few days. I am still typing up my journal from Burma. Law school is killing me, but I will get the rest up soon... until then:

4 August 2010

Burmese Birthday

2 Somosas and a Banana Roti for 20 cents. Burma is quite the place. I spent the morning walking around Yangon in the rain, eating from street vendors and trying to find the friends I made yesterday. Not much luck.

Now, I am sitting on an over-air-conditioned bus to Mandalay. The man sitting next to me has "Freedom" tattood down his forearm. It is obviously an amateur job, but its a poignant reminder of what is missing in Myanmar. Freedom. The bus is just waiting to leave. 10,300 Kyat ($10.30). The taxi across the sprawling yet rural feeling city was 5,000 Kyat. Only twice as much to go across the whole country.

Sam, the kid that runs the guesthouse, talked to me for about an hour practicing his American accent. He prefers the American accent over the European and he is baffled by all the Europeans who don’t like Americans. He says we speak strong. He goes to the cinema with his friends in Shan State, near the highly touristed Inle Lake. He says they go to comedies and try to laugh when the foreigners laugh, even though they don’t understand why sometimes.

Last night the other man that runs the guesthouse told me about love and sex in Burma. “You are lucky. In your country, the women touch you back. Here, they just lay there and only the man touches, but you are not lucky because your women leave you. It’s hard to find lasting love in America. Is that true?” Yes, I told him. It’s so true. He recounted rural Burma life. You can only date in secret and in the dark, sneaking to the girl’s house in the night and whispering that you like her (only after getting permission from the villages head of bachelors). She will tell you to wait for her decision, maybe a week, maybe a year, but you have to go back every day until she says yes or no. If she says yes, you hurry and marry so you can have sex.

I got an email today detailing reports out of Eastern Burma, about attacks by the SPDC (the Orwellian name for Burma's military government: State Peace and Development Council. Unfortunately they provide neither peace nor development and don't even allow many residents to be part of their state) against rural villagers. They bombed and burned several villages this week. The people are fleeing… likely to Thailand. I feel so strange being in a country that is killing its residents. I am here on a bus with A/C and a flat screen TV and thousands of villagers are being hunted and killed in the same country. The police officer that stopped me from walking in front of a government building works for the same regime that is CURRENTLY killing its people.

I don’t know what to say.

I am on a bus. It’s my birthday.

There are no other foreigners

Maybe we are all foreigners

Lost in a world far from home

Strangers in a strange land

Talking, helping, hurting, killing

Will we ever get home?

Burma: My introduction

3 Aug 2010

Yangon, Myanmar (Burma)

I made it. Last year I wrote in my journal, “Next summer I want to go to Burma. I don’t know how I will be able to though.” I arrived via Air Asia from Bangkok. I made a potentially disastrous mistake by failing to change money before I came. I arrived with only Thai Baht and you have to pay a 30-dollar visa fee upon arrival. 30 dollars literally means 30 dollars, and not just any dollars- crisp clean new dollars. An American guy overheard me explaining my situation and offered to sell me dollars for Baht. 60 dollars. He was teaching at a school in a northern province and had 15,000 US dollars in his duffel bag, for the school. Anything over 2,000 is illegal, so he was nervous. When I cleared customs I went to departures to look for more people to exchange Baht to dollars with. No one, for 2 hours. Finally, I found 3 very nice French backpackers who sold me 200 Euros at a good rate. The 200 Euro bill was clean and crisp and fetched a higher rate than smaller bills. Thank the Lord for nice people. Oh yes, back to customs, I was harassed about my money too old. They then told me they would take my old money if I paid 50 instead of 30. I gave them 40 and asked for change. The 3 men stared. I said “I know its 30, you owe me 10 dollars.” One said, Give me more and I will let you through. I said it louder, “Its only 30. Give me 10 dollars.” I was drawing too much attention. They gave me the ten dollars and I got through.

Now I am staying at Golden Smiles Inn. It’s just that, a very friendly place with very friendly staff.

I walked, wandering for 4 hours tonight, ending up totally by accident, at the Shwedagon Pagoda, one of Buddhism’s holiest sites. I debated paying the 6,000 Kyat (about 6 dollars) fee to enter because I thought the money might go to the government. I was assured that it goes only to restoring and maintaining the site. I hope that is true. I hired a guide, which is rare for me, but I got good vibes from the guy and I made a goal to talk to as many local people as possible. We talked for 2 hours, covering a range of topics, always resorting to hushed tones when anything sensitive came up, which in Burma, is often. “The security is everywhere. They don’t wear the uniform. It could be you or me or anyone. Nobody knows.” Later, “You are lucky to travel and visit other countries. I am 31. I have never been outside Burma and I have no money to travel in Burma.” “My country is so poor but some people, they have so much. In Yangon, we have one Rolls Royce and 2 Hummers. Who has that much money? How did they get it?”

I walked back into the city in the dark. A young man, who looked maybe 20, came from a gate and made eye contact. I said, “How’s it going?” He mumbled, and started walking behind me. He followed me for maybe 30 minutes, stopping where I stopped, turning where I turned. I stopped to eat dinner. He took the table next to me. I chatted with the gaged-eared boy who ran the place and my follower just watched us. When I got up, he followed. Finally, when crossing in front of Sule Paya, the 2000-year-old pagoda in the middle of a round about, he called out to me. I could not understand, but I waited for him and we walked toward my hotel. Hs English is very basic, my Burmese non-existent. He wanted to talk though, so we sat on a planter under a tree in front of Independence monument, one of the darkest spots in the area. We worked hard to communicate. He said is 28 and a teacher, not married, no girlfriend, “I don’t like.” He wants to meet at 10 AM tomorrow, same spot. I said OK. It crossed my mind that he is gay, but I don’t think so, and I don’t care unless he thinks I am looking for more than just to talk. We will see I guess.