Burma never came up in too many conversations during my
childhood. There was merely gossip of a sixty-year old cousin twice removed
eloping with a hideous Burmese woman and spending the remainder of his life
peddling bike spark plugs in Rangoon. It was an enterprising dream – traveling
to an unknown land and trading in the comfort of a South Delhi bungalow for subjugation under a crippling military
regime. But the dream was short-lived when after a minor scuffle between a military
general and a man on a motorbike, the regime decided to outlaw motorbikes in
Rangoon altogether.
So in my head, the Burmese picture postcard was the monochrome
still of a wrinkly Punjabi man, in
his tatty vest and jailbird striped pyjamas, sitting on a low stool in front of
a rundown shophouse, sipping tea and
staring at his mound of unsold bike spark plugs.
Myanmar (onetime Burma) was an odd place in my head. Sitting
in a nameless tea shop on 21st Street, Yangon (today’s Rangoon) I
could tell little had changed.
The last time someone pursed their lips together and sent a
piercing air-smooch my way I was at an autorickshaw stand in Bombay. In Yangon
an entire language has evolved from kissing thin air with a vocabulary ranging
from come hither to how much is that doggie in the window? Pitch,
tone, frequency, intonation – they all played their part. So it was mildly
embarrassing at the local tea shop when instead of kissing for the bill, I
smooched and summoned the little waiter boy to light my nonexistent cigarette. He
stood there in his ‘OBurma for Burma’ propaganda vest, clicking the lighter
before giving up, disappointed.
And I thought it ironical that a nation sporting a fully
fledged kiss-lexicon, would place PDA only behind touching a monk’s head in its
list of absolute no-nos.
I would have paid more attention to the offending cacophony
but was distracted by the food at the table; or what seemed like food.
To say that Burmese cuisine is oily would be a lie. Waging
wars over the minor oil deposit in the yellow plastic bowl with curry of
suspect origin would be justified though. No
No, our tour guide from Myanmar’s north-eastern province Shan, explained that since meals were
cooked only once daily, a layer of fat was added to prevent contamination,
spoilage and any general attempts at eating the curry. One could tell that eking
out the solitary piece of lamb at the bottom of the bowl risked a tiny
oil-spill. And if the curry wasn’t satisfying, there was the borrowed Indian Samoosa and an unconventional tea leaf
salad – both of which reminded me of meals I did not want to be reminded of.
Which is why I have a fail-safe when traveling in Asia.
A thumb rule for all Asian travel is that noodles, broth and
meat in any permutation – the ice cold Naengmyeon
with hand-made buckwheat noodles in a chilled beef broth with slices of boiled
egg and beef, Ramen with wheat
noodles served in a piping hot meat broth infused with miso or the staple Vietnamese Pho
– constitute a good meal, at times with flavor worth killing kin for. The
Burmese equivalent, Mohinga, vermicelli
rice noodles in a fish soup with the occasional fritters, proved me wrong. It
was a saffron yellow soup that resembled a turmeric concoction I was force-fed
as a sick child, and it had the distinct flavor of nothing. All the herbs,
spices and meat fused together to mother nothing.
I was not disappointed that Mohinga on its best days is bland and with a slightly discernible
texture; I was disappointed that if ever I’m not sure of what to eat in a
foreign country, I do not have a fail-safe food option anymore.
No No in many ways
reminded me of Suu Kyi – a calm woman
with a stubborn will to persist and break those not prepared to listen. As we
advanced into inner Myanmar fatigue, a condition alien to No No and presumably Suu Kyi,
set in and any trip recommendations from her were met with obvious indifference.
She tried hard to sell a day-trip to a weaving village where women spent over a
year weaving a single shirt and a visit to a monastery famous for cats that at some indistinct moment in the past had jumped
through hoops. She found it difficult to comprehend how the burning heat, foot
sores or an afternoon beer could come between traveler and weaver.
No No resorted to hyperbole, “But if you miss weaving, you miss everything!”
It seemed odd that she refused to take no for an answer. It
was odd that I was still indifferent to the country. According to the biography
of Myanmar that I read on my way to Yangon, the lack of a deep international
understanding of Myanmar was due to a ‘singularly ahistorical’ view towards the
nation. I was told that to understand its present, we needed to delve into its
past. (The River of Lost Footsteps, Thant
Myint U)
I delved. And the recurrent waves of conquest, war and
colonization do offer a fair explanation to the palpable xenophobia and to
perhaps - ‘Why are so many homes forted in
by barbed wire?’ But to conquer and be conquered by Siam (present day Thailand) time and again and still not learn the
importance of lemongrass in curry – I cannot understand.
Which is why I cannot elope to Burma.
