PANZUNDAUNG MARKETS, YANGON 2017
Sauntered? Swaggered? Sidled?
Nope, none of these come even close to an iota of his approach. It was as though this old tiger got a whiff of foreigner from the other side of the market, catapulted himself over roaming chickens, stray dogs, and merchants to get to me in order to both ask me some very pressing questions, and practice his English.
This is not the man of that market, but surely of another.
It was 0730 on a weekday morning, and peak hour at the Panzundaung Markets on the edge of Downtown Yangon. Located on the first bend of the Panzundaung Creek, it’s a hive of activity — even by Yangon standards — and adding an extra chaotic layer are the boats spluttering back and forth from No. 3 Ward in the searing heat or torrential rain: it tends to be one, the other, or both. Even after all this time I still get lost in these markets, but there is a routine once I find my starting point which is my flower lady. She has the best lilies, and in peak season they come in a kaleidoscope of colours: reds, oranges, yellows and pinks. Saying that, I always buy too few as I feel disloyal to my other flower lady on Maha Bandula Road who practices my Burmese with me, so I also pay her bi-weekly visits. Neither of them know about the other: there is no need to learn how to articulate that in Burmese.
Following that, I go and get a cup of tea in one of the sheds where groups of old men play games with beer bottle caps, and it is quite a serious business. If they are not playing then they are reading papers and arguing about the contents with great passion. As soon as you get in there you are deprived of circulating air, and the sweat starts pouring as though you had entered a European sauna. Although mildly uncomfortable and not aesthetically gratifying, it is one on the feelings that is always at the forefront of my mind when I am away from Yangon and dreaming. You may be wondering why I get the flowers first? Well, it is my attempt to “blend in” as much as one can in my situation, and allude to going about my daily business as normal. I then go for breakfast at a stand perched on the edge of the sidecar thoroughfare as not only are their noodles delicious, but it is the perfect place to watch this world go by.
On this particular morning in 2017, I was quietly trying to learn about noodles — if “quietly” is such a thing given that I am a 6’ white woman with a booming yet husky voice, well out of the tourist area, wearing a tailor made Longyi (off the rack do not fit me for a plethora of reasons), and trying to learn Burmese — whilst attempting to order them . It had become quite interactive and A-Ma was helping me by waiting patiently for me to read the Burmese word and was then lifting up the corresponding noodles from big barrels which would surely be empty in the next few hours. Many people were coming and going, mostly getting bags of takeaway as they were laden with all sorts of ingredients, and this was the last stop before heading home from work. However, many lingered, and even though they pretended to not be interested, their shyness gradually dissipated and the furtive sideways glances gave way eventually to sweetness and giggles. After a purposefully prolonged dance, I ordered my soup and she went about making it with the dexterity that comes from the volumes she prepares daily: as if in one fluid movement, the noodles, followed by the broth and the dried fish cut with blunt scissors, were prepared and in front of me.
Almost out of breath, he arrived at the same time as the soup, wearing a wonderfully bright Hawaiian shirt atop a well worn Longyi: he had obviously made quite the effort, and it was reinforced by a whiff of an unfamiliar cologne which hit me squarely on my snout. His two remaining front teeth were a testament to his love for the Betel Quid, but instead of having the parcel circulating on his gums, he was munching on what appeared to be a cookie.
“Where is your husband”? he partly demanded, as this knowledge is often imperative for Burmese men of a certain vintage.
“Oh, I don’t have a husband”.
Simultaneously perplexed and flabbergasted.
“But who is going to look after you when you’re old”?
“I have no need for a husband, and I like to look after myself”.
Pure shock, then a small monologue — doused in pride — about how he had a son in Singapore who was going to look after him when he was old. He then declared, to me and all the ladies, with a double layer of suaveness and community spirit which is rife in Myanmar, that he was going to have to buy me breakfast as he was very worried that I didn’t have a husband.
Whilst this was all going on, something quite frightful happened. You see, I have mentioned that I had my fresh soup, and that he had two teeth and was munching a cookie right? Well, as he was talking at me, I saw, as if in slow motion, I saw a morsel of the cookie project itself out of his mouth and into the air, and then watched it land in my soup with a small gerplonk. That left me in a bit of a predicament as I did not want to offend the beautiful lady that had been helping me, nor did I think my exotic eating habits could stretch that far. So whilst he was moderately gently educating me on the merits of having a husband and children, I was trying to navigate the situation without offending anyone.
Eventually he left (after so nicely paying for my breakfast) and I went through my books and found out how to ask to take it away. Whilst searching for this my eyes skipped over “Long time no see” in my notes.
A certain amount of time passed, anywhere between three and five minutes is my guess, but who knows as the cookie projectile itself seemed to last about 15 seconds. My noodles were ready to go, I had my fresh lilies in hand, and I was about to stand up when he approached again with what appeared to be even more surprised at my lack of having a husband. It was as though he had gone away, thought about it, shaken his head, taken the last bite on his cookie (as his hands were now empty), and simply decided that it could not be true.
Upon his return, I said, “Ma Twe Da Jabi Naw” and every single delightful lady in my proximity, young and old could not hold back the laughter. I am not as sure now as I was then that it was my attempt at sarcasm which elicited this reaction, as since that occasion, a strong majority of the time, when I say, “long time no see” the reaction is often puzzlement as they have just seen me the day before. Whether it was the sarcasm, or my rudimentary attempts at Burmese, it will always remain a mystery, but they were definitely laughing at something.
He then said, “I still can’t believe you don’t have a lover”.
“Oh, I never said that. I have no shortage of lovers”, and with that got up, took my now redundant breakfast and thirsty lilies, politely bade farewell, and left him gasping for words and grabbing for a Betel Quid.
