Someone Else is Living Your Parisian Dream

To “see” in the dark jungle, we listen to her music; the harmonizing of tirelessly chirping crickets and the constant whirring of secadas are loudest. Mangrove tree leaves rustle in the wind, giving way to the downpour of gallons of rain. South China Sea waves crash and sea water rushes through the mangrove trees and their portruding roots. Smaller waves roll in the forest and the little crabs and micro-organisms are taken for ride. Millions of anonymous jungle creatures sing back up in this grandiose 'never-to-be-repeated' outdoor concert. I strain my ears to take in all the sights, periodically stopping to stare into the pitch black stage. I’m not much of a concert go-er, but I’ve never appreciated front row seats more.

We penetrated the darkness of the tiny nook and cranny homes of exotic insects with torches, seeking just a glimpse of one of tonight’s stars. The light rain that stopped the Swedish Girls at the last shelter turned into a heavy monsoon downpour that stopped us in our tracks at the entrance of the jungle. We kicked aside settled leaves and sat on the walk plank, seeking shelter under a large boulder with a hulking body. The rain came down around us, slapping jungle leaves violently, bouncing down to our seats. There huddled under the rock, the Swedish Photographers and I laughed like children jumping in puddles…..and if there were any proper puddles in the vicinity, I’m certain that we would have. Their day time “We’re very serious photographers” cover was blown. The real reason they were there in Bako was for their childlike appreciation of moments like this…they celebrated Mother Nature’s schizophrenia. Tonight, she was crying up a storm and these kids were laughing at her.

The rains drenched us. We made a unanimous decision to make a run for the first shelter. The guest players in tonight’s concerto included Loud Stomping of Feet on wood planks, and Glee. Soaked to the bone, we sat back and listened, not caring that we were drenched to the point of dripping. I was ecstatic for The Moment. Ecstatic that I was caught in the storm amidst laughs and giggles with others who found it equally amusing. I could have missed The Moment entirely. Had I been sitting indoors, I may have lamented the foul weather instead. Or I could have been trapped in the outdoors with others couldn't appreciate The Moment. But no. We were near strangers who were brought to together to celebrate that thin slice of life together in a short frame.

Minutes ticked like hours and mosquitoes took advantage of our prolonged stillness. Another unanimous decision to walk back to the main quad. We couldn't get any wetter at that point. I put my face up to the black star splattered sky and smiled, soaking wet and fully content in my mangrove forest. The rains tapped my skin to the tune of jungle music.

It was Independence Day in Burma; the day that Burma earned their freedom from British colonial rule. Expecting celebrations and festivities, I hurried back to Rangoon from Mandalay to be with my friends. To celebrate.

I sat downstairs at breakfast; my friend Andy from the States had moved onward on his trip. Maung Si-Tu, who worked at Beautyland II Hotel engaged me in more conversation than he had in the last few weeks.

“There's nothing here in Rangoon,” he told me. “You should go to Kyaiktiyo.”

One of Burma's most spiritual places for one of Burma's most spiritual men. He couldn't sing enough praises about this little town where a Golden Rock is said to house one strand of Buddha's hair. He spoke of his own experiences there, and closed the conversation for me. “Its 9:00 and the bus leaves at 11:00. You need to hurry.”

I didn't have enough kyat, and my things were strewn everywhere around my room.

I don't know if I'll have enough time…I need to go to the bank.”

“Ok. Just go pack,” he said. “Hurry”

I was in my room for about 10 minutes when he rang. “You won't have time to the bank. I have the money. Just get it from me.” I didn't want to delve in black market exchanges with a friend. “No, its ok. I'll go the bank.”

Si-Tu rang again a few minutes later. “I'll get you the money. You don't have time to go to the bank. And you have to catch the bus.” I finally relented.

He came to my room with 20,000 kyat….a laborer in Burma makes approximately 500-1000 kyat per month. Here, he said. Take this. It should be more than enough for a few days over there. I reached into my pocket for the equivalent in US dollars. He wouldn't take it. I left one of my cameras as collateral. He grudgingly took it.

He just wanted me to have a great time….”I want to loan it to you. I trust you and I don't need your money.” He said that I was like a fifth sister to him. 20,000 kyat is two years worth of hard laborous work in Burma. And he was handing it to me. A stranger who would leave Burma to come home in 3 days. What if I didn't show up? I left with 20,000 kyat in my pocket, bewilderment and admiration in my eyes, and a restored confidence in people in my heart.

I arrived at the bus station and the show began with the foreigner. “Ma Khinkhinwin? Are you the actress?” the boys joked. They ripped me off by about 200 kyat. I didn't care though, and neither did they. “You guys charged me more than anyone else for a plastic stool in the middle of the aisle?! I couldn't do anything about it though. They knew I knew…

“I'm only going to the end of the road. You should take my seat.” a woman offered. We went back and forth for a while, and finally, I agreed. I had a 5 hour ride and she would just be minutes. I took her seat. A proper seat. 3 hours later, she was still sitting there. In the middle of the aisle….on a plastic stool. She gave up her seat for a stranger.

In Kyaiktiyo, I made good friends whom I visit whenever I return. They took me to dinner, a young couple with very little. They told me, “In just a few days, you've become such a close friend to us…you're one of us.” They paid for dinner, this couple who had nothing. It would have cost me just 2 US dollars, but they wouldn't hear of it. It cost them 2000.

A few hours after I returned to the guest house in Rangoon, I received a call in my room. It was Maung Si-Tu. He told me that he had been busy all afternoon. He was calling to let me know that he's around; that he didn't want me to think that he'd run off with my camera. He loaned me his life savings, yet he was concerned about my peace of mind.

The thing is….all of these people….they know that I'm better off economically than they are. Anyone who visits Burma is. Nevertheless, their capacity to give love so generously is unequivocal to almost any that I've ever experienced. Their faith in people resuscitated my own. People Interactions weren't something that I ever thought much about until People interacted with me.

It's not often that I meet another solo female traveler. Even more rare that I meet an American lone female traveler in these parts who is Asian. Asian American, most specifically.

I found Justina on the roster at the guest house on the grounds of the St. Thomas. As I signed in with the proprietor, I quickly scanned the list to get profiles of possible new friends. First, I noticed the last name. Asian. Hmmm… This is a highly unusual discovery in all of my travels. I scan the rest of her relevant information. Total number of guests: 1. Hmmm…Female. Alone. And more….“Hmmm. She’s from the U.S” Also not too common. “Holy shit! She lives just 2 blocks from my mom.”

I ask the proprietor if this girl is around. She responds yes. As if on cue, I hear a knock and a request for a room key. A rugged Asian woman stands in the doorway, and I say without thinking or hesitation, “Are you Justina?”

Hello, stalker.

Luckily, she’s friendly and we hit it off immediately. Both outgoing, neither too girly, and neither employed. Both traveling for the same reason: Just to see and to take some alone time.

In a hurry to meet some people at the waterfront…..but…..

I left Cyberdot the other evening with “Tony from Liverpool” who was staying at the St. Thomas. He’ll be leaving to catch a bus to IForgetWhere in the morning, but there were a couple of English girls who would be leaving for the “Iban” tribe longhouse excursion. My eyes widened and my ears perked.

The headhunting Iban tribes were initially my sole reason for extending a 5 day jaunt to Malaysia while I simultaneously waited the requisite 5 days for an India Visa. This quick stay became 5 week love affair with the region, and I tossed my India plans out breaking the news to Chris, who was already on his way there to meet me. Yikes.

I jumped on the chance to join the already formed small 3 person group where I wouldn’t have to lift a finger to do the tedious and overwhelming research of which travel agent to use, doing price comparisons, and asking around about the quality of th tour. I crashed for free at the St. Thomas that night and ran downstairs with the others in the morning at 8:30, prepared to beg to be included. Of course Idris, the guide allowed me to join, seeing an opportunity for some income sans middle man/travel agent. 4 minivan-ride hours later, I had lost all below-the -knees had minivan hours and spent 60 ringgit on 3 bathrooms breaks in the cleanest squat toilets I have ever crouched in. 2 amazing boat ride hours on the Lemanak River later, we arrived at the Iban village. Sitting around for a rest turned into lunch turned into playing with the children, turned into me helping Idrees with dinner in the kitchen. It was all fine and nice and all, but we were really waiting for the hour when the scheduled rituals would take place. We were ready to see some headhunters!

We were greeted in the ruai - a covered veranda and common space for all families - of the long house by the village headman and elders; all former warriors and “accomplished” headhunters, as the tattoos on their necks boasted. Below the knees, their tatooed legs also boasted a modification of their genital area….unsure how…..Tuak or Iban rice wine was poured into cups and with three toasting cries of “hwo-haah!” before we threw back our heads to, in turn, pour the shots down our throats. The first cry is meant to call the spirits…”Hwo-haah!”…”Hwo-haah!” “The spirit asks, “Who is calling me?” … “Hwo-haah!” … The tribal members respond, “It is I.” After an undetermined number of toasts and shots later, the ritual dancing began. A boy looked uncomfortable out of his modern attire of t-shirt and shorts, as he was now nearly naked in his tribal costume. A girl looked miserable, on display as danced for strangers and the whole display was disappointing and uncomfortable for everyone.

The real fun only began when bottle after bottle of Iban Rice Whiskey and Wine were pulled out for a modified game of “Spin the Bottle,” sans kissing. We played for shots. Everyone became drunk on good times and moonshine, including the elders, their sons, Idris and our group of curious tourists. Time after time, its been proven that The Human League prevails over country borders, languages, culture gaps, and skin color. We spun bottles, pointed fingers, memorized names, bastardized languages, read palms, listened to true stories of warriors and headhunting, drank locally brewed alcohol, chain smoked and wove magic into the late night. I made a new friend that night. He’s 50 years my senior, got more tatoos than your grandfather and quickly got into the habit caressing my back and arms with a saccharin smirk and half closed, drunken eyes. When I turned to look at him each time, he gave me the thumbs up sign. “Badas,” he would say. Good. His partner in crime shouted each time, “Kiss Me, Babeee!” Eventually, I learned to beat him to the punch with my own warrior cries, “Kiss me, babeeee.”

This very short time with the Iban made me consider the modernizing of cultures and progression of their lives. The Iban have opened their traditons and present lives to visitors around the world. As a westerner who very much appreciates different cultures and perspectives gained from meeting people from all walks of the world, I purposely seek out the “unmodern.” Some would call them “undeveloped.” The commonalities in these “unmodern” traditions, is the importance of People Interaction. I dream of untouched cultures and have sought life experiences and my own priorities from them. In a world yet untouched by capitalism, communities prop up communities. People support people and neighbors are friendly. Sure, their labor is physically more strenuous but at the end of the day, they have each other. I wonder whether this influx of tourism to their villages - tourists like me - will eventually wash away Iban traditions. I wonder whether future generations will dream of moving from the remote villages into the big cities. I wonder whether the dances will be lost, and the language with it one day. Will future generations opt for the privacy and independence that Westerners work so hard for, rather than enjoying their longhouse community? Will the villages will disappear?

I consider this in the context of Burma where an oppressive military government keeps its constituents at bay by invoking isolation from the rest of the world. In the process though, it has kept the culture steadfastly aligned its ancient traditions of language, dress, dance and demeanor. This is what allows me to know Burma as my parents did 24 years after we immigrated to the States…oppression and all, sadly. The extent to which Burma is still intact has begun a cycle of healing that wouldn’t otherwise be. Burma, as she is today, provides an escape for me. Bittersweet. What if the country were changed? What if the dress were modernized? The language English? The buildings condominiums? I would lose my utopia. Burma’s citizen’s would be free. This is the dream, isn’t it? My intense need to travel during these years is that I know that people and places are changing. I need to experience them, unchanged. Unmodernized. Uncapitalist.

I realize that this a selfish indication of my privileged status as an American. But my need to learn from these cultures is intense….they cannot be learned in America. I’ve found that in the Game of Life, whether you’re in the remote jungles of Borneo, in bustling Penang, in a temple with it’s committed people, on a street corner with the family who’s mohinga stand has been in business for 60 years, or the another western traveler who is in seek of their personal fortune or healing, the The Human League always prevails if we allow it. When we give way to flexibility, laugh heartily and make time for People Interaction, speaking just a little of a common language, and laughing a ton is bados enough, but only for as long is the League is intact.

I’ve moved from the B+B Inn to St. Thomas Anglican Church in their guest house in the back. I wandered the stairs this evening, following the ringing voices of children singing. They were practicing their caroling.

Certain English hardcore, God fearing Catholics (are you there, Dominic?) would be envious of all the God that I’ll be getting as a guest here, but in the meantime there are plenty of mosques all over Mal-Asia…..