October 8, 2006

I know that one of the most burning questions all of you have on your mind is “What is the new Bangkok Airport really like?” This probably keeps you awake at night and you’ve been disappointed that we didn’t email sooner with this important news.

Probably the most interesting thing about the new airport is that it isn’t really an airport at all. Sure it’s got some tarmac where planes can come go and some really incredibly inconvenient gates with ice cold, rock hard, steel chairs and absolutely no food or beverage services anywhere near them, but really the place is just a Bangkok’s newest shopping mall – and one of the worlds largest at that.

Never mind that the staff there is so completely incompetent that they’re still looking for our lost baggage even though we located it (without their help) a week ago, because baggage and connecting flights are mere after–concerns at this place.

The new BKK airport is about STYLE. It’s there to show the whole world the BKK is a world class city and hip enough to know that what really matters to travellers is being able to buy super expensive things with Italian names. The world’s largest building houses more retail space than BKK’s largest mall. Everything shines, the lighting is so bright I had to wear sun-block, the stores are all staffed by half-starved waifs teetering on high heels while doing their best to imitate the runway model walk. Long, expansive cappuccino bars stretch through the main hallway which connects the flight gates that are so far apart that there are marathon runners jogging the concourse just for exercise.

Do people really buy $1,000 Patagucci clothing in airports? Rolexes? Are these things really today’s impulse buys, bought in between flights? Do people really like to come out to the airports to do their shopping?

I’m standing in the middle of all of this wearing my very best travel clothing feeling like I should be holding a tin cup out in front of me with a sign around my neck that says “Will work for flight coupons.”

I’m holding a ticket for country where the average income is under $500 a year, where 70% of the population either cannot afford or does not have access to safe drinking water, where there’s a child dying of waterborne illness every 45 seconds, and I’m looking around me and thinking, “Is this what it’s really all about? Is this really what people strive for, what making it to the “top” is all about? Shopping? Is this sum total of human evolution – 6,000 thousand years in the making and our crown jewel is that we can consume better than ever before?”

I didn’t lose it. I kept my cool. I didn’t go running up and down the concourses screaming obscenities at people and trying to shake some sense into them. I didn’t rip the cell phones out of every single persons hands and throw them on the floor and jump up and down on them, I didn’t accidentally spill the coffee which I couldn’t even afford on some stuffy executive’s shoes while he ignored his family because there was a pair of diamond cuff links that he just had to have. I let it go. I went to my hard seat and waited for my plane. I wondered if I could go to Yangon overland next time.

When the plane landed in Yangon, and taxied down a bumpy runway, and outside there were weeds growing through the tarmac I felt much better. When we went to immigration and the lighting was so poor I wanted a flashlight while I waited in line, I still felt good. As we passed through to the two and only two baggage carousels that Yangon’s airport has and some guy from Taiwan came up to me smoking a cigarette and offered me one while he whispered about what a hard time he had keeping his garment factory going in this godforsaken country, I knew I would be okay.

Dirty walls, shabby porters, but the brightest smiles on the earth greeted us as we went through customs. One porter grabbed a bag and tossed it on his back, tragically misjudging its weight and ending up on the sprawled out on the floor. A little laughter, a lot of hands offered to help him up.

That night we left our hotel room and walked down a potholed road to a little sidewalk restaurant. Vendors lined the rode selling copied CD’s with faded black and white labels and cheap imported plastic trinkets by candlelight, covering their stalls with improvised plastic sheets stretched on bamboo poles. Granted, it’s still shopping, but a little bit easier to pallet.

In the end I guess I’m a reject – a throw-back; happier in a dank apartment with steamed rice than in some glitzy tower eating imported fish eggs. I think that compassion and understanding are better indicators of human evolution than the ability to accumulate baubles or wear shoes that would better fit the horns of a bull, much less have a closet full of them – but who am I to say.

Late October, 2006

It’s been HOT with capital letters, too plus too HOT. I’m not sure what the melting point of steel is but I’m sure it’s gotten close a couple of times as my frame has felt all wobbly as we’ve dodged the packed busses and potholes. On top of that Curt drips cups of salty sweat on my beautiful though mud caked frame, he’s even dripped on my couplings, boy do I hate salt in my couplings - it stings like crazy.

Not only is it hot but everyday I have to carry a load, as CnC stuff my panniers full. I shouldn’t complain as most of the bulk is Kyet, the local currency and Cleo has told stories of pulling close to 100 pounds up mountains, but I’m new at this and there are no mountains, just heavy traffic. We have to bring the kyet as C-n-C don’t dare leave a lot of valuables in our apartment as it’s not exactly the most secure establishment we’ve spent time in. So I carry the cameras, documents and the loot. It’s not a lot of money since the largest bill in Myanmar is 1000 kyet which is equal to 73 US cents, and the smallest bill is a 10, not even worth a cent. A lot of the bills have been so passed around they’re almost transparent like they were printed about the time the printing press was invented. Anyway I have to carry our weekly supply as we only hit the black market money changers on Sundays. Remember there are no ATMs in Myanmar, you can’t use a credit card or cash a travellers check so we have to bring our US $$’s down to the market where guys whisper their exchange rates as we walk by and then lead Curt over to a table and start pulling out stacks of kyet from under their longyis.

Have I mentioned, this is a country of skirts. Everyone wears them. They’re called longyis, which are a large ankle length cloth tube that gets tied, wrapped and tucked differently depending on if you’re a man or a woman, or if you’re going somewhere important or staying home. Women of course wear longyis with flowery patterns and men don those with dark dignified checks, kids can mostly be seen in school uniform green. Old longyis are used for hammocks for rocking babies, as slings to carry babies, as curtains to dress under, and for an assortment of functions, given their simplicity the things are truly amazing. C-n-C only wear theirs at home as they’re still a little nervous about having a longyi accident - as in finding themselves walking down the street with a roll of dignified check or colourful flower material wrapped around their ankles instead of their waists. Because they’re not confident in their longyi tying skills they’re terrified to even attempt riding in them. They’re what are called trouser people.

The ride to and from work continues to be fraught with excitement, everyday is a new challenge, be it dodging school kids, monk processions, rush hour, factory closing hour, carnival set up, parades or fire trucks. We now have three semi-different routes; the calm 5 minutes of quiet as we ride amongst tri-shaws, the aggressive all the way bus, truck, taxi route, and the semi-busy pagoda street. C-n-C always arrive at work a little rattled and return home in need of substance in the form of a large snack and a cold beer.

During work days (Monday-Saturday) I hang out at the “Happy Family Water Filter System” workshop - watching, listening and learning about water filter manufacturing as taught through sign language. The female crew of 6 women are the funniest of the workers, they are always laughing about something. It’s hard to imagine that mixing clay and pressing filters could be humorous but they seem to find it silly. U Than Win, their boss, worries over every detail, the women tease him and call him old mother. I also loved to listen to Ko Mee See Aye when he was the mason/carpenter, he’s a local guy that owns a hammer, 2 trowels, 2 pans, a plastic pipe that he uses as a level, and some string. He employs 2 helpers. Too bad he didn’t know a thing about kiln building or laying bricks, the guy was funny, he could tell a story, spread a rumour, and rile everybody up within minutes after showing up late, making it so nothing got done for hours. But C-n-C reminded everyone that their time in Myanmar was limited and they needed to get some work done before we left, so they found a more sober mason. Maung Maung Aye is C-n-C’s interpreter, I don’t need one cause bikes understand language, it’s one of our gifts. Maung MAung Aye is probably not as old as he looks, and by the time C-n-C leave I fear he’ll look even older. He’s a sweet Buddhist, always kind, peaceful and trying to find the middle solution. His name gets shouted, sung, praised, whispered and begged for throughout everyday as someone needs his language skills to clarify instructions. I watch him rush from the grinder, to the brick makers, the welders, and over to the kiln builders trying to keep everyone happily on task. Usually Zin Nyi Nyi, the young nephew of the Minister of Public Health (we need him to bless the filter) or Khin Maung Kyaw the director’s younger brother are doing something that they were asked not to do. Having those two causes a bit of friction at the shop as they both are bosses and neither has any qualifications except being related or needed by the head honcho. I feel sorry for the brother, the poor guy is living in a small room at the shop with the snakes and rats I try and cut him some slack, even when his breath smells like cheap, stale Burmese whiskey, the kid is just a kid practicing to be a bureaucrat. I also watch the 6 guy laborers, they’ve been assigned some of the dirtier jobs, grinding and sifting clay and breaking big balls of wet clay into small pieces so it can dry in the sun, they drink volumes of Chinese tea, break into song at random moments, smoke whenever they get a chance to light a cheroot, and disappear when one of the bosses isn’t watching. With a full time Myanmar crew of 16 and five of those bosses there is some interesting synergy at the shop and that’s without including me and C-n-C.

No matter, things are happening, there are 250 filters mixed with 7 different formulas of clay and ratios of rice husks ready to go into the kiln so they can be tested, and that’s going to happen November 1^st.

The kiln is looking good, “it’s a beautiful *&^%$!* kiln” as Curt has stated.

On Oct. 30^th he’ll get the oil drip ready to be tested and on Halloween it’ll be tested, then they’ll load the kiln with ceramic receptacles and do a test fire bringing it up to just 500 degrees so it can dry out. One of the C’s bought the crew a stereo as her birthday gift to them, and so she could have music during firings. I guess firings are long and we have to start them early. It will be fun to watch the crew jam, almost as fun as watching everyone eat lunch. Lunch is interesting. Everyone but C-n-c bring their food packed in a plastic or stainless round dish stack bucket affair. Each of the layers contains a different food, rice in one, maybe dalh in another and if they’re lucky meat or vegetables in a third. C-n-C don’t have a kitchen at home so they walk out and buy their lunch from the neighborhood cafe. It’s a dirt floor, 6 table establishment. I hear that the woman is an awesome cook and has up to a dozen large stainless pots full of the daily specials, like curried mutton, fried fish, and something that looks like macaroni but is chicken intestines in some kind of sauce. C-n-C, usually walk back after their visits with a huge array of small plastic bags dangling from their fingers. I’ve figured out that the large clear bags always hold their rice, the medium sized yellow bag holds the dahl, the tiny blue bag holds vegetables, and the smaller orange bag contains meat or fish. Some days they come back with only 2 clears and a yellow and blue bag, some days they don’t have a yellow but have three blues instead. I can almost taste and smell the food as they describe what they think they’re eating and try to figure out how it was made and wonder if they can repeat it. Everyday they describe at least one new dish.

I usually take a short nap after lunch so I’m fully charged for the ride home. After lunch it gets hotter, and the crew slows way down. C-n-C tell everyone how many weeks they have left to try and get them to understand that they can rest when we’re gone. But it’s hot, it’s their custom to rest after meals, and most of them are making minimum wage which for unskilled labor in the capital city is 1000 kyet a day. C-n-C muddle through the afternoon while trying to rally the troops.

By the time we leave C-n-C are usually pretty beat, their soggy shirts are covered in clay dust, they’re both coughing as their lungs spent another unsuccessful day trying to filter the exhaust fumes they inhaled on the ride to work, the miscommunication shuffle of “but I thought you said or meant” isms, the heat and the fact they spent a day doing work that if they were Myanmarians they’d get paid 73 cents a day doing just seems to take its toll.

They’re human, what can I say, not everyone can be a bike.

While they take their after work cold showers and talk through their day, I watch the traffic of Junction 8, wishing I could join it. I’d ring my bell as I wove in and out, I’d make brakes squeal and drivers shout, oh how I’d love to go down and play. But for now I have to be content to just watch.

P.S’s

T Mar and Bree please tell Cleo that I think riding in Yangon must be almost as exciting as mountain biking.

May Ng thanks so much for your compliment I’m glad you enjoyed my story.

To everyone else thanks for checking in C-n-C love to get mail.

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“A room hung with pictures is a room hung with thoughts.”……..Sir Joshua Reynolds

“Having come from the light and from the gods, here I am in exile, separated from them.”…. Umberto Eco

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In case if you are wondering how Curt and Cathy ended up in Burma you can start checking out their www.art-exiled.org web.