Braden is Elsewhere

The moment I emerged from my guesthouse that first humid morning I was immediately captivated by the look and feel of the city. I stood dazed in the stifling heat as I took it all in. I stared at the large golden stupa which formed the central traffic circle surrounded by an odd combination of aging colonial buildings, shimmering white mosques, hole-in-the-wall internet cafes and a torrent of bustling traffic. Masses of locals leisurely strolled around this circle with no apparent destination smiling widely at the confused foreigner and occasionally throwing me thumbs up. “Hello! One man show?” someone yelled from a distance undoubtedly wondering what this poor puzzled soul was doing by himself in the middle of unfamiliar territory.
The majority of both the men and women who passed by wore colorful patterned sarongs and decorative tops to match. Their sun beaten faces were worn and weary but exhibited a simple contentment with life unique to this small corner of the world. Minority religious groups flaunted their distinctive styles as well, from Muslim men in their large white gowns and little white hats to Hindu woman in their brightly colored jewel studded outfits. I caught a glimpse of some western attire but it was worn by few and the styles were quite terrible.
Nearly every woman I saw had her face painted with a white paste. The classic design was a streak across each cheek and down the front of the nose. The result was near tribal. Few men wore this paste but all were chewing a bizarre substance which turned their teeth bright red and made it appear as though they had just been punched in the mouth.
The city they strolled through was run down and grimy. From the buildings to the sidewalks to the cars, everything was coated with a layer of rust and crawling with overgrown rats. Pedestrian paths looked like they had just been hit with an earthquake and every few steps there was a fresh opportunity to fall into the deep holes opened up in the cement. There was so much storefront junk piled onto sidewalks that it was futile try and use them. In addition to the noisy traffic jams, people jams formed on the periphery as everyone tried to work their way through the maze of car parts and kids toys. The word 'raw' quickly came to mind.
I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. “Are you lost?” said a wrinkled elderly lady who had been witness to my first bewildering moments in Myanmar. “Maybe” I said “but I am right where I want to be.”