A wild ride

Half way through dinner, I was almost hit by a bus.

Engine heat spread across my back. The roll of toilet paper atop our little fold out table was all of a sudden illuminated by headlights. But never-mind that I was about to be collected by the number 43, finally there was enough light to see the food! Two and four wheeled vehicles continued to stream by as we dug our spoons into silky tohu nuway (Shan tofu soup) and crunchy laphet thote (fermented tea leaf salad). Seated at the outer edge, if I’d been so remiss as to scratch my right ear, my arm would have been ripped clean off by passing cars. But with every burst of salty, sweet and sour, I cared less and less about the insanity of dining in the middle of the road in downtown Yangon. Sitting out in the open in a once closed off country, everyday worries like ‘I shouldn’t sit in the path of moving traffic’ seemed completely trivial. Instead, my backside was firmly squeezed into a miniature plastic chair (surely fashioned for a child) planted squarely on the main road.

A heady mix of aromas swirled; spices and exhaust fumes, fruit and vegetables and incense. Every moment, every mouthful like each rumbling truck was an assault to the senses. The Chinatown district around the blinding golden Sule Pagoda had an otherworldly feeling. A van full of armed men in military uniform lurched onwards into the darkness, evoking reflections on a tumultuous history. Across the way, vendors served customers from behind baskets full of spiky brown durian fruit and crispy fried insects. A woman feeding long sticks of sugar cane through a rusty metal press proffered beverages of cool sweet nectar. Shavings and husks lay in a pile at her feet. The sounds of brakes on asphalt were punctuated every now and then by animated chat from Burmese diners at neighbouring tables. Beautiful women with long black hair bore mustard coloured circles of thanaka cream on their cheeks. We stood out like sore thumbs with our backpacks and quick dry cargo pants. I made a mental note for the next morning: search the main bazaar, the Bogyoke Aung San Market, for an embroidered fabric bag and longyi (traditional sarong). The locals were not only dressed wonderfully but had also been smart enough to choose the tables closer to the pavement. Locals 1: tourists 0. We’d made our first rookie errors on our very first night in Myanmar’s capital.