Wake Up and Taste the Journey

Wake Up and Taste the Journey

The train screeches and I am jolted back to reality. Stiff against the wooden bench, I find myself on an alarmingly lopsided rusty train beside a greasy-haired Burmese man.

He smiles a grin of rotten red teeth, a bleeding hole giving him away as one of the many betel nut chewers in Myanmar. My awkward gaze escapes to the grimy windowsill.

The train chugs through stupa-spotted countryside, abandoning passengers in dusty towns while snack-vendors climb aboard.

Two young men traverse the aisle. Unlike the sarong-like longyi most Burmese wear they have on black slacks, making me cock my head to one side at this redefinition of conventional Burmese attire.

One man raises a crinkled white bag. His air of theatre deems understanding language irrelevant when both local and foreigner frown, thinking, 'What’s in the bag?' He erupts in a speech worthy of a campaigning politician and swiftly unveils the skull of a goat. Its empty eye sockets stare at me and if my skin hadn't yet exposed me as an outsider, my startled look now did.

Palms reach out from all around into which the second man tips dunes of grey powder. I apprehensively unclench my own fist to receive the ashy dust. Onlookers crane their necks to peek, urging me to drop the granules into my mouth, which I do. A taste of sour milk explodes and the gravel scratches as I force it down. Everyone chuckles at my displeasure and, more amused by the hearty reaction of those around me, I can’t help but join in.

Customers grab tiny foggy bottles of the essence of goat and the folk medicine salesmen pocket their cash. With a dry mouth, I am left musing this unforeseen encounter.

My eyes rest on the man beside me and he grins once more. The train fades, as do his stained teeth; I notice his dark brown eyes and it comes back to me. I am on a journey in Myanmar, one of interaction and curiosity. After a swig of water to wash down the goat, I smile and return his greeting of "Mingalaba".