Greg & Hunter Get Lost @hunterandgreg - Tumblr Blog

Sep 9, 2016

A Window to Yangon

We’re a bit sweaty moving through the main streets of Yangon after spending the morning hitting the tourist highlights of Myanmar’s former capitol city. Hunter’s affinity for navigating leads us to City Hall and the adjacent park where we’re looking to find some shade before moving on to another gilded pagoda. I look up from my phone and notice, as usual, he’s attracted the attention of a local and started his friendly chatter with a guy who seems about our age.

“Where are you from?” “How old are you?” “How long have you been in Myanmar?” “Do you like the food?” “Where will you go after Yangon?”

I join them and we talk trivialities as we become more friendly with one another. Our new friend, Kotoo, is 24 years old, studies English at the local “Uni”, and enjoys finding white people in the park to practice his conversational skills. He tells us that today he is hunting for “bugs” on his phone while his father, a government clerk, makes his weekly trip to City Hall to drop off documents from their village. We laugh, realizing that Kotoo is playing Pokemon Go, which has recently launched in his country. Conversation with him is different than with other locals we’ve met, particularly because his English skills are impeccable and he’s wily and eccentric.

Kotoo invites us to have traditional Myanmar tea just across the street, saying that we seem nice and “it would be to his delight” to serve us our first cup. Plus it would be great English practice while on his break from school. We sit for a cup of the thick, sweet, black tea that tastes like hot chocolate with condensed milk.

Kotoo quickly jumps into an enthusiastic monologue about the political history of Myanmar. We couldn’t be happier to get this first hand perspective about the country after decades of unrest. He’s lived through two governments, watched the rise and fall of military dictators, and seen the underdog, Aung San Suu Kyi, revolutionize the country into a modern democracy in just under ten years. He knows the names of parliament leaders, the dates of civil wars, the outcomes of each election and we’re soaking it all up.

He’s our age, but was born in a time when having this same conversation in a tea shop would have had him and his family executed. His parents never dreamed of having access to the Internet, cell phones, or even newspapers from other nations. Government censorship was Myanmar’s reality until fairly recently, with a SIM card for the only government owned cell phone network, MPT, costing nearly $4,000. We bought one for $1.50 that same afternoon. Here he is, a brilliant young scholar, speaking English and playing Pokemon Go on his iPhone right in front of City Hall. What an inspiring time to be a young person and the first generation of liberal democratic voters!

We’re friends at this point– two hours have passed and we’ve told him about New York, our jobs, our families, our travels. We were told by other travelers that the Burmese were the kindest people we’d meet on our trip, but we never imagined this! We’d been welcomed just the day before by a cab driver who offered us a free copy of Myanmar’s Lonely Planet. And our first dinner of street food had us shaking hands with the table next to us and paying our check of $4 with huge grins and bursting bellies of beer and grilled meats. Everyone was right: Myanmar was set to be the highlight of our trip.

Kotoo’s phone rings and a quick exchange happens with his father. His dad is done with work and ready to take the ferry back across the river to their village. Kotoo tentatively launches into an elaborate invitation, almost shy to be asking a foreigner to come explore the rural countryside. He says he’s delighted to meet us, and he’d love to show us “the real Yangon” tomorrow, after we’ve finished covering our tourist highlights. His family has a karaoke machine, his mom is an amazing cook, and they’ve just finished building their new house. He tells us that his village is just across the river and we can even go to the local market, pagoda, and bridge for plenty of pictures of the scenery. We’re overcome with our new friend’s generosity and accept his invitation. We’re to meet him back here at the park the next morning at 7am. He explains that he’ll plan the whole day, but asks us sternly to not be late. He pays for our tea as a thank you and welcome to Myanmar gift and walks to meet his father.

We’re beyond elated. We’re floating down the sidewalk as we walk to the local market. I’m feeling so happy I even drop 1,000 Kyat in the donation container held out from a young monk. We wander through the market and I obsess over what gift to bring Kotoo and his family. Wine? Too risky (alcohol and Buddhism don’t mix). Books? Too showy. Food? Leave it to the locals. We settle on flowers and agree to pick some up on the way home.

We spend the afternoon wandering around the city and watching the sunset over a 370 foot pagoda, the largest and oldest in Myanmar, the whole time revisiting our conversation and talking about our excitement for tomorrow.

We’re up early and skip our free breakfast as we’ve been instructed to “come hungry”. After a thirty minute walk from our hotel we find ourselves back at the park, Kotoo is on time as well. We make our way to the river and pick up his father along the way. His father grins at us with betal red stained teeth (the local chewing tobacco) and speaks through Kotoo as his translator– explaining that he is excited to meet us and that he’s fortunate Kotoo’s English is paying off.

We enter the locals only entrance of the ferry station, but still have to provide our passports for documentation about our movements for the tourist police. A few thousand Kyat (about $5 round trip each) and we’re on the ferry sipping tea at the treat of Kotoo’s dad who grins at us with a half broken smile. Kotoo explains that his father had a stroke a few years ago, but has since recovered and returned to work.

Kotoo reviews the day’s itinerary with us and says we’ll be taking scooters to stop at the local market, a snake pagoda, the big bridge, and finally his home. Tourist aren’t allowed to rent scooters in Myanmar, so his brother has already rented two scooters and they’ll act as our drivers for the day. Again, laden with gratitude, we bow our heads and say our thanks. Kotoo takes the compliments in stride and explains that his dad has gotten us a great rate as both scooters are already full of petrol and ready to ride for 30,000 Kyat a piece (almost $60 total). We shrug it off. The price is almost triple what we’d paid in other countries, but we didn’t worry, knowing that we were getting a free lunch, local guides, and a new friends.

We disembark the boat to find Kotoo’s brother waiting. I hand my bouquet of flowers to dad to take home and thank him in advance for the lunch his wife will cook us.

Hunter hops on the brother’s scooter, I’m on the back of Kotoo’s, and we ride along the bumpy roads to our first stop. This isn’t like Yangon at all! Thatched huts and roads busy with goats and cows. School girls walking to class in their green British uniform skirts and teenage boys kicking wicker balls over volleyball nets.

The market is incredible. We’ve been harassed to buy a lot of crap in local markets before this, but with Kotoo as our guide we’re getting friendly nods and smiles. Kotoo explains how each exotic vegetable is used and translates to the local ladies that we’re from New York City. They smile back and crack jokes that we should be their boyfriends or that they’d like to cook us dinner. We’re smiling, Hunter is offered a sip of the green bean ladies’ soup and as he drinks it she makes more jokes. We see butchered cows, pigs, goats. We smell thick sour fish guts and shrimp pastes. This is why we came here!

We move on to breakfast. A stop at a thatched booth on the side of the road where we’re scooped big noodle soups. More smiling and we continue to deliver the only Burmese words we have (“Ce zu tin ba deh” = thank you!) The women at the next stalls cuts us a watermelon and Hunter shares the dessert rice cakes Kotoo bought us at the market with the ladies. Kotoo covers the bill again and we’re back on the bikes.

Forty five minutes through rice fields and hills and we arrive for a rest at the top of a bridge. We snap some pictures and lather ourselves in sunscreen while Kotoo and his brother laugh at the whole ritual.

Twenty minutes more and we’ve arrived at the snake pagoda. Kotoo grabs us some sodas from the cooler for a quick break in the shade before we head in and gives us a bit of history. A monk created this pagoda, floating in the middle of a small lake, fifty three years ago. The name translates to “Temple of the Beautiful Place” and we couldn’t refute the claim. Buddism claims that snakes are evil omens, so the monk was quite alarmed to find that eight boa constrictors had found their way inside his sacred space one night. Because Buddhists can’t kill anything, the monk left for the monastery, assuming they’d leave just as they came. Later that night, he dreamt that the snakes spoke to him. They said they were worshiping the dragon nat (spirit) that the pagoda honored, and they would remain there to live out their days.

Three generations later, the snakes and their grandchildren remain. Lore has it that they’ve never harmed a person and are devout vegetarians. Yes, vegetarians. The nuns of the monastery collect funds to feed the snakes rations of milk and rice while they occupy the pagoda as their home.

We’re giddy and in awe. We’re petting docile twenty foot beasts in a remote village with our new pal. There are no other white people here and we’ve never heard about this in any guidebook. Kotoo presents us with good luck rings and a laminated picture of boas mating in the temple as reminders of the day and we offer another inadequate thank you.

It’s an hour ride back to Kotoo’s house. We once again pass the rice fields and hills and into a maze of closely knit thatched houses that I’d never be able to navigate again and definitely are not on google maps. We arrive at Kotoo’s house and hop off. It’s simple and clean; not a thatched hut, but it’s clear that things are rough here. Corrugated steel roof, sheet rock for walls, and some bamboo columns to support it all. Still, it’s two stories and upon entering reveals a modest flat screen TV, refrigerator, sitting and eating space, and a portable A/C. Things aren’t great, but they surely could be worse by the looks of the other houses on the block.

Kotoo’s mother, referred to throughout the day as “fat mom”, sits in front of the TV with a feast prepared at the table behind her. Several curries, rice, sliced mangoes, beef, pork, chicken, soup. It’s all here. She greats us without getting up, as does the familiar face of dad. We also meet “fat brother” (Kotoo’s youngest brother) and join the family in front of the TV to watch the teaser for Myanmar Idol Season Two.

Everyone is pleasant and we’re kind of just sitting here, enjoying the television like we’re all old friends. Kotoo is still in full force, and asks us to trade our pants out for longyi. He takes Hunter, then me, back behind the bookcase so we can slip out of our pants and he can show us how to tie the traditional long man skirt around our hips. It’s actually pretty great. We’re cool and laughing at the silliness of it all. We sit for lunch with Kotoo and his dad. Apparently the rest ate before we’ve arrived, so they continue to watch TV an arms reach away.

Plates are picked up around us and washed faster than we can offer to help. Kotoo continues chatting in the bright and flamboyant way he has all afternoon. He explains that this is his family’s new home, and they’d spent the last few years living in a temporary home one fourth the size of this one after their former house was destroyed by the Yangon cyclone of 2008. The family was nearly crushed by a fallen tree and relied on dad to work and save enough money to rebuild the home that we’re currently in.

Unfortunately, the fathers unexpected stoke occurred only shortly after the cyclone damaged their home. Kotoo, the oldest of three, had to step up to provide for the family while his dad was unable to. Just a few weeks after his high school graduation, Kotoo explained how he postponed his admission to Yangon University to take up his first job– cleaning bathrooms at the city’s Chinese supermarket. His story of his father’s condition earned him the job on probation, but he’d have to prove himself. Three days of scrubbing toilets later, he’d learn he got the job because of his joyful singing and dancing caught on the store’s CCTV throughout his shift. He continued to tell us that the CCTV never captured him crying in the stalls while wishing he was back at school. He was relieved to hear the managers would continue to pay him because they loved his positive attitude.

We’re deep in the story when Kotoo decides to change the mood back to something more positive. He wants to show us how to apply the traditional sunscreen we’ve seen all the locals wearing throughout Myanmar. Everyone has swirls of it on their cheeks and foreheads, a thick yellow crust that looks like cracking tempera paint from cheap school projects. We slip back behind the bookcase where Kotoo grinds blocks of acacia wood against a stone tablature to produce the paste. We each get a pattern like war paint to match the local feel of our longyi and follow Kotoo upstairs.

He shows us where he and his three brothers sleep, on tatami mats side by side. He’s proud that his is the biggest. He shows us his mothers prayer alter where the flowers we had given the father that morning are now placed. He shows us that the house is still not complete as some of the windows are still empty rectangles that allow cats to hop in and steal their food. We’re polite and nodding when we notice dad climbing up the ladder to join us with some grocery bags.

We all sit in the center of the room when Kotoo says his family has some gifts to thank us for visiting and speaking with him all day. He reveals a bag of mangoes and a large bundle of bananas, a gift from his mother. Then, two small Myanmar flags, a gift from him. We’re impossibly moved at this point, both by their generosity in the face of poverty and at the sheer amount of good will coming from the entire family.

Dad launches into a long rant and Kotoo sits idle, waiting for a break to translate. We’re presented with a set of wicker volley balls that the locals use for various games. Kotoo translates that his father is honored that we would visit them and thanks us again for spending time with the family. He says we’ve been so kind to his son. We return the thanks ten fold. All I’m thinking is that I can’t wait to ask for their address so I can mail them books, send some money, maybe a computer I don’t know. Dad wraps up by saying that we’re part of the family now and we’re always welcome back to Yangon to stay with them.

At this point, I’m crying. We shake hands and I notice Hunter has an alligator tear streaming down his cheek as well. I don’t think we’ve known generosity like this before and definitely not from strangers in poverty.

Kotoo continues, “My dad is so honored to have had you here with us. He says, if you’d like to help us remember this day, he would love to write your names on the walls of our house if you could help us complete some part of it. Would you like to help us?”

“Of course we would. Whatever you need, we’re happy to help.” We agree in unison, without even needing to check with one another.

“What would you like to buy? That is so kind! Maybe some paint or the window the cats jump in from? We’ll write your name and today’s date by it to remember.”

“Well, uhh…” Hunter makes quick eyes with me and we agree in a way that doesn’t require talking, “We’d love to give you $100.”

“Each, right?”

“Oh, no. Total.”

Silence fills the room and my mind starts churning. I’ve got this damn yellow crust of paint on my face and my wallet is in my pants, downstairs and unguarded. Dad shakes our hands and smiles once more before sliding back down the ladder.

Kotoo must notice the quick change from tears to stone and attempts to turn it around. He explains that his father is from a different time and asking for help is different in the culture he is from– when tourists were unlikely to visit his country. We knod, semi-accepting his cover but hold our ground. He thanks us for the $100 gift and sneaks in that it would be enough to buy the small window, not the big one where the cats come in from, but that he is so grateful we can help his family. He says he understands it is a lot of money and asks if we want a moment to talk. He slips down the ladder and my cheeks are burning red behind the layers of yellow paint.

In what has to be the fastest few minutes I’ve ever lived Hunter and I quickly whisper all our doubts. I’m still reluctant to believe we’ve been conned for a full 48 hours. It’s all too real, too nice, but we both vocalize that everything is suddenly upside down. We agree to offer $140 to step slightly higher and avoid the “only the small window” mention again. Hunter slips the money from our bag and he palms it as we descend the ladder.

Everyone but Kotoo is glued to the TV again like it’s no big deal that two awkward white dudes in skirts are lumbering down from the ceiling. Kotoo hangs behind, doing the leftover dishes from lunch. Hunter approaches dad and slowly offers the crisp US dollars. He accepts with a gentle knod but fat mom’s gaze stays straight on the television. No one in the family reacts to the two months wages we’ve provided and we linger in a moment of awkwardness. Kotoo notices the exchange from behind and initiates a celebration when Hunter announces that we’d love to help them buy the big window.

Kotoo asks me “The big window?! Wow! How much?” We acknowledge that we’re offering $140. Kotoo’s eyes connect with mine in an ugh eye roll, the kind you’d get from a snotty teenager that I imagine makes parents furious. I break eye contact and try to join in the celebratory conversations Hunter is having, but the feedback he is getting is the same. Dad says something to Kotoo with a “twenty!” thrown in and we’re told that just $20 more will cover the cost of the window.

Another awkward silence and Hunter and I knod at each other. We’re $160 deep, and Kotoo jumps in to save face. He cajoles the family into thank you’s and fires up the karaoke machine. That’s right. Now we sing.

Before we know it we’re holding microphones and struggling our way through a montage of Titanic scenes singing Celin Dion’s “My Heart With Go On”. I’m in my own head replaying the last two days up until this moment. Thinking of meeting in the park while my voice cracks through,

“Near….FAR! WHEREVER YOU ARE!!!!”

Hunter’s in the same boat. For a performer, he seems to be struggling in the same way I am. In fact, the whole room has changed. Everyone’s face is stone cold while we stare at the screen. The charade is up.

“I BELIEVE THAT……THE HEART DOES……GO OOONNNNNNNNNN”

It’s all uncomfortable and Hunter makes a quick remedy to request that dad and fat mom sing us a traditional song. They quickly select a duet and we sit on the floor to watch them struggle through it in their native tongue. They can’t stop now or they’d reveal that we weren’t having fun. All the while Kotoo continues to shake his hips and smile– prodding the theatrics onwards and ensuring no one gives up.

As a group we stumble through Hips Don’t Lie and Californication before it’s clear we’re ready to wrap it up. Kotoo swiftly escorts us back behind the bookcase to trade our longyi for pants. A quick exchange of hugs and thank you’s with a stone faced mom and dad. Before you know it we’re out the door and back on the scooters.

Hunter takes off first and I’m holding on to the back of Kotoo’s scooter. We’re flying back around the village and it’s clear they want to get us to the boat before the whole thing breaks opened. Kotoo mentions that it seems like Hunter wasn’t having fun at the end and I sweep it aside. He makes small talk, says he’s very full and feels fat and tells me to rub his stomach.

I think the request is strange and make a small awkward tap on his belly. Kotoo says my hands feel nice and suddenly this is all feeling very weird to me now. He holds my hand to his stomach and massages it in an overly friendly way as I replay more of the day in my head. Hunter and I questioned if Kotoo was gay but we left it undecided. We’re almost at the ferry and Kotoo takes my hand and slides it to the top of his longyi, just brushing his crotch.

“You can be a girl for me sometime.” I flinch my hand back.

“Uh…Kotoo, are you gay?”

Hunter and I never revealed ourselves as a couple to Kotoo. We didn’t think it was necessary and often take precaution when we’re in foreign places where safety is a question.

“WHAT?! No! Are you?”

“Yes. Hunter is my boyfriend.”

We’ve just reached the ferry and we hop off the scooter. Kotoo quickly walks ahead of us. Embarrassed by it all, he leads twenty feet in front of us and doesn’t look back.

I grab Hunter quickly and whisper a fifteen second digest of the scooter ride to him and he knods. He approaches Kotoo and lays it on thick.

“I’m so surprised that building materials in Myanmar could be so expensive!” The con is up.

We sit through the ferry ride together, Hunter making good use of the ten minutes to pull a confession of the con. Kotoo never breaks.

“How often do you bring tourists to visit your family?”

“I’ll be really upset if I find out a window costs $20 when I get home.”

“Did you try to get my boyfriend to touch you on the scooter?”

The questions start off polite- but obviously pointed. Kotoo stands his ground and breaks the conversation about his con and spins it into ours. That we never said we were a couple. That we lied and decived him all day for not sharing that we were gay.

We attempt to smooth it over and uncover whether our $160 gift/ransom and $60 scooter rental is really the first time his family has had such a profitable lunch. His defense is slow and he explains how distraught he is that he’ll have to tell his family that we think they’re liars, and that we’re gay, and that we felt conned by their genorosity. He’s playing the sympathy card and it’s not working well.

The conversation turns. “I’m not gay but if I was it would just be because I’ve never seen anyone with freckles and that was very new to me.”

And further “How long have you been a couple?” “Will you get married?” “Is one of you the girl?”

The questions are genuine– we’re watching someone come out for the first time. We’re watching someone who was raised in an oppressive military regime, has found new liberties and has conned two tourists talk about his sexuality for the first time. At this point he’s pulled $220 from us between the window and the overcharged scooters, so it’s hard to be sympathetic through all the feelings of deceit.

What a complicated coming out. He’s adamantly defending the con, defending his father, questioning our sexuality, and slowly admitting his own all in one messy breath. His ex-girlfriend dumped him and he’s been interested in new things and he liked me and he feels cheated. So do we.

It’s all a mess really and there’s no time to clean it up. We’ve already gotten off the boat and he hails us a cab. Awkwardly, we hug. Not sure if we’re friends, foes, or somehow bonded by the weird connection in that we’ve just received his secret with open arms. We slide into the back seat of the taxi. We’ll never see him again.

We’ve got some mementos. The photos, the wicker balls, the half rotted mangos. Plus, he promised to email us a picture of the window we purchased next week when it was installed! (Don’t count on it.)

…

It’s two weeks later and we’re climbing into the bunks of our hostel in Mandalay. Our egos have healed and we’ve practiced telling the tale a few times by now. We spent much of our trip in Myanmar avoiding talking to locals just because we were frustrated by the long con that cost us five days of our trip’s budget.

The guy sleeping under Hunter’s bunk is friendly. Turns out he’s from Brooklyn. Bushwick actually. We joke about it being a small world and talk of home. I’m cleaning up and a wicker ball slips from my bag. I snidely joke to Hunter, “Don’t want to lose that $200 gift!”

Everett asks where we got them and I snidely say “In Yangon!”

Everett replies, “Ah, did you also buy some Windows?”

Damn.

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