Glimpses of Slaughter and Silence

Posted on 20 November 2016

There was a wall before me. I ran my hands along it. I peered over it. I spent months perched on top, dangling my feet over the edge, observing. I scraped my elbows and palms, gathering glimpses at foreboding pasts and awful alternative presents, collecting calluses.

The wall is cracking beneath my palms.


Genocide seems far away. Even when standing on its grounds, an inexperienced mind, sans memories, isn’t elastic enough to fully accept this truth. When I was there, I tried, I really did. I looked at everyone my age and older: Which side were you on? What memories do you hold in your body? Around me, motortaxis zipped by.

Rwanda truly felt safe to me. Reconciling pleasant Kigali with what I knew happened less than two decades prior was an exercise in futility: they were two different cities in my mind, the real one were my body stood, and the imaginary one I read about. Those who passed by me on the sidewalks had stepped in both cities, but I couldn’t understand, only wonder.

Kigali Genocide Memorial

Please do not step on mass graves

Further south, in Burundi, the past felt more tangible. The poverty and desperation seeped through the streets and my presence there, holding more of value on my person than the average local makes in a year, seemed incongruous and wrong. Tension shimmered in the air, but from what of all things, I could not say.

Lake Tanganyika placidly stretched into the distance before the capital. Teenagers kicked a ball around, but for the most part, beachgoers were sparse. I looked at the water: How many bodies lie in this lake?

Lake Tanganyika

But still: my feet in the sand. Laughs and goofy dance moves exchanged in a nightclub between our mixed posse of travelers, expats, and locals. But, the streets, for the most part, were empty after dark.

“In order to go on with our lives, we are always capable of making the ominous into the merely strange.” – “Strength in What Remains” by Tracy Kidder

Back in Kigali, at the Genocide Museum, I diligently read through every single placard. The questions to ask are “why?” and “how?” There is a struggle to truly comprehend such horror; the mind does not want to encompass it. Westerners like me often brush such horrors. “Africa,” is a sad explanation, and a flawed one. In the Genocide Museum, there was an exhibit on other genocides, with pieces on the Balkans and on the Holocaust.

Stillness doesn’t mean forever. Stillness may just be an eye in the storm of what humans do.


Germany! Berlin! So hip, so European. Let me amend: European in the best and the worst ways. Our guide led us through Prenzlauer Berg, relaying stories from the East German years of his and his friends, their younger lives. In Alexanderplatz, a display had been set up marking the twenty-year anniversary of the fall of the wall, which was approaching. Our guide pointed out some of his friends in the photos of protestors.

Berliner Mauer

Germany. Berlin. Split in two countries, not so long ago. People are quick to bring up Hitler, the ultimate villain. And sure, although the scale of evil becomes a cliff, and in the abyss are far too many malevolent souls. After Hitler were the Stasi, for decades cowing millions into a subdued acquiescence. If Nazism isn’t recent enough to spark trepidation, this should be.

But my fear, at least, does extend back. I can look into the eyes of a friend and heartbreakingly know, Nazism is in his blood, though far from his heart. But is the divide so clear for all? Just today I read a comment by someone talking about their Nazi grandparents, the most mannered people one could know. Do I stare at reconciliation, or silence? Or both? And where does the line fall? Are modernity and social compacts as entrenched as they oft feel? Who has bought in and who is opting out? Who has forgotten, who looks away?

Potsdam Synagogue Memorial Plaque

On this site stood the synagogue of Potsdam’s Jewish Community. In the night from the 9th to 10th of November 1938 it was plundered and destroyed by the fascists.

Holocaust Memorial in Berlin

Holocaust Memorial, Berlin

The story of modern Europe is one with as many chapters on tyranny as freedom. Lest we forget.


Tyrannical pasts are not always condemned, populations do not always agree, “we’ll do better this time.” I lived with a woman whose father was sent to the Gulag, and outside of our apartment I walked by women of the same age holding up portraits of “Stalin, our hero.” I flipped through a guest book in the State Museum of Political History of Russia. There was no consensus, but rather a divide that will not be bridged. Half: “Stalin won the war for us.” Half: “Stalin murdered millions of us.”

Velikii Novgorod War Memorial

War memorial in Velikii Novgorod

Lubyanka

Lubyanka

If you don’t coldly look at the past, it more readily shapes the future. “I don’t bother with politics, ugh,” is a common pronouncement from both Russian and American friends. One can look away, which is often the same as compliance. In Russia, it’s a tactic held for survival, I know – but does it lead to that?

“Our entire tragedy lies in the fact that our victims and executioners are the same people.” – Quotation in Anna M.’s story in “Secondhand Time” by Svetlana Alexievich
Saint Petersburg House of Soviets

House of Soviets, Saint Petersburg

USSR State Library

State Library of the USSR in the Name of Lenin. Statue of Dostoevsky.

Ghosts are not dead. I lived with them and their pasts and in those months a howl formed within me. How? It happened and it happens and I want to spit back at the platitudes relentlessly panting about the goodness of people. If people are good, why did my hosts witness a city starve to death? If people are good, why was one’s father sent to his death, after escaping it at the front? If people are good, why do they walk on the streets ignoring this all? And, even though the past can be shaken off, how is it possible that we shake off the present?

Nazi Grafitti in Pskov
“What do I think of people? When it comes down to it, people aren’t good or bad, they’re just people, that’s all.” – Daughter of Ludmila Malikova in “Secondhand Time” by Svetlana Alexievich

Russia and the U.S., at their extremes, reach out to one another.

Lenin with a Hole in His Butt

My Russian friend, who is not in Russia because she is not safe in Russia, smiled bracingly at my tears. Yes, Trump is very bad, she told me. But, you see, at least you have a history of civil society, of democratic institutions. Do something, I always feel better when I am taking action, she urged. She would know. It will be an interesting time, she laughed pointedly. I take heart in the fact she is still able to laugh.

Novodevichy Cemetery, Moscow

Fear is a fickle current. It, with hate, cannot be consistently guided. There is no guarantee as to who will or won’t be swept away. Closing your eyes only prevents you from seeing just when the wave will hit you. Brace yourself.

“I know what it looks like when freedom falls into inexperienced hands. Idle chatter always ends in blood. War is a wolf that can come to your door as well.” – Gafkhar Dzhurayeva in “Secondhand Time” by Svetlana Alexievich

I keep my eyes open. I no longer examine a past over the wall, but gaze at a version of a future before me. Rubble already lies at my feet.

Yangon Trains II

Too Briefly, Yangon

Posted on 18 October 2016

The roads were wide and the buildings were tall. Our taxi circled roundabouts with traffic. After the hills of Shan State, Yangon was big and hot, but exciting. As our driver took us from the airport to our hotel, we sped by malls and apartments on the rise. He pointed out Inya Lake as we drove by. “Daw Aung San Suu Kyi lives there. You know her?”

Less than two months prior, Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy had won a supermajority of seats in Myanmar’s parliament – a rapid change given that she had only been released from fifteen years of non-consecutive house arrest at the end of 2010. Dissidence had been brutally crushed over decades of military rule, but now, our driver was regaling us with how happy he had been to vote for Aung San Suu Kyi. A former student of mine, a former refugee from Myanmar, had just recently been able to return home for the first time in many years. The country had been reshaping itself, and, given that the NLD opposition had dropped their prior support for a tourism boycott, there we were. The flowers our driver draped over the rearview mirror swayed back and forth.

Yangon Trains Yangon Trains II

We walked from our hotel to Bogyoke Aung San, a large market. On the way, we squeezed between street vendors selling books, t-shirts, fruit, keys, nearly everything. We had seen Aung San Suu Kyi calendars and NLD flags already, scattered about in different towns, but Yangon flourished with a wider variety of political merchandise, including bags and t-shirts. Admittedly, a thrill surged through me to see what I knew was a shift, though a yet incomplete one. Discussions with my former grad school classmates and students, refugees, rang in my ears, and I grasped at the difference.

Even before these discussions, before being taught how to properly pronounce Aung San Suu Kyi’s name by a patient classmate, I remember sitting in my undergraduate library with the New York Times in my lap, reading rising death counts as the aftermath of Cyclone Nargis unfolded. Myanmar’s junta delayed and blocked international aid, and likely underestimated the damage and death toll. The cyclone, the country’s worst natural disaster, swept through the Irawaddy Delta and past Yangon, leaving floating bodies in its wake.

And now, a contrast of mossy and run-down colonial buildings and rising new construction flanked us, as vendors sat by their variety of wares in the heat. We headed into Bogyoke Aung San itself, wandering through its different stories and divisions: fabric, lacquerware, gems. I avoided the latter, as mining is a source of revenue for the government. Signs hung at each shop, declaring official license. Instead, we bought paper mache owls at a stall near the food court.

Yangon Streets Night in Yangon

We walked back toward our hotel as the air cooled and the sky darkened. Food carts had popped up and we eyed them as we walked by, stopping for dosas and fried chick pea balls and chips and a smoothie as we circled the blocks surrounding our hotel. Lanterns strung across the street had been lit, and a crowd gathered to hear a monk speak.

The next morning, we were back wandering the roads, this time down toward the ferry terminal along the Yangon River. I realized the streets seemed different to me because there were full of cars, rather than motorbikes, which were banned in Yangon. After playing pedestrian and sweating in the heat, we ducked into a teahouse, this one Muslim-owned, for some really tasty sweet milky tea and pudding.

Yangon BuildingShwedagon Chinthe

Myanmar is a majority Buddhist country, with the dominant Theravada Buddhism well intertwined with nat (spirit) worship. Just as Myanmar is diverse ethnically, it is religiously, with Christian, Muslim, and other minority populations. Though Buddhist monks helped lead the 2007 Saffron Revolution protests against the military government, there is also a Buddhist nationalist, anti-Islamic movement called 969, led by a monk. The Burmese government has not granted citizenship to the Rohingya Muslims and over a hundred thousand live in camps for internally displaced persons. The thousands of Buddhas I saw everywhere across the country were peaceful figures, but the religion is preferred by an oppressive regime and is sometimes weaponized.

From much of the city, it’s hard to ignore the sharp gleam of Shwedagon paya, the country’s most sacred Buddhist pagoda. The enormous gold stupa is hard to look at in the sunlight. Even so, in the middle of the day, crowds of people – the minority of us foreigners – skittered shoeless across the hot tiles from shade patch to shade patch under its bulk, visiting various intricate shrines. I can’t pretend to ascertain the meaning, it isn’t mine, but I looked at everything.

In ShwedagonBuddha in Shwedagon Kandawgyi Lake

We then wandered to nearby Kandawgyi Lake and cautiously walked across its precarious boardwalks, my sandals now digging blisters into my skin. After reaching my pain threshold, we got a taxi back to our hotel where I changed into shoes, and then I got a smoothie at a street stand to cool down. For those who wonder about my lax street food/drink consumption: I did get campylobacter, but consider it worth it.

That evening we then wandered through the lovely dusk, checking out restaurants and stands. As I investigated what, at first glance, appeared to be noodles in the cold light, the lady running the stand told me, “papaya!” I decided to give it a try, so she mixed up a salad for me, warning me through words but mostly gestures of the spice. And it was. I began to sweat, much to her delight and that of her daughter, and we laughed and joked back and forth. She also told me the names of the other dishes she was selling, which I surely screwed up when I later wrote them down. After finishing my tasty, but somewhat torturous, salad, we bought drinks and an ice cream for me at a small shop nearby. As we passed the salad lady, I showed her the ice cream, and everyone laughed.

On our last day, we took the circle train around Yangon, a bumpy and slow ride that gives a better glimpse of the outlying areas of town. A young man sat with us and tried out his rather good English, asking us about the news – North Korea’s bombs, satellites, cyber war. More agricultural areas and factories flickered by the window. We all jostled along.

For a late lunch, we stopped in another teahouse, and had more delicious tea, samosas, fried gourd, puns, puri with potato curry, noodles. The teenage boy servers rapidly carried orders back and forth.

Favorite Yangon Food Vendors

After final souvenir and gift gathering, and more walking, we went back to the salad stand for our last dinner. The owner and her helpers beamed at seeing me and, upon serving me a tofu salad, plopped a glass of ice water down along with my tea with a laugh, as they remembered my sweaty struggles the night before. I tried to convey I was leaving the next day and couldn’t come back. I took their photo, and we said goodbye.

Across the street, we got sweet pancakes with nut slivers and coconut for dessert, and then headed to our hotel to pack up. I wrapped my souvenirs and was sad to go. Activity carried on as the street vendors conducted their business. Birds flew amid the tangled power lines. The lamps strung about the streets punched their light into the darkness.


Some recommended reading on Myanmar

Pascal Khoo Thwe – From the Land of Green Ghosts: A Burmese Odyssey
Emma Larkin – Everything is Broken: A Tale of Catastrophe in Burma
Emma Larkin – Finding George Orwell in Burma
Thant Myint-U – The River of Lost Footsteps: Histories of Burma

Don’t Let Go

Posted on 1 October 2016

Soccer MatchJourney back to my erstwhile home, journey back over a decade. Emily jogs toward me grinning, my hand is outstretched. Her hand slaps mine, she moves on. As we run around, the darkness lowers upon us, the stadium lights flicker on. We regard each other, smirking in our minimal underarmour despite the cold, bumping and slapping into each other with camaraderie and a ferocity.

Often, she would leap at me from behind, grabbing my shoulders in a tough hug, her smile never quite overflowing into a laugh. The sports roughhousing was comfortable, but life is not.

She was killed slowly by forces I recognize but only weathered in small part. And her story is not mine to tell. Her story doesn’t lie interred, however, it plays out in melodies drawn back to the same theme. This: if you’re deviant from the supposed norm, if this deviance is askew in the eyes of the Christian parents, classmates, teachers, then comments are made about you and your kind, then you’re threatened, then you’re beaten, then there’s something wrong with you and you can’t escape this feeling nor this place and there’s this thing that can make you feel better and it wraps its tendrils around you and no matter how far you run, no matter how hard you drag yourself away from the rooted stem, it pulls you back, and then you’re swallowed into the soil, and that is that.

Except, after, voices above say the words “community,” and “love,” and “prayers” and these words are shouted out as a projection, bouncing off each other, to reaffirm the illustration, this is who we are. Except under words, there are actions, and it’s too late. There is no mirror facing the small town, engraved at the top of its frame with the question “and what did you expect?”.

Prayers can kill, and surface bruises leech into the heart.

Emily jogs toward me grinning, my hand is outstretched. Her hand slaps mine, and I don’t let go, and I take her with me.


There are no LGBTQ youth organizations where we grew up. If there is one in your area, I would encourage you to support it.

An Infiltrating Soft Light

Posted on 30 August 2016

We stepped into a small concrete and corrugated metal shelter just off the rutted dirt road. I sat down and bent forward slightly; some digestive issues had presented themselves that morning, a couple of hours prior. Our guides dipped a tin cup into a pot of water for road wayfarers and took some sips. I took a few gulps from my water bottle. Then, we all shouldered our packs and trudged onward.

The road veered to and fro, switchbacking up the steep hillside. Periodically we’d cut upward on pedestrian paths, shortcutting the curves. I grabbed the fabric of my elephant pants which weren’t particularly well-fitting on my thighs for the steeper climbs. We dripped sweat. Frequently we’d hear the telltale chugging of a trucktor making its way, those chimera vehicles made of old truck bodies with tractor engines affixed to the front. We were amused every time they drove by. And despite my abnormal physical discomfort, and the thus-far solely uphill climb, I was enjoying the walk. As I do, I kept finding myself speeding up into a quick rhythm as my surroundings drifted by, a comforting tunnel.

Trekking out of Pindaya

We stopped for lunch at See Kyat Inn village. Our guides cooked for us in a couple’s kitchen. On the patio, the woman sifted through beans. We sat near, alternating between the sun, which was hot, and the shade, which was cool enough to warrant a hoodie. When our guides beckoned us upstairs to eat, we were presented with quite a nice – and large – meal: fried noodles with vegetables and avocado. I was disappointed that I couldn’t stuff myself, instead cautiously eating a normal portion.

The last couple of hours of walking weren’t steep. We had reached the top of the hills, passing through tea farms and blossoming cherry trees into scrubbier green patches. As we strode along, we passed a guy washing something in the parallel stream. Our guide went and bought some. Indian leeks, he told us. Soon after we crossed through a field and then below we could make out our destination: Yasakyi, a village which shared its name with the pointy mountain it sat under. The sunlight shone softly above, not yet having ducked down behind the hills encircling the village valley.

Yasakyi Monastery

We were shown to a corner of a room in a monastery where we placed our packs by our bedding on the floor. Then, while our guides began cooking, we wandered around the grounds. An old lady came up to us where we had sat, motioning that we were sleeping in the monastery, and, pointing, she sleeps in her home right nearby. We smiled and nodded and she beckoned, come, come. So we followed. We knelt into her home and sat on her floor while she began making us tea. The boiling water spewed steam into the dark room, which swirled around us before escaping out the window. The woman brought a bag to us: dried tea leaves. For us? I gestured. Keep it, keep it. We sat and drank three cups of tea, just smiling back and forth. Then, a guide poked his head in, along with a German couple he was leading. They were staying one night at the old woman’s home before heading back to Pindaya. Please, tell her thank you from us, we asked. She’s deaf, the guide said. So we smiled and drank some more tea before gesturing we better get back to the monastery. We made our way back out into the dusky light, detouring around aggressive geese on the stairs.

Tea in Yasakyi

During our tea visit, we had acquired roommates: a Belgian couple who were quite nice and interesting companions for the next few days. One of our monk hosts also passed by and said a few words, those few that were mutually understood. And then we ate dinner together sitting around a low table covered in an impressive and tasty array of food: soup, rice, leeks, tofu, pumpkin, other vegetables. Sadly, I still wasn’t feeling well. We were also joined by the most polite cats I have ever encountered – though the table was no more than a foot off the floor, they didn’t jump into our meal. Rather, the smallest cat settled in Ben’s lap as we slowly ate.

Yasakyi

The night was cold and I didn’t sleep well – partially from the surface where we lay, harder than I am accustomed to, but mainly from anxiety and discomfort surrounding my intestines. After rolling around for some time, I strapped on my headlamp and ventured out into the night for the toilet. The dark was velvety and indifferent, impenetrable without my headlamp and not easily spread with it. Though turns out I had gotten up more out of anxiety than actual toilet-need, I hesitated outside. The dark was scary and pressing and full. But the stars. I tilted my head back and could see them all.

At 7:30 in the morning we unbundled ourselves from our blankets and made our way to breakfast. This time, the little cat sat in my lap. My stomach hurt so I ate lightly, again feeling remorse I couldn’t properly indulge in the nice cooking. And then we were off into the lingering dew, walking along a more meandering path that passed through more villages. Most of them are Danu villages, our guide told us. We peered around.

Ben in Pin Sein Pin

After a couple of hours, we stopped in Pin Sein Pin for lunch in another home. An older couple showed us upstairs and put some pillows on the floor, motioning we could rest. The man gave us a guestbook to sign and we flipped through, seeing who else had been by. He also handed us a note, which later a friend translated for me. It wished us and our fellow Americans health and wealth. The woman took a real shine to me, beaming and touching me, holding my hands. It was sweet; I could only smile back.

It was one final hour of walking to Kan Hla Kone, our final overnight stop. We were staying in another monastery. We dropped off our belongings and then sat down with the master monk who gave us tea and cookies. The guide who had arranged the trek for the Belgian couple dropped by to check on us, and then acted as a translator between us and the master. We asked about his life, about Buddhism, and we learned monks there can’t eat after noon (hence his smiling and waving on when we had offered the cookie tray to him).

After tea, we wandered the grounds in the long dusk. A crazy orange cat was leaping around. We managed to grab it and pet it, and then it liked us. Another monk walked by, smiling and waving. Every time we saw him, he was accompanied by a cat tangled up in his feet.

View from Kan Hla Kone

Contrasting with the evening, the night passed loudly, with wind smacking the metal roof. Nonetheless, I was fond of sleeping in the corners and corner rooms of these halls, with Buddha taking the center.

In the morning we had yet another heaping meal: tea, toast, fried egg and rice, lemon cake, and a fruit I could not identify – something like a shiny green apple whose texture and taste is like that of an Asian pear, and contains a pit.

And then: quickly downhill for those last few hours, full circle to Pindaya. As we reached the foot of the hills, we joined a larger road and cars, and trucktors, made their way past, kicking up dust alongside us. Covering this ground, I felt hastier, somewhat more anxious, knowing the destination was almost reached, we were approaching, almost done. There was more noise than there had been up in the hills, and the sun was sharper.

View into the Valley, Shan State

Where I Cling To

Posted on 8 August 2016

Ten years ago I saw an empty city. The sun still glowed above the roofs, despite the hour, and brightened the grey streets that hardly anyone trod upon, apart from me, my family, and my friend. We looked for food and all that was open was a McDonald’s. I think I ordered an ice cream for dinner. And yet, in the photos I’m grinning, my cheeks almost uncomfortably wide, flashing a thumbs up. It was juhannus, midsummer, and it was my first time in Finland, in Helsinki.

My first impressions of Helsinki were a bit weird, being based on the unusual reality of the city’s population clearing out for the holiday. Finland drew me in, to be sure, but my first visits were centered around Seinäjoki, some hours away. My heart was captured, by the people and by the country, but by the capital – not quite yet.

Tuomiokirkko, Helsinki

Eight years ago, I was again in an empty city. I moved into the flat I’d be sharing for the summer on juhannus and my friend and I searched all around for something to do. We settled on visiting a not-so-appealing club – the only place that seemed to be open – after we’d wandered in the nearby park, picking flowers for some old juhannus folk magic. We walked home under the dusky light sky. That night, I think we slept in one sock each, petals under our pillows. Welcome, again, to Helsinki. This time I stayed much longer and soon was a regular, trodding my path to and from Finnish class, to and from the city center, to and from the nearby park. I grew to know Helsinki, weaving through the tourists lingering over stalls at the markets as I powerwalked by way to class. I was enchanted. As the end of my stay came round, with an autumnal glint already hovering in the August air, I wanted to cling, to stay.

A month ago, I touched down again for the eighth time. The smile I bore definitely made my cheeks sore. By now, Helsinki is rather familiar to me, though there is always more—new and old—to explore. And I can assuredly say this: Helsinki is my favorite. I’m still clinging to it.

With Elina

It’s hard and it’s silly to separate a place from its people, but I’ll try for a moment, because not everyone knows my dear friends. And I think Helsinki would be captivating for me, even if I didn’t have them. I trust I’d make friends anyway, since it’s not terribly hard to get to know a Finn as a tourist (“What do you think of Finland?” – the ever-present question).

So what is it? I can’t quite put my finger on the glimmer that Helsinki lures me in with, but one element that has always struck me is the omnipresence of nature. In Finland’s capital city, you don’t have to try to find a park. And I mean a park with trees, with space. I took a run from my friend’s apartment and gave myself only one direction – head north – and I was on a trail through trees and raspberry bushes, I exited out onto quiet, slowly curving streets that deposited me in a park along the water, under the sun. Even on the busier streets, flanked by tall rows of gorgeous apartment buildings, with the trams gliding by, there’s greenery nearby. Helsinki is a capital city, with all of the bustle of cultural activities and business and buses – yet it’s calmer, more comfortable than most, maybe all, cities I know.

Pikku Huopalahti

Then there’s the Helsinki edge. World Design Capital and all – yes, that element is there, along with the requisite fashion pushiness to the edges, the modernity, and the classic all intertwined. The buildings themselves reflect this spirit I think: pushing up against each other, are squatter brown brick apartments and elegant, engraved structures with towers emerging from the roofs. I rarely find myself so simultaneously comforted by and fascinated by buildings. There is an understated elegance to Helsinki, and it’s on a more human scale.

Pietarinkatu

And there are the little things: the character of each neighborhood, small enough to traipse from one to another. The restaurant stalls popping up in groups – something new for me to try. The ease of getting around sans car, the lack of cars. The calm with more than enough activities to choose from. The glint of the summer sun on the blue water of the sea, which I plunged into after sweating in the sauna. The abundance of coffee – and the accompanying pulla. The rustle of the birch leaves in the breeze. The crispness that lingers in the air throughout summer. I could walk and walk through the city and the streets, and I do.

My friends embody this city for me in a way: they introduced it to me, I’ve experienced it through them. My love for the city is intertwined with my love for them. And yet, I am convinced that Helsinki really is a special place. After all, a place is made of its people and I know some great ones there. Under a blue summer sky – or even under a grey winter one – Helsinki enchants, excites, and calms, all at once. It’s a balm; it can give you the feeling that you need. Or at least, that’s it for me. I’ve been trapped in its net and allow myself to be lured in often – so I’ll be back soon enough.

Sauna Fish!

Just Ahead and Right in Front of You

Posted on 20 July 2016

Just walk down the road. Walk that way. And then turn right. The stairs are there.

Shwe Oo Min Chinthes

We had ascended through the hills to Pindaya in the early afternoon. In short time after checking into our hotel, we’d arranged a trek to leave the following morning. Eagerness was rustling beneath the surface of my skin as we set out to explore for the day.

The stairs we were directed to were longer and steeper than we thought. Straight up the wall of hills as Myanmar rises in the north. Sweat soon got the better of us.

The cave, however, swallowed us with a welcome coolness. We milled around with others through the winding passages, some wide, some very narrow, making our way between, underneath thousands of golden Buddhas. Their ages stretched from hundreds of years old to brand new. Some were worn and some gleamed. Some took their huge seats with pride and some hid in corners, limestone dripping around them. The dark and the golden sheen pushed on each other, neither quite winning out.

Pindaya Cave Hand and Buddhas, Pindaya Cave Buddhas atop Buddhas Golden Buddhas, Pindaya Cave

We descended from the cave back into town and wandered the streets, looking out over the lake, peeking at restaurants to ascertain which to try. We ducked into a popular one situated on a side road. Locals popped in and out with take-out orders. We were satisfied this was a good spot and pointed to photos on the menu to take our pick, rudimentary communication breaking into grins.

After some tasty fried noodles and veggies, we headed back to the hotel. Ben was still hungry and we dawdled by a little food cart on the way. A woman standing there gestured to what it was they were frying up – cauliflower! The woman managing the cooking plopped one down a fritter for us to try. We grinned, it was good! We asked for three more; she gave us six. She then tried to communicate the price to us and I accidentally overpaid by 50 kyat. When she pushed the bill back at me, I laughed and refused to take it – between a sample and extras, no! She giggled, getting a kick out of the whole thing. And really, those cauliflower were tasty.

Pindaya from the Hills

Point and smile. Hold out your hands. Exchange sheepish, genuine grins.

Things That Are Shared

Posted on 30 June 2016

The early morning chill that had settled under our skin had dissipated, hastened away by two cups of delicious chai at a Nepalese restaurant during our early lunch. We now walked the glowing tan streets of Nyaungshwe, just peering around, wandering. By the canal I heard Russian, two men taking photos. In accented Russian I inquired: do you want me to take a photo of both of you? Fluently they responded: where are you from? They became enthusiastic when they learned I was from the United States and knew Russian through my studies. They were Oleh and Dima, from Ukraine. Oleh was working in Myanmar, but taking a little vacation. Dima was with him.

Their excitement bounded over: what are you doing tomorrow, here? Do you want to take a boat tour of the Lake with us? I awkwardly translated back and forth so Ben could have input. A teenaged boy approached us as we decided, sure, we’d tour with them tomorrow. This boy asked if we wanted to tour with him. Alright, we decided. We’ll meet here tomorrow morning. Bring warm clothes, said the boy. I repeated our meeting time in Russian to our new tourist buddies to be sure nothing was lost in the swirl of languages.

It was New Year’s Eve and we went to bed before midnight to be ready for our early start.

Fisherman on Lake Inle

Apprehension floated in us as we strolled to our meeting place on New Year’s Day. But there they were, our Ukrainian friends, greeting us eagerly. Especially Oleh. He quickly regaled us with his New Year’s antics: apparently he had played guitar at a bar until just a few hours before. He clutched his head and stomach comically for our benefit: “visky!”

Our guide, who I learned that, despite being a teen had already lead tours for four years, led us into his long boat. The Ukrainians began recording the goings-on immediately: apparently Dima was making a film. The boat’s motor roared to life, water sprayed, and we set off, perched on little chairs and swaddled in coats.

Village on Lake InleBoats on Lake Inle

The sky and the water were dark grey blue and the edges appeared smudged, unclear, wandering. The canal joined Lake Inle and we passed by fisherman with their giant nets. Streaks of light attempted to break into the haze. Mist settled over the water, clutching the banks, refracting the light. Oleh babbled behind me, alternatively telling me about the wonderful time he had working in Iraq and complaining about visky and the fact that he didn’t have some now. I laughed, my bangs flipping back in the wind from our movement.

After a time on the water, we pulled up to a village situated on stilts. Our guide brought us into a silk weaving workshop, where we were given tea (“visky!” says Oleh) and led around by a 16 year old girl who explained the entire process, from spinning the threads to weaving to washing. I clumsily translated her practiced words for the Ukrainians and then asked her about herself as we wandered the dim space. Obligation clung, and I bought a few pieces from their shop, a signal of thanks for opening up to us, for the guide girl’s obvious effort, for the fact that they probably rely on monies from boats of tourists like us.

Weaving Workshop Lake InleSilver Making Lake InleSilver Work Lake InleMaking Cheroots Lake Inle

We were brought to two more workshops: one where silver was made into trinkets and jewelry, and one where cheroots were made. The silverwork was impressive and the cheroots with honey and spices, I admit, had a lovely taste. And we were brought to lunch, where I had a nice tea leaf salad. Oleh declared his dish too spicy and had his much awaited viski instead. As we ate, and he drank, he taught us some Burmese, testing his phrases out on the amused server.

Below, back on the dock as we readied to depart, a cat lounged about. Lured by my obvious interest in it, some men picked it up and demonstrated, to my delight, how the cat had been trained to jump through their arms when held in a circle. The animals in Myanmar really are remarkable – all that I met, even the apparent strays, were friendly.

Jumping Cat Lake InleTemple Cat Lake Inle

Then to a temple. Buddhas has been covered in so much gold leaf they had been rendered into blobs. A sign declared, “Ladies are prohibited.” I, of course, scowled. Ben and I made our way outside where we drank lychee juice, played with another friendly cat, and chatted with our young guide. The sun had long since made its appearance and glared off the gold of the temple. My feet were warm and dirty on the tile.

Once the Ukrainians had been rounded up, we set off for Inthein. It was an add-on to the typical route, but why ever not? It took time to get out there, winding through water paths flanked by tall grass banks. But the time spent speeding over the water was deeply satisfying. Simply moving can produce happiness, magnified when movement is through new sights. Boats passed coming the other direction and tourists and locals alike waved. Oleh sang from his seat behind me.

To IntheinInthein Temples

Again we docked and Ben and I set off on a path that we hoped would take us to ruined temples. We found a friendly kitten instead. A child came up toward us and motioned for us to follow, bounding up a hill. We, suddenly feeling lacking in coordination relative to their agility, followed. And there we were: crumbled stupas overlooking the town below. We gave the kid some change and off they bounded again.

After surveying the scene from above, we made our way to more ruins. We observed from the perimeter, and I befriended a dog. This exploration had taken some time, so we set off back for the dock. Oleh had found some visky at a restaurant stall.

Inthein Dock

Happily, I sat back as we wound back through the channels. Our last stop was a monastery with ere-jumping cats. They no longer performed, but I wasn’t too disappointed, having had our own private performance by the cat on the dock. We pet some cats in the dark halls and then reentered the sunshine for our boat ride home.

Gulls flocked above us as Oleh pretended he had food in his hands, encouraging me to get good photographs. Join us for dinner tonight, they said, we’ll show you a great spot with local food. Alright, we said. We disembarked from our boat, Oleh and I continuing on with our standing joke in Russian: “Careful!” “The doors are closing!” The last line, taken from public transportation announcements, was sung.

Floating Gardens Lake InleLake Inle Gulls

We bid our guide goodbye. We arranged where to meet the Ukrainians for dinner. We walked back through the streets to our hotel. The day shone around us. My mind buzzed with it all.

That night, dark settled like a dim coat. We sat under the buzzing business lights with the Ukrainians. Oleh in particular regaled us about his country, about his home in the east of Ukraine. It is so beautiful, he said; I could see it tugging at him, far off in Myanmar. The war is very sad, he said, because my place is a peaceful one. There is a forest, and a river full of fishes, and in the morning when the sun peaks out there is a mist settled over the land. He ordered more visky and threw it back. Then, the Ukrainians walked us back to our hotel before hitting the bars. We went to bed, looking forward toward the morning, when the sun would peak out over the mist settled over Lake Inle.

To Be Light

Posted on 30 May 2016

It’s 5am and we’re speeding down the mostly empty road, our electric scooter’s headlight cutting a path through the dark. Intermittently, motor scooters speed by with a polite warning honk. I crouch lower behind Ben, shivering in the wind, while widening my eyes in search of our turnoff.

We found the correct location, scouted out on our wanderings a couple of days before. The temple we had planned on entering was locked, so we scaled a stupa across the way. Sitting on a ledge, we fiddled with our cameras and shivered as the black gave way to grey, illuminating the clouds overhead. The sky turned grey-blue, then patches of pink flared. To our left, hot air balloons appeared from behind one of the larger temples and we excitedly stared as they made our way across the sky, over the temple-spotted fields, in front of us. The chill of the misty air did not diminish the scene in front of us; indeed, it was inseparable from it. I was a witness to something beautiful in a place largely unlike where I came from. The differences pull at the mind, stretching it. Observe.

Gawdawpalin Temple, SunriseBagan at SunriseBalloons Begin, BaganBalloons over BaganTwo Balloons and TemplesBagan Morning Mist

After breakfasting, we wandered around Nyaung U. We stopped by the market, crowded with everything from purses to spices. I bought more elephant pants (half of them were gifts, okay?) from a young woman who happily told me this was her first sale of the day. Content with my goodies, we scootered back to the hotel. I was still antsy, however, so I decided to wrangle with the electric scooter myself.

Wobbling out onto the road, I got the hang of the accelerating after a few minutes and more calmly sped along the road. The busyness of the town center faded, and then I was alone, moving up a hill surrounded by brown grasses. A snake sped across the road. Every now and then, a scooter would come by in the other direction and its riders seemed surprised and amused to see an obvious foreigner off the common tourist pathways. They waved at me and I attempted to return the gesture without tipping over. Eventually, I turned around and traced my way back to the hotel, where Ben told me he’d be happy to lunch in 90 minutes. Off I was again, then, for 45 minutes out then back.

Feeling more confident on the scooter now, my bangs flipping every which way, I couldn’t help but smile as I again left Nyaung U. I felt adventuresome and free. More people waved as I zipped passed, and I grinned back. The road climbed up a ridge and I could see the mountains across the plain. Eventually, the road came to a toll and I turned around. Having spotted a side road on my way out, I resolved to make my way across its sandy depths (relative to my scootering skills) and see what it led to. It was a temple, of course. Squinting against the sun, I took a short break to look around before riding back.

Electric Scooter and Temple

This is why I usually don’t take photos on my phone. I couldn’t see the screen in the sun!

Bagan by Day

That afternoon, I scootered around by myself even more, out past New Bagan. When I pulled over to check the time, a concerned guy approached me, motioning to ask if I needed help. I waved him on with a smile. I stopped at a temple complex and, semi-chatting through facial expressions with a woman sitting by one of the entrances, gave her baby a little butterfly brooch that had been tucked away in my pocket before I headed away. The woman grinned back and made her baby wave. I had not expected the amount of smiles per capita that I witnessed in Myanmar. I passed many more as I made my way back to the hotel.

That evening, Ben and I scaled a temple to watch the sun set, marking the final hours of our time in the Bagan area. Soaking it all into my bones, we watched the sky flare from blue to orange to grey to black. We boarded our scooter to head back to Nyaung U for dinner. It was losing its charge and we dismounted, pushing it up over the small hills before coasting down on the descents, the wind blowing on my face. A lightness resonated inside me.

Dusk at BaganBagan SunsetGradient Sun over Bagan

Truths

Posted on 3 May 2016

Death fluttered beside me.

After heavily wading through waves, I climbed up onto the rocks. Routine walking was encumbered by annoyance. Smiles couldn’t penetrate me; no, I deflected them by turning away and retreating into my sullenness. The little, supposedly cheery banalities echoed around the cliffs like bullets. I backed into a cave and barricaded the entrance. Death cast its shadow. It was only right to sit within it.

After her death, the days stretched out long and grey. I wanted to return to Ohio again and again and again. I had been there to see her, and I had been there to bury her. It felt wrong to be separated from this place. And from the people! We had held each other, reaching, grasping, someone to hold on to, someone who knows, who feels the reverberations of loss ricocheting off of bones. In another home, I worked, I sat on the bus, I sat at home. I faced beige walls. All was dull, dull, dull, void of meaning, void of force.

She carried all of the force. It was a warm force. It was all of the care in the world, bundled into a soul. It shone through her wry smile. I could only grasp it by holding onto others, her others, but we were physically separated now. Five young women, in a row on a couch. “My beautiful girls.” Five young women, five different states. A man sitting beside me. Jokes leveled in our direction. Us, thousands of miles apart.

Sitting in that cave, everything was too quiet. Death had visited and I couldn’t fight anymore. She was taken and I placed a carnation over the dirt, over her ashes. Now, what could I do?

From the cave of my office, my apartment, to the mountain. Get out, feel something, something that’s not blunted. Unrelated emotions were all muted, and as right as that felt, it was also wrong.

Trees on RainierAscending to ParadiseParadise, Mount RainierTrees Snow MountainMount Rainier Hiding

It snowed overnight. At the base of the mountain, I spied a dusting, but at the top of Rainier there was a new, smooth blanket. I strapped on snowshoes for the first time. I crunched forward with the help of these implements, following in tracks, breaking them down further. Trees stood darkly around, marching over the landscape until it became too harsh and only sharp rock faces remained. I sat down in the snow. It surrounded me: a harsh and beautiful thing. Grey clouds spun overheard, replaced by blue skies, which were then usurped by clouds again, sprinkling down fat flakes.

The mountain just is. Severe, striking. It can hold you gently, and it can murder you. It doesn’t live, but it’s like life in that. It’s reality. It’s what you live in. I look at it, and I try to see it honestly, see it sharply, fight the good fight – but still be warm, still hold a power through a scoff, a laugh, a smile. Like she did.

I felt comfortable in the snow. I felt an openness I hadn’t felt in weeks. I felt an acceptance of two truths: rightfully never ending sadness and a benevolent strength.

Last night, I dreamt I was wearing something of hers. It was a warm, encompassing coat.

Another Lens

Posted on 18 April 2016

I tried to focus on Mandalay Fort, across the moat by which I stood. I couldn’t. I pulled the camera strap off from around my neck and switched to manual focus. Back on. I still couldn’t focus. The lens made uncomfortable clicks and skipped, the image relayed to my eye by little mirrors jumped from one kind of blurry to another. And thus I learned my go-to lens was broken. Luckily I had two others. Both are great in particular situations, but not quite as broadly versatile as my damaged lens. Disappointed, I buried the broken lens in my pack, swapping out its seat on the camera for the prime lens. Now I had one distance at which to gaze at the world through my camera; I had to look differently, physically moving myself to see more.


While in Nyuang U, we decided to visit Salay and Mount Popa. In the hotel’s common area, we befriended a funny Japanese guy who agreed to share a ride with us the next morning. So, we found ourselves bumping along in the morning chill, temples moving past our windows, as our driver carried us along the highway. The scenery shifted: it became hillier, greener, and oil wells began appearing, pumping in rhythm, their solid blackness and extending pipes running over the earth.

Salay MuseumTemple in SalayBuddha and Temples, Salay

We visited a museum in Salay. And some temples, as you do. I shuffled around, forward and back, as I framed little Buddhas and expansive, temple-dotted fields through my lens. I peered closely and then I stepped away to take in the larger scene. Everything pieces together. We got back in the car and more flashed by: banyan trees, oxen hauling huge piles of hay, roadside stands, tan fields. The road became more crowded and buildings less and less sporadically lined the side as we approached our next destination.

Road to Mount PopaMount Popa

Mount Popa juts out from the surrounding landscape, unmissable, unmistakable. If spirits live anywhere, yes, it would be here. We joined a few other foreigners, but mostly Myanmar people, as we shuffled barefooted up the 777 steps to the top of Taung Kalat. We sidestepped into rooms off the stairs, where people worship the resident nats, placing cash, fruit, flowers, and cigarettes by their sides. Monkeys darted around, lured by cones of nuts that people would hand off to them. At the top, the expansive country spread out below and around us: greenery dotted by villages, Bagan in the distance. Closer at hand, Buddhas and nats watched my cautious movements, avoiding the worst of the nutty mess on the ground with my bare feet, golden mirrors reflecting every which way, gongs sporadically gonging, flashes in the corners of my eyes as people bowed to the ground, the fabric of their clothes rustling. I could look closer and closer and the details wouldn’t end. I could expand the scene as much as possible and it wouldn’t cease to amaze. Neither version could I fully grasp in understanding; I could just look.

Myanmar OwlsBurmese ScriptBuddha with Fruit, Mount PopaA Nat of Mount PopaMonkey, Mount Popa

The soles of my feet ached from pounding the 777 step descent. The sun struck my skin and sweat formed in greeting. We three foreigners and our driver sat back in the car as we made the couple hour journey back to Nyaung U, politely honking as we passed other vehicles. Every now and then, we’d hit stretches of highway dotted by people, mostly women, standing or sitting on the side. I realized they were begging, hoping. Thus far, from Mandalay from Nyaung U, I hadn’t seen the really desperate poverty I knew the country contained. We stopped at a gas station that stood in contrast to the potholed road and the impoverished people alongside it: the interior glistened with a large bathroom, the cleanest I had seen.

Fruit and Flowers, Mount PopaA Nat with Cash, Mount PopaFood Stands, Mount PopaMount Popa's Monkeys

From afar or close up, I noticed discrepancies, contradictions, items of beauty and of mystery and of trauma. For now, I could just observe, take note, try to slightly unpack, learning all the more I yet needed to know to understand. These people, whose military had stripped the country’s people of wealth, of voice, surrounded me, almost all smiles. I’m trying different angles, different depths, in increments building what I can comprehend.