Yangon is a thriving city with restaurants, movie theatres, hotels,
and a rich sense of culture. I decided to explore the area with an Australian
guy from my hostel. And we had a very interesting day- good and bad. We walked around the neighborhood, tried various types of
street food, drank this great sugar-cane drink, and eventually came to the
river.
Once at the river we realized there was a ferry, and we got on. Our
side of the river was very industrial, with shipping containers, docks, and
various boats taking up all the space- and we just wanted to walk along the
water. So we crossed to get to the other side, which looked much more peaceful.
While Yangon is a big, busy city, the land across the river
is just small villages, schools and temples. Crossing this one river feels like
you’ve been transported, not only to a new country, but back in time.
We walked around a bit, just taking in the change of scenery. There were many bicycle taxis on that side of the river, all of which were a bit too pushy for us. But soon this young guy on a bicycle taxi started talking to us- he was nice, had good English, and told us he’d charge us a little under $2 for a thirty minute tour. We said, “Why not,” and hopped on.
The guy showed us around the area and told us about life in
this part of the country. He told us about the culture, and taught us how to
say “Hello,” and “beautiful lady.” The people we passed were incredibly
friendly and genuinely looked excited to see us. So many people waved to us and
said hello. When we responded in the local tongue, saying “Mingalabar,”
they laughed and smiled and waved. It was a lot of fun.
We tried betel-nut, (pronounced like beetle) which is similar to chewing tobacco. Most
local men do it, and you can see them spitting this blood-red mush out of their
mouths periodically. It’s gross. But we tried it anyway, and we spat just like
the locals did. I won’t be trying it again- it burned the inside of my mouth and it
tasted gross. I had purchased a bag of oranges at the local market, and I ate them to wash out the taste of betel-nut. My Aussie friend needed a few too.
The taxi man, who was really sweet, took us to a pagoda (temple), but
my friend and I said we were more interested in seeing the villages. Once you’ve
seen a pagoda, they all kinda look the same to you.
So the driver took us to a small fishing village, which was
bustling with activity, and had many smiling faces. There was a small river
nearby, and the locals looked comfortable and happy, even if their homes were
small huts. The man then told us he would take us to another village, one which
had been hit particularly hard by a recent hurricane. We said ok.
On the way to the village we picked up a straggler- he ran
and jumped onto the back of the taxi.
We arrived in this remote village, and immediately young kids
ran around me. I, being a teacher, remarked on how I just had a natural way
with kids, and I enjoyed the attention all the little ones gave me. The kids
were around me in a tight circle, one even holding onto my shorts; I noticed
that none were around my traveler friend, but didn’t question why.
The farther we walked into this tiny village, the more kids
came out. There were no smiling faces from the adults in this village. We said “Mingalabar,” to
the locals, and occasionally received a subdued smile, but mostly just got
stares. We didn’t feel comfortable in the area, but couldn’t figure out why
this village was so different from the fishing village, just ten minutes away.
The taxi driver told me that it would be polite of me to
give some of my oranges to the kids, sort of like an offering. I didn’t mind because
I had a whole bag full of them, and could easily spare one or two. I smiled,
happy to give, and picked out two oranges, even though there were about eight
kids around me. As soon as I held out an orange for the kids, they all pounced
on me at once. They jumped for the bag, tugged at my clothes, fought one
another. One grabbed the bag, and took such firm hold that he squeezed the
juice out of an orange inside. This wasn’t fun. It wasn’t a cute joke.
And these kids were not playing around. I could see in the children’s eyes a wild,
primal hunger.
And that’s when it hit me. These kids had been crowding
around me, not because there was anything special about me, but because they
were hungry and I had been holding a bag of oranges. I felt so stupid for my naivety,
and actually felt a little scared- with all the kids jumping around me. The children
spoke no English, and I had no idea how to give out the oranges in an orderly
fashion, so I handed the bag to the taxi driver, and let him distribute them.
Once the kids had the oranges, I was left alone.
We began walking away, and I
remembered I had a little bag of food in my back pocket- just a few pieces of
deep-fried dough. I turned to the smallest child and held it out for him. He
smiled, reached for the bag, and just as he was about to take it, a slightly
larger boy sprinted forward and snatched the bag out of my hand- to the small
boy’s dismay.
The taxi driver scolded him and made him share.
My friend and I left the village right after this, and there
was an air of silence between us. He and I, simply enjoying our vacations, had
not been prepared to see this- and we were processing it in our own individual
way.
I was happy to give, but was genuinely disturbed by the
ferocity with which these kids reacted. The adults and teenagers were kind and
polite, but these kids were mad with hunger. I couldn’t get the image out of my
head.
The taxi driver bicycled us back to the ferry, and told us
that many of the adults in this village had died in the recent storm, and that
the people here often eat only one meal a day. Usually a bowl of rice.
As we neared the ferry, the locals waved at us, and said
hello, just as they had done earlier. But I wasn’t ready to see smiling faces-
I was still meditating on the hunger I had just seen, I was still seeing that
little boy’s face as he was just about to receive that bag of fried dough, then
had it snatched away. I was still feeling my clothes pulled at, and the bag of
oranges practically ripped from my hands.
Eventually, some levity returned to us. We started talking,
started asking more questions about the place, and my Australian friend even
had a bit of fun with the driver. He switched places with him and rode through
the small town, to the delight of all the locals.
Soon we rode the ferry back to Yangon, and returned to the
world of restaurants and movie theatres and hotels, somewhat eager to forget
that hunger existed so close to us.
But the point of travel, at least in my opinion, is to go
through an ordeal that you wouldn’t go through at home. To experience a
feeling, or a taste, or a smell, just SOMETHING, that you wouldn’t experience back
in your comfort zone. This was a tough thing to witness, but I’m thankful that
I did.
I’ve seen poverty in various countries. I’ve seen burn
victims lining the subway in China- their faces and bodies horribly mutilated.
I’ve seen child labor, and child abuse, and even child prostitution.
But I’ve never seen hunger. Not real hunger. Not like this.
I’ve never seen the kind of hunger that’s kept me awake at night thinking about
it. My experience with this has encouraged to help out a little. I’ve since
done a little research, and found a group called ‘Food not Bombs,’ which has a
chapter in Yangon. It’s run by a bunch of punk rockers, and they go around
feeding the homeless. You can learn more about them here.
Thanks so much for reading, and PLEASE consider supporting a traveling writer. I quit my job to do this travel stuff, and every penny counts. Please help me to keep the blogs coming by purchasing a book.
The titles are available from Amazon. You don't need a kindle to read them, you can just download the kindle app on your phone. It's free.
Among the Fallen - A tale of sci-fi, mythology, and action, revolving around an English teacher making sense of a post-apocalyptic Japan.
The Burning - Ezra Hayes is a journalist who wants to see war first-hand. But he gets too close, sees too much. He learns that battle scars are not just for the soldiers, and that life after the war can be so much more difficult.
