Halloween parties, bad jokes, obscure anthropological documentaries.
There are a handful of expat lawyers in
town, and all of them have been very kind and welcoming. There is camaraderie.
“You must not be seen with the Baker &
Mackenzie guy again. No one has anything to talk about here. The rumors will
spread that you are leaving.”
“But I really like the Baker &
Mackenzie guy. He is a pioneer. I’m not going to meet him in secret at some
backwater place like I am Richard Pratt.”
“You can not be seen with him again.”
“I don’t care. In Australia lawyers are
collegiate. And this place is insane. He
is a mentor. If talking to him makes me like my job with you more, then that is
a good thing.”
“Ok. Maybe you don’t go to the Lab or
Gecko. That is where the bored people who talk the most go.”
The small western legal fraternity is nice.
It does not seem to be anyone’s first adventure. The American intern has come
straight from a stint in Brussels, the
Australian lawyer, recently arrived from Cambodia, the Canadian who has
come from in house telco work in Afghanistan.
My receptionist yells at me every day. Out
last argument ended with “Fine, you go and get killed you get shot by monks
with guns, you are eaten with tigers, I don’t care, not Nanada’s problem! Not
Nanda’s problem! Everyone makes problems from Nanda! But no more, not Nanda’s
problem!” I had said I was going to a monastery for the weekend.
The city heaves with oppressive heat,
offset by the mellow nature of the proud and genteel locals and the peaceful
pace of life. It is no Vientiane however and taxis drive at 110ks and hour with
holes in the floor of the car and 120 mothballs in a plastic bag to mask a
smell I don’t want to know about. When I get in they ask if I am pregnant. If I
am not we floor it and drive at break-neck speed narrowly missing school
children, monks and dogs. Just once I say “Yes I am” and the driver goes at
20ks an hour, tells me he is too drunk to drive a pregnant woman and asks if I
wouldn’t mind driving.
When leaving late at night the expats head
to Traders Bar in the one hotel with decent Wi-Fi and a healthy dose of old
world charm. It is punctuated with dated elegance and serves a mean virgin
colada. Each time I go I order a virgin Mary, knowing full well they are out of
tomato juice, they have been out of juice since I arrived but each time they
pull some strange new date out of the air about when the next shipment will
arrive. None before August, but the whole thing is so arbitrary that I persist,
for no good reason. On Friday nights you can go and listen to the retired
octogenarian bellhop tell stories about the old days when George Orwell was
loitering around.
If one leaves the office late the streets
of Yangon are empty and young men roll and tie their long skirts so they can play soccer in the great open main CBD roads. They
yell and whoop and it makes me smile.
No matter what time I leave I can pretty
much always get a cab. “You NGO?” the driver often says. “No, not NGO.” “Oh.
Not NGO. Where you from?” “Australia” I say. “Oh! Australia! We have many
refugees. 50 years of civil war, ceasefire now. Some refugees go to Australia.
Now much more a problem.” “Yes. It’s a difficult situation” I say and sigh.
3 months here is enough.
