Back in Mandalay
I used to pity the poor poll taker, trolling city sidewalks with a clipboard asking strangers questions. Until I realized my job is the same. As a guidebook author, it can feel like you’re paid to ask people their telephone number, and how much they charge for a bottle of mineral water.
In nearly all the places I’ve gone — Bulgaria, Mexico, Queens — I go anonymously. It amuses me sometimes when a hotel proprietor complain ‘no Lonely Planet author visited US’ when one, perhaps me, actually stayed there and never told them. It’s important to be anonymous so you can keep the service normal, as any random traveler would expect to get walking off the street. And it’s particularly important to keep mum in a place like Myanmar, where — if word got out that you were a ‘writer’ — you could be deported on a day’s notice.
No one has recognized me from the book photo, including immigration, until I got to Mandalay, a big booming city that, Yangonites like to say, ‘lives like a village.’ A trishaw guy who rents bikes for about $1-a-day helped me for a full week last time. Dealing with repeated questions about weird things like where to find cheap puppets, cheap chapatis, get credit card transfers. He earned my trust, and on the last day I told him what I was doing. Yesterday I was back in downtown Mandalay needing a bike, and I saw him walking a block from his stand, and he immediately recognized me. ‘Robert!’ I was impressed. ‘You’re fatter now. Very handsome. Too thin before.’ I hadn’t realized. ‘The toy you gave me… it’s up on my cupboard at home!’ I had forgotten.
The downtown guesthouse I’m staying is easily the best cheapie in the city. I checked in yesterday and got one of the pricier rooms — $7 per night, with a zany tile and wall panel job that would make Mondrian’s head spin — and negotiated it WAY down to $6.66 per night for three nights, by simply asking. The manager realized a day later she had seen me before. ‘You’ve been here before. You came by bike, then saw a room, and wrote down the rates on a business card, then came back a day later…’ She said it all with a guarded smile — I think she’s figured out why I’m here.
Yesterday I met a tiny 83-year-old Indian Muslim man who approached me on the street to ask if he could speak a little English. He retold his family story… he fought with them against the Japanese in WWII, then his father moved to Bombay, and he moved from Pwin-U-Lwin to his daughter’s home in Mandalay. He then introduced me, quite formally, to his 10-year-old grandson. Wrapping up his little two-minute talk, he asked, ‘Can you understand my English?’ Yes, very well. ‘Oh, very good, sir. Thank you for speaking with me.’
I just walked by and saw him sitting on his daughter’s porch watching traffic of ancient buses filled with commuters and monks, a few trishaw drivers looking for fares, and a motorbike beeping by or two. I waved, and he gave me a quick salute.
‘Hello again, sir!’
I am extremely envious of your adventures. Keep up the good work. And… “8″.