by Luna Blue
Twenty-six hours later, from a tiny town in rural NSW, we were now officially in Myanmar, excited but more jetlagged and wondering why the conference wasn’t booked at Fiji or even Queensland. However, with my propensity to complain, had it been booked at a closer venue, I would have been annoyed we weren’t at a more exotic location.
The country was beautiful and I felt the drizzly attitudes of the Imperialists of Orwell’s Myanmar must have been long gone, or in another part of the country.
As our driver meandered through the gates of the resort, a storm was brewing. I could almost feel the crackles of electricity dancing along my skin. It added a new sort of intensity to an already exciting moment, and the electrified air was refreshing after so long in stuffy cabins. How many people can say they have been to Myanmar? I wondered. Sinatra answered with New York, New York.
Local news on the car radio was covering news of Buddhist radicals executing Muslims, not exactly a relaxing introduction to this foreign place. Perhaps I should have spent more time reading up on current affairs of this strange land instead of looking at pictures of couples in balloons and on horses. But I am what I am.
Aung Suu Kyi’s key political advisor had just been executed outside Yangon airport, according to the news report in staggered English. The journalist described how Ko Ni, a Myanmar Muslim, had been shot in the head. I shuddered, we had been there, not thirty minutes ago. The driver quickly turned down the radio.
Mike seemed unmoved by the news, probably used to death and executions given his time in the army. His body language didn’t change, he was content taking in the sights and sounds of Myanmar from the barely air-conditioned taxi.
The west side of the hotel was under siege from a climbing plant of some sorts. It had been creeping its way along the entire wall, for what looked like a long time, intent on taking back its foothold in a country that was still trying to find its own place in the war. But the urbanicity of the resort meant the plant was going to lose the war. I felt kind of sorry for it, knowing one day it would be ripped from the roots and destroyed, the moment one of its leaves crossed an invisible line. I realised I had seen my first glimpse of Orwell’s Imperialism. Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell, after speaking with Frank and asking to borrow his stage, started singing “Two Little Girls from Little Rock”.
My Imperialist creeping plant gave the building a mysterious, almost ancient feel, as though the natural and the concrete worlds were the same thing. But once Mike and I stepped inside, victory had clearly been given to the world of humans.
Lights. Lights everywhere. Not the gaudy Kings Cross type, they were beautiful lights. Soft, flittering shades of warming yellows. Small fairy lights glittered along the walls and low hung basket lights covered the ceiling. My mind switched to Michael Buble’s “Coming Home.” I worried that the stage was becoming full of a plethora of singers. Perhaps the new me wasn’t as committed to Frank as the old me. Poor Dad, he would be rolling over in his grave. “Old Blue Eyes” was the only singer in the history of the world as far as Dad was concerned. But then again, he had died before the Buffy the Vampire Slayer Musical had been made. I doubted he would have loved it as much as I did, but Dad was human, and therefore fallible. He made few mistakes, if any, as far as I was concerned, but there was always a first time for everything.
This resort wasn’t anybody’s home, but surely it made everyone feel as though they were coming home for the first time. Or, that they never wanted to leave. I followed Mike out of the corner of my eye as I busily took in the simple beauty of this new world we had entered.
“We have you in the Juliette Suite, on the second floor. Thomas will take your bags and show you to the room,” the well-groomed man at the front desk said. Thomas was a strange name for someone who did not look at all Western. It was a bit disappointing that the poor bag carrying man-slave had been forced to take on a western name just to make western guests feel more comfortable.
“What’s your real name, Thomas?” I asked him as Mike and I followed him to the elevator.
“Thomas.” He looked confused, perhaps a little offended by my thoughtless question. I was so embarrassed, yet Mike thought my attempt at cultural sensitivity was hilarious. Hesitating outside the steel elevator, I followed bloody Thomas and Mike in once he had stopped laughing.
“One of the actors from Buffy, Anthony Head, released an album called Music for Elevators.” Too often I had to resort to useless Buffy information when I was feeling awkward.
“Really?” Mike asked. “I’ll have to check it out, maybe we should get it for the station.” I wanted to kiss the man for making an effort to help hide my discomfort. I stood on tippy-toes, but unless Mike bent down, I would have kissed his shoulder, which would have been even more weird. Damn you, Thomas and your Western name, which was actually your real name. Myanmar was confusing at times and we had only been here for forty-five minutes.
I shifted my weight in the enclosed space of the elevator. “Lifts are so uncomfortable with other people,” I whispered to Mike. He took my hand and looked as though he was delving into the deep recess of his pool of patience. I really should stop complaining. The concierge had obviously heard me because he was trying to melt into the walls.
“Next time, I will insist we are alone at all times when we take the elevator,” Mike whispered back.
“No, my new outlook on life involves me getting used to other humans, and that includes being caged in a lift with them.”
“The stairs are also available,” said Thomas.
Finally, the elevators clanked to the second floor and opened to a communal lounge area. The décor was plush, an almost Hollywood feel to it. The white walls had a teak trimming, and there were more low-hung bulbs offering the comforting yellow light. The entire hotel had an inspiring wooden smell to it. A kind of smell you get when you chop wood for a fire. Not that I owned a fireplace, and not that I had ever smelt freshly chopped wood. I could see a swimming pool to the right, its boundary eked out by another kind of lighting. I prayed one last time for my boy leg swimmers to look super flattering, that somehow, they would transform me into a glittering 50s Hollywood starlet. There was nothing I could do about the slight bulge of my tummy, but I hadn’t eaten anything sugary in two days, so I was on the right track. Two days down, hundreds to go. An anorexic Fiona Apple sang “Paper Bag.” I told her to shut up and go eat a pavlova. She ignored me and sang louder.
Hotel guests were milling around the lounge, which had a balcony overlooking the Bay of Bengal, taking advantage of the bar and its offering of cocktails. The guests represented a mixture of cultures. I could recognise some French, German, and an Arabic language, I guessed. We stepped out of the elevator, holding our hand luggage. Mike squeezed my hand, and when I looked at him, I nearly melted, seeing how happy he was.
Our room overlooked the swimming pool and the sea and astonishingly, Jan had booked us one double bed. In the same room. I was, of course, jumping for joy inside, my wobbly fat not deterring me from jumping higher and higher. But externally, I thought it a little odd that Jan would do this.
“This sleeping arrangement seems a little unprofessional,” I said to Mike, who was frozen on the spot, bag still in his hand, staring at the bed.
“It is a bit. I’m not sure how I feel about it, to be honest, Rosie. I mean, let’s be real, there is nothing professional about you at the station, but can you be trusted to sleep next to me without molesting me in my sleep?’
“Hahahaha, let’s just take it one night at a time, shall we?” I automatically went for the right side, near the ceiling to floor windows overlooking the water, but remembered, frustratingly, to put Mike’s needs before my own.
“Which side do you want?” I asked him.
“I don’t mind, I don’t sleep much.” Window side it was then.
“What do you want to do now?” I asked Mike as I unpacked my bulging suitcase. Why had I packed so much stuff?
“I’m going to hit the gym for a bit
now, there’s an outdoor one that looks pretty impressive.” He held the picture from the resort brochure for me to see. It looked like a lot of steel mangled into machinery that would hurt my muscles. How anyone could find enjoyment in using any of them was ridiculous, even a sexy ninja, master of all forms of combat man like Mike. But he did love it and his body showed the hard work he put into it. I had read once that exercise made people happy, but had never felt the need to put the theory into practice. Ironically, I thought I was happy with my misery.
I prayed he wasn’t going to ask me to go with him. “Nothing like a work out to fix the strains of jet lag,” he said.
“Yeah, well, you do it your way, I’ll cope in my own way.”
“Which is?’
“Cocktails and a good sleep.” Mike shook his head as he changed into his gym shorts. “You really are good at being you, Rosie.”
“Well, obviously. I don’t know how to be anyone else. But I am aiming for a better version of me, but I’ll still be me. Kind of.”
Touching my hand as he walked past, Mike grabbed a bath towel and slung it over his shoulder. “Time to work out these stiff muscles,” he said, rubbing his calves. “Enjoy your cocktails.”
Enjoy them I would. Time to bring out the delightfully drunk version of me. The folder in the hotel room, at least, was all-encompassing. A brochure of the gym satisfied clients like Mike, but the cocktail menu was designed for my rather thick hands. Opting to stay in the light, breezy room, I rang room service and ordered a Pegu, which according to the folder was a gin-based drink, the signature of Myanmar’s Pegu club, which had its origin in the British Colonial Empire. Not normally a fan of gin, I was willing to give it a go, hoping I would be sampling the same drink Orwell enjoyed as he wrote one of my favourite books.
Reading further, I was delighted to discover the Pegu club was a gentlemen’s club and Orwell did indeed dine there. I re-dialled room service and ordered another three.
After the second one, I toasted Orwell, convinced exercising would never ever come close to the buzz I was feeling. Gin may have been my new favourite drink. Myanmar may have been my new favourite place.
Chapter 9
Mike’s watch alarm obnoxiously started to yell at me in a very clock-like language. I looked at my own watch, three a.m., Myanmar time. “Mike.” He answered me with a snore. “Mike!” I jabbed him in the ribs for good measure.
“Hmmm? What?”
“We have to get up, it’s time to go on the fucking balloon.” Three a.m. was always good in theory, when you had to wake up for something exciting. But actually having to do it was a whole other story. I was regretful and angry. Screw you, Orwell and your Pegu cocktail. Screw you, gin. Shit, my head hurts. Why the fuck am I getting up at three a.m.? Apart from dairy farmers, I doubted any other humans ever woke up at this time, by choice, anyway. Even murderous psychopaths don’t wake up this early to go and hunt people. And if they did, they weren’t very good psychopaths, because no one else would be awake for them to hunt. Which, come to think of it, may have been a good thing.
I made a mental note to start drinking milk with a little more gratitude.
Mike raised a sleepy but gorgeous head. “Fucking balloons? I thought you wanted to go on these fucking balloons more than anything.”
“Shut up. It’s three a.m. Nothing is enjoyable at this time of the morning. We have to get up,” I said with no intention of surfacing from the silky sheets. “You get up first and show me how it’s done. I’ll roll over and get another five minutes’ sleep.”
A quick stretch of his well looked after limbs and Mike looked ready to face the day. I started to hate him a bit. Cocktails and jetlag go very well, but the next day they come together to wreak havoc on your mind and body. Exercise 1, gin-based cocktails 0.
“Come on, Rosie, you promised not to be grouchy.”
Had I? I didn’t remember making any such promise. It certainly didn’t sound like anything I would say.
“Coffee. I need coffee. Coffee, or the world will end. I’ll make sure it does.” Mike was not acting urgently enough, he was almost relaxed as he gathered his clothes for the day. I enjoyed watching his ridiculously tight butt from the luxury of satin sheets. It may be three a.m. but a sight that like almost makes being awake worthwhile. Almost.
“Okay, Lex Luthor, go have a shower, reset your revolting mood, and I’ll see what I can rustle up. I’m going to see what I can find in the way of breakfast, in about ten minutes. Do you want something?” He was doing push-ups. Effortlessly. This was turning out to be the best morning of my entire life. “I only eat organic when I can,” he said in between counting his push-ups. “I wonder if they have organic options.” He counted to fifty and was done. “Do you want something to eat?” he asked me again, standing up and stretching. Too many questions for so early in the morning. Too many muscles for so early in the morning, my mind was swimming, my body was reacting in an almost uncomfortable way. Stay cool Rosie. No gushing school girl here today. “You’ll feel better after some quality fruit.”
“No. Go away.” I pulled the covers over my eyes. “Organic? You only eat organic food?” That would explain why he didn’t eat any food on the planes. “Organic, as in without anything added it? What, just a peach or something? But if it doesn’t have any chemicals in it, how does it work?” Mike answered by throwing a pillow in my face. If it was any time other than three a.m. I would have been annoyed. Of course he only eats organic food. Even Frank was left songless, so I filled in for him, singing “I Get a Kick Out of You” as I clambered out of the comfortable bed I just shared with Mike. His side was still warm and I could still smell him on the pillow.
From the shower, I could smell the coffee Mike had returned with. “There’s a café downstairs, and yes, they have a proper barista. And even better, Rosie, they are open twenty-four hours a day. I got you a short black.” I couldn’t get out of the shower fast enough to taste my first coffee in another country. Australians are renowned for their coffee, ask any of us and we will tell you it’s the best in the world. But it was all I had ever tasted.
My first taste of Myanmar coffee, which I had read about in the inflight magazine, had recently begun being produced in large amounts of higher grade Arabica coffee. I took a sip. It had a good body. I took another sip. It was strong. I took a final sip. It tasted earthy, there were aggressive tarry flavours with a hint of what…I licked my lips, what was that flavour? Garlic? The local coffee was actually nothing short of spectacular. The elixir started to warm my bones, unfurling a deep energy reserve that no other drink could have summoned. I felt better and almost ready to get excited about our balloon ride.
Some cotton shorts and a light cardigan was the perfect outfit for ballooning, as discussed by Snip and I when I was packing. Mike had donned his usual shorts, t-shirt, and joggers. He looked pale though. Either the organic fruit or the excitement of our impending ride was wreaking havoc on his perfectly maintained body. Serves him right. No one can live without sugary sweets in their diet and not suffer consequences from time to time.
At three-twenty the front desk rang to say a representative from the ballooning company had arrived to collect us. Mike went even whiter.
“You okay, Mike?’
“Fine. Just hurry up.” And he had told me to reset my mood? Grabbing my bag, I raced out the door, my shorter legs struggling to keep up with Mike and his very clenched fists.
The very same driver who had collected us from the airport waited to take us to the balloon site. Was he the only driver in Yangon? Excitement was building, for me anyway. Mike was growing more agitated and moody with every turn of the car. Billy Ray Cyrus’s “Achy Breaky Heart” twanged over the taxi radio. It was unlikely there was a more 90s song ever written. Man, I hadn’t heard this song in twenty years! Mike was unimpressed with Myanmar’s ability to stay locked in a decade that was a lot better than people gave it credit for. Although it was possible he wasn’t even hearing it. He seemed locked i
n his own world, sheltered from whatever was happening around him.
I rolled down the window and, sticking my head out the window, sang along with Billy Ray. It felt good to cut loose, to not give a crap about how I was presenting myself, what other people thought. No one knew me here anyway and Mike was too busy undertaking some sort of sulking fit to pass judgment. A shame, because I thought I was sounding really, really good, in tune and all.
I looked like a fool and no doubt sounded like one too, even if I was in tune. The driver turned down the radio. I returned to my seat, indignant but determined not to let his unappreciation of my newfound country singing skills to ruin my day.
It was still dark as we pulled into a flat plain, filled with four deflated balloons. A driver was stationed at each basket doing safety checks. As we stepped out of the car, our balloon driver introduced himself.
“Hello, I am Hlaing and I will be your driver today,” he said, shaking our hands.
Hlaing ran through some safety procedures as Mike became so pale I thought he might do his own impersonation of a 1920s film starlet fainting.
“Mike, what is wrong with you?” I asked. He was nowhere near as excited as he was supposed to be.
“Rosie, I don’t think I can do this.”
“What do you mean? Of course you can. Just get in the basket.” The sun was starting to rise, we were running out of time. Three other couples had already drifted off into the sunrise, sparkling wine in hands.
“No, I can’t do it. I’m terrified of heights.”
I swallowed a laugh. This was the toughest man I had ever known. He went to war, he did pull-ups in public places, but a balloon ride was going to make him fall apart?
“Just get in the basket,” I repeated, not wanting to indulge his silly fear that was going to ruin this once in a lifetime experience.
“You no worry,” Hlaing said. “Safe. No die.” He shook the edge of the basket, as if some woven wicker was going to make Mike feel safe. To his credit though, Mike tossed a muscular leg over the edge of the basket and scrambled in. I had to use a step-ladder to join him.
