Is This Burma?

Bago - Mr. Bald, Mr. Funny and the Goat’s Fighting Balls

‘Good morning Sir, I am Mister Aung. My great pleasure if you be with me today. Please can we be intimate together and make a fun time? If you like to ask me something I am here to serve you please.’

At first Mr. Aung seemed like one of those slightly dodgy characters you should steer clear of. I had barely got off the bus into Bago and there he was, in  my face being forward and pushy in his chattiness. It lent him an air of untrustworthiness. Yet there was something about him, a twinkle in his eye perhaps, that I found my own instincts telling me we might have some entertaining fun together. Ultimately, I was glad I trusted my instincts.

He offered me his services as a motorbike guide to tour a few sights around the town of Bago. So, after checking into my hotel, we agreed a price and then off we rode.

‘Is your majesty requiring anything today?’ He couldn’t resist.

As I took my hat off to cool my head, I found him looking at me with a smirk of curiosity.

‘Where are your airs?’ he asked.

‘My airs?’

‘Yes, Mister Bald. You have no airs. Hahaha!’

‘Yes, very funny.’

‘Yes, you are Mister Bald and I am Mister Funny!’

Mr. Aung dropped me off at the town’s main stupa, an impressive complex of gold topped spires. He helped me to avoid paying the exorbitant ten dollar entrance fee for tourists (which of course would go straight to the generals and which I had no desire to pay) by shepherding me through a side entrance.

Then, on seeing the eagle-eyed ticket attendant heading my way, he ran in and to warn me, telling me to meet him out the other side as soon as possible. After I did so I found myself joining in a football kick around on the dusty street. For some reason, he was impressed by my ability to keep a football airborne.

I got asked did I play and what was my team in England.

‘Yes, but I’m a bit old now.’ I replied. ‘Aston Villa is my team.’

‘Ah Aston Villa. Yes, very good. Do you know Martin O’Neill?’

‘Not personally, no.’

‘Do you know the other English players?’ one of Mr. Aung’s pals enquired.
‘Lampard Frank. Terry John. Wayne Looney.’

At this point I began to realise that they had somehow made the mistaken assumption that I was a Premier League player. I got asked what all the other famous players were like. Not wishing to disappoint them, I played along.

‘Rooney?’ I pondered. ‘Yes. Very good player. But it can be a bit of a struggle to get much conversation out of him sometimes. And he gets very angry sometimes.’

‘Ah yes, Mr. Angry.’ Mr. Aung, never short of a comment, added knowingly.

We whizzed off to another temple. Again he ran over to warn me of the impending arrival of the ticket collector so I could walk briskly through to the alternative exit without giving money to the government.

Bago was nothing much of a town, a dusty crossroads of a place a couple of hours north on the road out of Yangon. Below my hotel balcony right over the main street was a whir of human activity which was rarely less than  compelling. My people watching got interrupted by a familiar voice. 

‘Hey, Mr. Bald, you like Mercedes? One day I sell my motorbike to drive the Mercedes car. I have seen the pictures. Very powerful. A car like James Bond I think.’

He sized me up and down in that relentlessly quizzical way of his.

‘You have body of sports man Mr. Bald, I know. Very strong legs. Big arms. You have long life. Like me. Ha ha ha. And like me big banana too!’

He even laughed at his own jokes before I did.

‘Hey, do you like Baywatch? Very sexy people. One day if I become very rich I go to Baywatch to see them.’

Mr. Aung insisted we stood back to back so we could compare heights. He looked at my chest and pronounced,

‘You have many feathers on your breasts! You have many lines around your eyes. Like me.’ He couldn’t resist another chuckle. ‘They say this means you like many women. Is this true Mr. Bald? Ha ha ha.’

‘Is it true for you?’ I riposted.

‘Well maybe yes.’ he replied. ‘When I was young man. But different now. I have wife and daughter. I not drink beer now because my mother and wife say no good for me. They not like. So I listen to them. I have no moral fortitude! Ha ha!’

‘You know, British people very intelligent and high-tech. Always endeavouring in the world. Maybe today you can endeavour to find a wife.’ he continued in his eager tones. 

‘You speak Spanish and German Mr. Bald? Ich liebe dich! Ha ha ha.’

‘I prefer English.’

‘Yes, English is very good. I want to practice and make new words with you. Please write down for me in my book.’

‘Sure.’

‘I teach you Burmese today. I teach you words for handsome and beautiful. You are beautiful. I love you. Will you marry me? This words very important for you Mr. Bald. You need them I think. Ha ha ha.’

I walked through another impressive temple. I was drawn to some music coming from one of the rooms down some stairs. Inside I found a small crowd of people - men, women and children - who were watching a woman dancing. She was rather colourfully dressed in bright pink with a fancy head piece and heavily made up. Her finger nails were boldly painted and she wore an array of dazzling rings. She was quite attractive even.

When I took a closer look however, I realised that the ‘she’ was actually a ‘he’ with a rather deep voice. In between dances she, or should I say he, enjoyed smoking a cigarette. It was quite a sight. A man in drag smoking, singing and dancing inside a Buddhist temple. Such were the unique peculiarities of life inside Myanmar.

I didn’t linger too long. When I came out Mr. Aung was waiting for me and I explained, with some disbelief, what I had just witnessed.

‘Transvestite. I not like these people Mr. Bald. They are not like us. They are not normal. This is not normal Myanmar.’

‘No, not normal woman.’ I concurred.

‘Hey Mr. Bald if you say “Wai lai at” to a woman in Myanmar it is a very good thing to say’.

‘Wai lai at!’ I repeated. ‘What does it mean?’

‘You are telling the woman how fat she is looking. It is very nice thing to say.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, of course. Don’t be afraid Mr. Bald! In Myanmar we do things differently.’

It seemed this might be a country where to remark to a woman on how fat or plump a woman was looking would happily be taken for a compliment. You’ve really no idea how much trouble saying such a thing would get me into in my own country. The police would probably come knocking at my door.

Time was pressing. So he saddled up his shoulder bag and revved the motorbike up for the return back to the town.

I always found it remarkable how these smallish dusty towns were once centres of proud and mighty kingdoms. Rivalries were strong and fierce battles were fought between them often for the rewards of hoarded luxuries and treasures. 

Mr. Aung told me he earned something just less than two hundred dollars in a year, a good year. Out of this he had to pay for the rental of his motorbike. Only slightly younger than myself, he didn’t own a phone and had never used a computer. He had very little apart from his family and the force of his personality.

‘Family is lesser priority in your country, I think. Here very important. Everyone must be looked after. Mobile phones very expensive here in Myanmar.’ he told me. ‘We cannot afford. But people in Myanmar always very happy. In Myanmar I think we have many more temples than tourists. There is a lot of gold and it is not difficult to have it all to yourself, maybe with a few monks.’

There was even a special vocabulary for talking to monks. I began to learn that handing and receiving things was always done with right hand, with the left hand and forearm tightly tucked into the right elbow. A little strange but being polite and respectful to the customs of others, even in a small, way, can go a long way.

‘We have a saying. If a man has no brains he becomes a soldier, if he has no education he becomes a policeman; if he has no luck he becomes a monk.’

There were many monks in Burma.

We were sat in the large restaurant across the road. A perusal of the menu here was more than enough to tickle my humour. One item in particular caught my eye: the goat’s fighting balls, which Mr. Aung explained to me with some outrageously graphic pointing referred to the testicles of the goat.

‘Is very tasty Mr. Bald. I think you like to try this. Yes, many ways they can cook the goat testicle for you. I think we need to order for you.’

Before I could raise any objections, he had raided his hands to the waiter who skipped over as if he had been on a leash. Words were exchanged.

‘Sorry Mr. Bald, they not have the goats fighting balls. We need to try again tomorrow.’

So I settled for some different dishes instead and Mr. Aung looked at me sympathetically.

‘The women from your country are adorned with much beauty. I think you need to marry soon.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You are becoming old Mr. Bald. You do not have many airs left.’

‘Air or hairs?’

‘Yes! Ha ha!’ He pointed at my head.

‘Can we order some food please?’

The restaurant was the epicentre of social activity. I turned around and found two very dark skinned men sat on the table behind. Like most people in Myanmar they were all too enthusiastic in saying hello. Then I looked at one of them a little closer and realised he was clasping something very close to his chest. It was a baby monkey. There he was just casually sipping his beer with one hand while the other stroked this small marsupial as it clung to his breast. It looked like it wanted to be breast fed. The monkey was chained to his wrist.

No one, apart from me, seemed to think this was anything out of the ordinary. So I simply had to enquire how or why he was sat drinking with a small monkey trained to his wrist. It transpired, according to him at least, that he and his friend had found the monkey while they were logging some trees in the jungle and they had decided to look after him.

As peculiar sights in pubs go, this reminded me of the time I strode through the swing doors of an Australian outback pub to find a small wallaby sat like a regular on one of the bar stools watching the cricket on the small television.

There was a also Burmese man who looked uncannily like Jose Mourinho and he happened to be a West Ham fan, which was a reason to exchange plenty of football banter.

‘If the Aston Villa score, we drink another beer Mr. Bald.’

Sadly for me at least, they never looked likely to score.

‘This is very funny Mr. Bald. The Stoke City very funny. They stop you scoring. Very boring but funny. You laugh a lot I think. Ha ha ha.’

Not as much as you do!’ I replied.

‘When you play football, how long ago? My friends want to know.’

‘Tell me, how big is Ferdinand?’

He kept referring to Fergie and ‘Foggy’ Ferguson. Ryan Giggs became ‘Rain Giss’.

Mr. Aung came back from the toilets.

‘Someone has flooded themselves from behind. Very smelly. The flood is coming forwards. Be careful of accidents Mr. Bald!’

The next morning we went to visit a number of places on his motorbike. I walked around fabulously giant Buddhas. I marvelled at a reclining Buddha the size of a large bungalow. Even the fingers on its hands were larger than a very tall human being. His reclining bed was a platform of white marble. Another giant Buddha rested his head on a pillow of large treasure boxes. His eyes gazed into the distance with regal calmness.

‘In this country it is very important to worship what has gone before and what might come afterwards. These things occupy us a lot.’ Mr. Aung interceded.‘You see the hand of this Buddha here. His right hand is flat and open. It means no fear.’ he explained.

I toured a cheroot factory where small teams of young and old women sat around low tables beavering away and gossiping. They sat in rows as if they were in school, which is perhaps where most of them should have been.

Like many poor countries it was common to find young children working instead of in school and the multiple problems of the vicious cycle which inevitably followed on from that. Without schooling any children became more vulnerable to exploitation and prostitution.

Then we headed to the town’s monastery. The more time I spent in Myanmar the more fascination I developed with the life and routine of the monks. Serving time in a monastery was, for nearly every Myanmar male, a rite of passage. They were served two meals a day, one very early in the morning around 6:30am and then another around 11am.

‘After this time, nothing.’ Mr. Aung remarked. ‘No food for the rest of the day because it is important they learn to control their desires or how do you say, put them down?’

‘Suppress.’ I replied.

‘Yes, Sir Press. I write this in my book, if you please Mr. Bald.’

‘Sure. You know the monks do not own many things. Maybe a bowl, a cup, something to wash with and an umbrella. Very simple life.’

Boys were sweeping the vast bright floors. I asked him about whether he had been a monk himself once. In another annex some of them were praying. These were children who knew they must obey and respect their elders. Watching the young cross-legged monks doing their rote memorisation reminded me of boys I had seen in mosques in Pakistan. The concentration was absolute. There was a peculiar serenity to the intensity.

‘Yes when I was very much younger. But it was very difficult. Only ten days. No more. Not easy without proper food, no women, no beer. Very tough life with no substances so they make bad effects on you. I cannot be a monk. It is too strict for me! But I stay ten days because it is important to do it.’

It was no wonder monks always looked so peaceful. They were probably exhausted from getting up at the crack of dawn every day and not being able to eat after midday. Perhaps the contemplative looking existence was more to do with tiredness than otherworldly spirituality.

‘You know, being a monk is about suffering. It is about removing things like want and hunger for things you do not really need. It is about being detached from the world in some ways. People here look up to them. They are very important. If you become a monk it is the best career move you can. Your family are very proud of you.’

‘So the monks are almost like an alternative authority for people to look up to?’

‘Yes, exactly Mr. Bald. But if you live in a monastery you are away from the control of the government! It can be very good for peace of mind. You know, before the big protests last year in Yangon, many, many monks staying here. Maybe one thousand two hundred.’ he lowered his voice slightly. ‘But now much less, maybe five hundred monks.’

‘Why?’

He lowered his voice a little more. ‘Because Mr. Bald, many monks go to protest. And when they protest, there are many and they cannot come back here. They have to stop being monks. Some disappear. It’s not good. The government tries to divide the monks. It rewards some of them and punishes others. They put people inside the monasteries as monks to listen and keep watch.’

What an excruciating dilemma to be seized by: compromising the purity of their religion or remaining indifferent and irrelevant. Leaving things to the karma of fate could only take things so far.

Burma was not quite as peaceful and serene as you could easily think it was. As well as prison, humiliation and embarrassment were very effective tools for keeping people in their place, especially those with status of being a monk. Sometimes it was easier to comply than to oppose or challenge.

Central to Buddhism’s importance has been the power of reasoning. To its credit, it is possibly the most calm, tolerant and even-tempered of the world’s major religions. By in its nature it is not a religion which seeks to impose itself on other people or invade other lands. There is an appealing simplicity to its ethos on how to live. The overriding desire seems to be one of not imposing on others.

When we returned to the restaurant, my curiosity, if not quite my appetite, had been whetted by the culinary prospect of the goat’s fighting balls. How would they be served? What would they look like? What would they be served with? Would I manage anything more that half a mouthful without feeling the urge to vomit?

Sadly, I never got the opportunity to find out. All the goat’s fighting balls had run dry. Apparently there was a Swedish tour group upstairs who ordered the lot of them. Mr. Aung was even more disappointed than I was.

‘Swedish people very bad.’ he lamented. I was momentarily inclined to agree.

‘Yes, they’re always causing trouble those Swedes!’

‘You know we can ask them to find some more goats fighting balls for you Mr. Bald, some fresh ones. Very tasty I think. I’ll ask them because they know you are good customer.’

‘No really, it’s OK.’ I protested. ‘I have a bus to catch in an hour, so maybe let’s leave it until another time.’

‘For me Mr. Bald you being here and spending time with me and giving me money for work makes big difference for my family.’

We had only been together for a relatively short whirlwind couple of days but a more genial travelling companion I could not have hoped to find. It was a lot of fun, but also educational for me too. I was glad I came to Bago. Such was life in Myanmar that swapping contact details for him involved giving phone numbers of emails of other people with instructions on how to get hold of him.

As I got off his motorbike for the time we shook hands and he said,

‘I will not forget our friendship Mr. Bald. You are good calibre person I think. Like me. But I have more hair!’

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Is This Burma?

• Should I Go?
• Bago - Mr. Bald, Mr. Funny and the Goat’s Fighting Balls
• Mandalay - The Moustache Brothers: No Joke!
• Snakes and Horses: The Deserted Cities of Mandalay