If comparing a double bus ride, a total of over sixteen
hours, with some I’ve done in the past, it isn’t so drastic. But when boarding
the bus for the second leg of the jaunt, I knew it wasn’t going to be the
easiest of journeys. Sprawled across the whole two seats was the fattest bucket
of lard on the bus, why, oh why, was I the one having to share a seat with her?
Not only could her ungainly bulk defy the laws of physics and fit into a single
seat, she also had two bags wedged between her and the window, leaving me with
the thinnest of margin to park my rather slim backside on. But even I’m not
that slim! Anyway, I believe it setting the standard before misconceptions can take
over. So I politely gestured for her to move over so I could sit down, and she
politely did, all of an inch or two. Then I had nearly a third of a seat to
luxuriate in, no way, I persisted and gained another couple of inches.
Unfortunately with a large roll of flab still taking up much of my valuable
space she set her face in an expression that read quite clearly, that’s your lot buddy. (Photo: Porking down the beach - Kgwe Saung, Myanmar)
I’d hate people to think I have an unreasonable bias against
obese people, if someone chooses to gain so much they become unhealthily
ungainly that is their privilege. But when it proves to be to the detriment of
others, especially me, I get niggled about it. I wouldn’t relent, therefore the
whole six hours was pretty much a fight for seat space. It didn’t matter that I
showed clearly that she was half over my seating space, however often I tried
she kept a gap of a few inches between here and the window at all times,
wedging her knee into the back of the chair in front to ensure I couldn’t lever
her over. Was I unreasonable? I don’t think so, with my arse numb from the
metal bar that bordered the outer edge of my seat, it was very uncomfortable. I
wasn’t a happy bunny, and didn’t handle the situation too well. Not that I got
angry, not openly anyway, but inside I seethed for six hours while maintaining
the pressure against her flabby thigh. Wasn’t I ever glad when we arrived at
our destination! She was the first and only obnoxious Burmese person I had the
displeasure of meeting, in many ways it surprised me, almost without fail they
go out of their way to please visitors. 
Being weary of public transport that episode could easily
have put me into a foul mood, but it didn’t. Relieved with an end to my
purgatory, I gratefully sank into the first trishaw offered. Myanmar is the
first country I’ve carried a guidebook with me, so I knew exactly where I was
headed, a quiet beach resort with good quality luxury rooms. Just the place to
relax for my last week of a long, and sometimes arduous, journey. I didn’t
baulk at paying $40 for a near palatial beach fronted room. And what a beach,
all thirteen miles of it. Waves rolled onto the shore, constant breakers to
hurl myself into, which I wasted no time in doing so. With temperatures around
40o the water was certainly the place to be, and I love playing in
crashing waves anyway. It looked like I’d made the correct choice, lonely
planet’s choice next door certainly had cheaper options, but the whole compound
was more cramped, with smaller bungalows squeezed in tighter than I’d been with
blubber guts on the bus.
As with all the other Asian countries I’ve visited this time
round, domestic tourism is thriving. Myanmar may well be one of the poorest
countries on this continent but they have a very prosperous sector of society.
With an average salary of less than $100 pm room prices in the bigger resorts
were staggeringly high, at hundreds of dollars per night. Bearing that in mind
I didn’t expect to find them so well frequented, but the wealthy do like to
flaunt their wealth. Between Yangon and the coast there’s nothing but small
scale farming, rush built shacks house extended families, dressed in
threadbare, dirty caste offs. Agricultural wages are very low, wherever
possible family members will travel long distances for the chance at working in
the tourist industry. The seasons work in their favour, high season on the
coast is a slack working period in the countryside. For those lucky enough to
gain a position in the resorts, it requires living apart from their families.
Talking to most guys this is a great hardship, the family is still very
important here, they’ll make incredibly long journeys to spend a few days with
their wives and kids. 
My last week in Myanmar, and the last of this trip, was
pretty much about lazing around. The sun was too strong to linger for long in
the open, most days I spent an hour at most topping up my tan. For hours I’d
sit in the shade, catching a balmy sea breeze, while reading books and watching
the world go by. Not that there was a lot of it passing by, the highlight of
each day had to be the glorious sunsets. Little else happened, except for the
tide going in and out. In itself that’s nothing unusual, but they weren’t to be
misjudged. At low tide it’s possible to paddle over to a small island where a
makeshift set up sells basic meals. If you misjudged the excursion, it got a
touch wetter than you’d banked on. You couldn’t judge the oncoming waves
either, because they came from two directions, from each side of the island.
And there was the risk of getting run over by at low tide too, The holidaying
Yangonites have a habit of joyriding along the newly exposed hard sand. You’d
get some young guys posing as they rode along, simple stunts to attract
admiring looks, pleased as punch for being such daredevils. It brought back
memories of my own antics as a teenager on my first bike, and caused reflection
on Cai and his joy of the simple pleasures of bike riding. 
Generally I didn’t mingle very much, I was content left to
my own devices. It was a time of contemplation, after eleven months returning
home is a big event. The process wasn’t wracked with emotion, I’m pleased to
say. In fact the strongest emotion I had was jealousy. Jealous of the couples
wandering happily along the shoreline, splashing in the water together, they
made me want some companionship. It made me wish I had someone to share my
experiences with. I’m not feeling particularly lonely, it’s not that I’m desperate
to jump into a relationship. It lead me to realise that I no longer feel
frightened to delve into the realms of emotional involvement. After the loss
and emotional upheaval of recent years that underlying fear has stayed with me,
I’ve been unable to shake it. It’s the effect bereavement had on me, magnifying
a reluctance for emotional commitment. Basically I was frightened to hold
anything precious in my heart, frightened to lose it again. I now feel more
wholesome, maybe I’m ready to risk loving again.
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