Conversations in Dawei

We had spotted the Myanmarese man in the distance. Ambling along the road he seemed oblivious to the stream of mopeds pipping their horns and swerving around him. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, the kind with side shields, and for a while I thought he may be blind. But as he approached us a broad, betel juice stained smile swept across his face. 

"Where are you from, please?" he asked, his English impeccable. So far only a few people in Dawei had spoken English, even then it was stunted. They were all keen to use it.

"London," Sofia said.

"Britain," he said, proudly.

"I'm English," I said, "Sofia is Portuguese."

"Yes," he said. His head tilted with confusion.

"Portugal'" I tried. 

"Yes."

"Lisbon."

"Yes." There was a brief pause, then, "I am on my way for some tea," he said, moving the conversation back to safe territory. 

"Do you always go at this time?" Sofia asked.

"Guess how old I am?" he asked, straightening his shoulders, raising his chin and pushing his arms down to the side. These types of questions are always dangerous. Guess too high, you risk insult, too low and they know you're trying hard to please.

"Sixty eight," I said, thinking he was about seventy five.

He laughed, delighted. "Seventy four!"

"No!"

"I am retired. I worked for the bureau of jurisdiction." 

It sounded slightly Orwellian.

"All your life?"

"I left school at fourteen and joined the government. The bureau of jurisdiction. Now I am retired and I am on my way to collect my pension," he explained. Odd, because I thought he was going for tea. "Guess how much?"

"We've no idea," Sofia said. I imagined that a man who worked all his life for the government would receive a reasonable income upon retirement.

"One thousand five hundred kyat."

About ninety pence. I wanted to ask if that was per day, per week, per month, or per year. But I felt slightly ashamed by my own relative wealth, so instead we stood in silence and stared at each other, he was still holding his 'guess my age' pose.

"I am on my way for tea. Where are you going?"

"We need to run some errands, get a few things done," Sofia said. She was being purposefully vague because we were on our way to change money. Hidden around our bodies was almost 800 dollars in cash.

"I am on my way for tea."

"Your English is very good. Where did you learn it?"

"When I left school at fourteen I joined the government. The bureau of jurisdiction. Now I am retired and I am on my way to collect my pension."

I looked at Sofia. It was becoming clear that while he spoke some English perfectly it was restricted to a few well rehearsed sentences.

"I am on my way for tea, will you come?"

Having yet to fully experience the incredible genuine kindness of the Myanmar people, those of Dawei, in particular, we declined his offer and carried on towards the travel agents, the place the staff at our hotel had assured us was the best place to change money. Despite Aung Sang Suu Kyi's National League for Democracy party having recently won a land slide victory at the government elections, the old military dictators still hold some power making the people of Myanmar incredibly sceptical about anything government run. This includes the banks. Given the chance, they will try to bypass the government and send tourists to local businesses. Essentially putting the money straight into the hands of those most in need. In this case, the travel agents turned out to be run from someone's living room.

It was practically empty but for a desk, a few plastic chairs and a huge pile of what looked like toilet paper in the far right corner. In the opposite corner, a staircase rose into the ceiling. The front of the room was open to the street. A slightly plump, young lady stood by the desk. Sofia pushed me forward. 

"We'd like to change some dollars," I said.

"Yes."

There was a long silence. I started to doubt whether this was the travel agents. "Can we?"

The lady pulled up two plastic chairs, the kind you normally find in a primary school, and motioned for us to sit. I had to spread my legs like Bambi, it was incredibly awkward.

"I will call my sister," she said. The lady walked over to the stairs, said nothing, then walked back. "I have called my sister."

Clearly telepathy was in use in Dawei.

A small girl appeared behind the lady. Like all Myanmarese children she grinned at us, intrigued, but kept her distance. Then, as if beamed in from the US Enterprize, the sister appeared. She was heavily pregnant.

"This my sister," the plump lady said, before motioning to the little girl, "this my niece." The girl giggled, waved, then hid behind her aunt. 

Everyone smiled. 

"How much you change?" the sister asked.

I wasn't sure anymore, we were changing money in a front living room where the entire of Dawei could stop by to watch if they wanted. I deferred the decision to Sofia.

"About five hundred dollars." Sofia said.

"Five hundred dollars," I repeated for no reason at all.

The sister stared into space, hands on hips, pregnant bump thrust forward. It was as though she was channeling the latest exchange rates. "One thousand one hundred kyat per dollar."

This seemed reasonable, we agreed.

In Myanmar, dollars are the best way to exchange money. While many towns now have cash machines, they rarely work, and if they do there are the usual added fees. Until recently, the people of  Myanmar had little trust in their own currency with many things, especially hotels or tourist trips, needing to be paid for using dollars. Not just any dollars, either. They had to be perfect. Mint. No folds, no tares, no creases, no marks and no older than 2006. It made carrying them from the UK a journey of endless paranoia.

The sister took the money, waddled over to the desk and inspected each noted carefully. Happy with the quality she yanked open an unlocked draw. The inside was packed full of Kyat, which bobbed up with the sudden release of pressure. She took out about half, counted it, then waddled back to us. There was enough cash in her hands to fill a small carrier bag. 

We stuffed the notes in our pockets, in our wallets and in our belt purses. By the end we both looked equally as pregnant as the sister.

As we went to leave the plump lady asked, "Where are you from?"

"London," I said.

"England," the sister said, proudly.

"I'm English, but Sofia is Portuguese."

The sisters looked at us confused, then said in unison, "Yes."