A view on freedom

The man was Indian and looked like Doc Brown from Back to the Future, all crazy white hair and a look of insanity that could easily be genius. He had two large front teeth that were a dull white, the same colour as his string vest. Standing in the middle of his dimly-lit veranda-style restaurant, hands on hips, he watched the cars and mopeds navigate potholes filled with monsoon rain. He held this position for a while, waiting for his only customers - us - to finish eating. The moment we pushed our plates away his attention turned to our table. He was eager to talk. 

“Where from?”

“London.”

“Good country?”

“Sometimes.”

“Here, no good.”

“But better now?” I asked. It was half a question, half a statement of fact, made in reference to the recent government elections.

He held his hands out and made a weighing motion. “Now talk, before no talk. Speak out, ten year jail. No good. Now, we talk and no listen. But good? No.”

One of the waitresses brought us the bill and while I grappled with my wallet, Sofia asked, “What brought you to Myanmar?”

“My father British army. After war, he stay. Me born.” He waited as I placed some money onto the plate and handed it to the waitress before continuing. “Before, trade jewels.” He lifted his hand up to his eye and peered at an imaginary precious stone. “I look. Yes, no. Sell. Make money. Good money.”

“And now?”

“China. Government open to China. Money to government. No trade. No money. One year many money. Then one thousand dollar year. Then ten dollar next year. Now restaurant.”

We nodded and looked at each other. I asked how the restaurant business was treating him.

“Today only three table. Yesterday one.”

I had no idea how this compared, it was low season after all.  

“No money,” he said, holding his fist up indicating a wad of notes. “Money. Government. Not people. In here.” He motioned the money into the top of his string vest and tutted some more.

I questioned if he really had no hope, if he really didn’t believe things would change much. This was the first person we’d met in Myanmar who appeared not to grasp this new hope as tightly as possible. 

“What change? Happy. People happy? Yes, no? More money, more happy? No. More people like you, tourist, more money, more happy? No.” He points at one of the waitresses. “In big hotel, not happy. Earn twenty-five dollar. Here, restaurant, one hundred dollar. Holiday. Hospital. Better. Waitress happy.”

You could see his point. The real measure of change in any country was an improvement in collective happiness, this may or may not correlate with an influx of money or investment. Myanmar had to be careful what it wished for, the money and happiness may not necessarily go to the people in need of it most.

“Here, no good,” he repeated before beginning a tirade against many in his society, each time he would a wave the imaginary wad of cash and hide it in his vest. “Government, money, in here. Hotel, money, in here. Police, money, in here. Monk, money, in here.”

As he said this a Buddhist monk walked by. He was a fat man, holding an umbrella with one hand and lifting his robe with the other while he skipped around the puddles.

“Monk?” I questioned

“Monk walk down street, you see, very poor. Nighttime, monk normal clothes, go club. Party. Drink. Drunk. Girls. No good.”

“We had one on our bus, smoking and drinking,” Sofia admitted.

For the first time he smiled, beaming his large front teeth at us. In any other situation you may have mistaken it for a snarl. “No good. Country, no good.” Then, with hands clasped together, he bowed, wished us well and walked away. Sofia pushed up the umbrella and we headed out into the rain. Up ahead, the fat monk jumped one final puddle before entering a bar.