Made in Mandalay

We were sat on two of twenty pink plastic chairs that were lined up in four rows in a front room of what, from the outside, had looked like an ordinary looking house, on an ordinary looking street in Mandalay. There was, though, nothing even remotely normal about this place. Before us was a makeshift stage. It was lined with tatty red carpet and at the back someone had hooked up an old DVD player and Sony TV.  Stuffed down the side of the stage were a variety of wooden boards onto which someone had carefully stuck English alphabet stickers to create words such as NSA, STASI, CIA, FBI, NATURAL RESOURCES, OPIUM, HEROIN. The largest board, balanced precariously near the TV, announced the show:

MOUSTACHE BROTHERS

PAR PAR LAY, LU MAY, LU ZAW

On the walls were hundreds of pictures of the Brothers; some close up black and white head shots, others included famous audience members, the most prominent of which was Myanmar's most important lady, Aung San Suu Kyi. Some were faded and from the early nineties when the comedians started out with full heads of hair, others were more recent after the death of Lu May. 

As we waited for the show to begin a laminated card was dropped onto my lap. It told a warm up joke, meant to set the tone for the rest of the show:

OUR GOVERNMENT CAN PERFORM MIRACLES.

DAVID COPPERFIELD CAN ONLY  MAKE A TRAIN DISAPPEAR,

OUR GOVERNMENT CAN BRING DEAD PEOPLE

BACK TO LIFE AND GET THEIR VOTES

The three Moustache Brothers (one of them is really a cousin) are notorious in Myanmar for their nightly performances packed full of political jokes and interspersed with comedic examples of traditional Burmese dance. Seemingly all of the family helps out, including the two wives, a six year old grand-daughter and a close friend. 

Until recently just staging the show was an act of defiance against the military rulers. One that at best had the 'dissidents' blacklisted, at worst had them sentenced to a five years hard labour. 

"In jail water pipes lined with lead," Par Par Lay told us during one of the more somber moments. "Many die from poisoning, including brother Lu May."

Par Par Lay, with his distinctive handlebar moustache, is the lead comedian who enjoys interacting with the audience. His strong accent sometimes makes it hard to fully appreciate the jokes, so he visualises them with the wooden boards. "Where you from?" he asked me. Hearing London, he searched manically through a clump of boards before posing with desired one. "Britain! Be careful. MI5. MI6."

 

 

The whole show was interspersed with stories and films from their past, as though paying homage to a more dangerous time, one when they were viewed as some of their country's most famous dissidents. "Now my country changing, better," Par Par Lay said at one point, "We get things like Sony TV and DVD."

 Minutes later the comedian was busy banging the remote control on the DVD player while the machine struggled to load a clip of the Brother's in action a decade earlier. "Ah!" he exclaimed with frustration before resorting to turning the batteries round in the controller. "No good. Made in China!"

 

A visit to the home of the Moustache Brothers was one of the highlights of our stay in Mandalay, a city that sounds better than it really is. Rudyard Kipling has a lot to answer for; his evocative poem 'Mandalay' leads thousands to search out the city only to realise they've stumbled into the Asian equivalent of Birmingham. That may sound harsh but beyond Par Par Lay and the gang there are really two other things to do.

Our walk across the one kilometre U Bein bridge was accompanied by a ferocious wind and a small Burmese boy who spoke no English but took huge delight in being our impromptu guide. Sofia faithfully photographed everything he pointed too, while I watched the cows rush through the water and picked my way through stalls of souvenirs. In Myanmar, the choice of knick knacks to take home are pretty much the same everywhere, walking past the stalls feels a little like the repeating backdrop to a Scooby Doo cartoon. And when you pick up that genuine Myanmar Buddha, you can't help but call the claims into question when the bottom has a label that says Made in China. 

 

 

The story was the same when we climbed hundreds of steps to take in the view over the city from Mandalay Hill - stall after stall selling the same things from Coca Cola to Vietnamese Longis. As I took a breather at one of the many viewing points, I wondered whether the state of the souvenirs almost reflected the crossroads at which this beautiful, friendly country finds itself. Its people have so much to offer the world but no confidence to display it. Instead of having faith in their own talents they risked opening their country to the world and becoming exploited. 

Reaching the top of the hill - once more caked in sweat - we were approached by a seventeen year old boy in a Chelsea football top and his much more timid friend. 

 

The boy asked if we could talk for a while so he could practice his English. For half an hour we did just that. He explained the buildings we could see across Mandalay and asked about our lives. We told him about our families and the UK, before recounting our journey through his country right to this point, our penultimate day. He smiled with pride while telling us that he had been learning English for just 3 months in the hope of achieving his life ambition: to be a tour guide. 

"This is future for my country," he said. "We want people to come."