Stories Waiting to Be Told

In November 2012, visiting Burma.

Every morning, when I stepped out of the hotel, I found her seated under the banyan tree, like a Bodhisattva awaiting salvation. She must have been about 16 or 17, but her childlike frame made her look younger, almost ageless. Whenever she saw me, she acknowledged me with a broad grin, revealing a set of teeth as white as the pile of jasmines in her lap. She cradled the tray that held them, and hovered over them like a protective mother. Her jasmines were strung together as coils and wreaths, ready for a taxi driver's dashboard or a roadside shrine. She sold them for 500 kyats a piece to the locals, 2,000 kyats a piece to foreigners like me.

It was November in Burma, technically the cool season, but the Tropic of Cancer didn't seem particularly bound by it. Beyond the confines of air-conditioned hotel lobbies where foreigners sipped chilled Lemonade, the harsh sun continued to beat down on the locals.

I was born and raised in Rangoon. But I had also lived abroad for the past 23 years. My passport identified me as American. I was technically a foreigner. Looking at my attire (Hollister jeans and American Eagle Outfitter shirts), my cousins told me my flawless Burmese wouldn't do me any good when I went shopping. I looked like a tourist, and I was bound to be fleeced like one. As far as Rangoon's flower sellers were concerned, I was fair game.

I had always wondered about her. Where did she live? In a shantytown on the outskirt of the city? In a makeshift hut behind a monastery? Was she looking after an ailing father or mother? Did she have an annoying brother? Did she go to school? How many strands of jasmines must she sell to break even? How many to be able to afford watercress for dinner? How many to be able to indulge in a deep-fried Tilapia?

Whenever I saw her, I made a mental note to talk to her. There must be a story in her, I thought. But I was always in a hurry, in a rush to jump into a cab that awaited me. As luck would have it, I had landed a week before Obama did. I was on assignment to interview local folks for their reaction, then send the footage back to LinkAsia for a Friday afternoon broadcast. Then the remaining free time got divided up between my childhood friends, cousins, and dinner invitations I couldn't refuse. So I kept postponing the talk.

"Please tell your president to come back here, and come back often," said a taxi driver when he found out I was visiting from the U.S.
"Why?" I wondered.
"Look at this! The traffic is already flowing smoother, the garbage dumps along University Avenue have magically disappeared, and even the street vendors are looking a bit more dignified. I like this. I like what he's done for Burma so far."

"Everyone is hoping, hoping he'll somehow make our lives a little better, so we can breathe a little easier," gushed the tour guide I interviewed for my LinkAsia segment at Sule Pagoda.

Obama hadn't even landed yet. All the preparation for his historic visit seemed to have brought the best out of Burma. To the average Burmese, America was Democratic Nirvana, a vision of where they wanted to be in the next ten or 20 years. Obama was the personification of Burma's national aspiration.

Back home in the U.S., angry radio and TV commentators continued to berate Obama, to fill the airwaves with venom. They needed someone to blame for the budget crisis. The president was fair game. Many Americans looked at Washington, and saw the worst of Democracy. But 8,000 miles away, the Burmese looked at us and saw the best of Democracy.

Time flew by. After a short stay in Mandalay, Mingun, and Sagain, followed by balmy evenings at curbside teashops with old friends and spontaneous trips to the Shwe Dagon in Rangoon, my dreaded departure date arrived. As I stepped out of Queen's Park hotel's teak-lined gate, I once again met her large, brown eyes, quizzically observing me.

I reached into my wallet and pulled out the remaining Burmese bills. They came up to about 8,000 kyats, roughly about U.S. $9 by the exchange rate of the time. I walked over to her, and shoved them into her astonished hands.

"I won't be needing them anymore," I said in Burmese. I couldn't tell if she was more shocked by my gesture or by my ability to speak Burmese. She mumbled a "Kyay zoo be! (Thanks!)" when she recovered.

An hour later, I boarded my flight back to San Francisco with a near-empty wallet.

It's been five months since my visit. Once in a while, I scan the news from my homeland. The country seems to be on a fast track, as if it's trying to make up for lost time. Today BBC reported that EU is easing sanctions against Burma. The sky behind the Shwe Dagon must be a little brighter and the breezes from Rangoon River a bit cooler today. Will the new dawn light the way to a brighter future for the taxi drivers, street vendors, and flower sellers of Rangoon?

In my creative writing class, I learned that good stories revolve around character transformation--the more dramatic the change, the better. Lives are changing dramatically over there in Burma. There are stories waiting to be told. In one of them, a girl who sells overpriced wreaths to foreigners is the heroine. To figure out how it ends, I need to get back to the source.

Slideshow of my Flickr photo album from Burma visit