by Di Morrissey
With its starched linen napkins and heavy silver cutlery, Natalie imagined that the place had changed little from colonial days. A pretty waitress in a uniform of longyi with matching top handed her a menu, which featured mainly European dishes, but Natalie only wanted coffee for herself and Connie. While she waited, she gazed outside through the tall windows of the restaurant. She could see passersby, and hear the muffled whoosh and jangle of cars, bicycles, trishaws, trucks and buses as they jostled their way along the Strand. However, the room was a quiet oasis, and when a Burmese man came in and sat down with his English newspaper, the rustle of its pages echoed in the stately room.
‘That’s all my business done for the day,’ said Connie when she sat down opposite Natalie. ‘Coffee on its way? Excellent. So tell me, how was Mr P? He can seem quite formal and proper, but he’s very warm and extremely knowledgeable about everything.’
‘He seems very nice. He’s asking one of his students to check out Mi Mi’s parents’ last address.’
‘If they’ve gone to the delta, finding them could be very difficult. But you will have tried, and you can’t do more than that,’ said Connie.
‘Connie, what’s the best way to pay for Mr P’s expenses?’ asked Natalie. ‘I know that he’s a friend of yours, but I don’t want to do the wrong thing.’
Connie brushed this question aside. ‘Natalie, don’t concern yourself with that. While you’re here with us, you are our guest.’ As Natalie started to protest, she continued, ‘It’s payback. Vicki has been a very good friend to us over the years, so we are pleased to be able to return the favour to a friend of hers. We are delighted to do it.’
‘Thank you,’ Natalie replied.
When Mr P returned to the Peacock Studio the following day, he brought news of Mi Mi’s parents.
‘My student found a neighbour of your friend’s parents,’ he told Natalie, Connie and Win. ‘He says they were going to the delta but their son, who is a monk down there, persuaded them not to go. So before Cyclone Nargis devastated much of the south of this country, they had already moved north, to a village near Sagaing, which is over the river from Mandalay, to stay with relations there.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Connie. ‘That’s far away from the cyclone, so they should be safe.’
‘I wonder why they left Yangon,’ said Natalie.
‘Perhaps they will tell us when we find them. It’s a very convenient location for us, being so close to Mandalay,’ said Mr P. ‘We will go first to Bagan and spend a couple of days there and then on to Mandalay. Sagaing is less than an hour away from Mandalay, although in the opposite direction from Pyin Oo Lwin.’
‘That’s convenient,’ said Connie.
‘Are we going by train or plane to Bagan?’ asked Natalie.
‘It is far better to fly. Internal flights are quite good, but the train is not at all reliable. It takes at least sixteen hours, sometimes even longer. I’ll get your plane ticket to Mandalay changed. Mr P and I can organise your accommodation. Leave that to me,’ said Win.
‘What about your accommodation, Mr P?’ asked Natalie.
Mr P smiled. ‘There is no need to worry about me. I know all the cheapest and best places to stay.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you all,’ said Natalie.
‘There are a lot of good people outside Burma who have helped us, so this is one way we can repay what’s been done for us,’ said Win.
Natalie could hear a phone ringing in the next room.
Connie went to answer it and returned, saying with a smile, ‘It’s for you, Natalie. I think it’s your family.’
Natalie’s face lit up and she hurried off to speak to them.
‘I can’t believe I’m going to Bagan,’ Natalie excitedly filled Mark in on her plans after she’d talked to the children.
‘Sounds fantastic. Just so long as you are sure they know what they’re doing. Be careful, Nat. I’d be unable to help you from here if you got into trouble.’
‘I won’t. Mark, even though I’m having the best time, I still really miss you and the kids.’
‘Honey, they’re fine. See, they didn’t cling to the phone. They just said their bit, and now they’re off playing,’ said Mark.
‘Okay. I love you.’
‘I love you, too.’
Natalie returned to the others and said, ‘I think I need to take something back to explain Burmese culture to Mark. I can take photos, but I can’t remember all the things you’re telling me. Is there a bookshop we could go to where I could buy a nice coffee table book?’
‘Not really,’ said Win. ‘Burmese people respect and love books, but there’s no major publishing industry in Myanmar and because of the heavy censorship, very few books are imported, so books are expensive. Yet literacy and education are big dreams for most families, so there is a large trade in secondhand books, newspapers and magazines.’
‘There is a very famous street in Yangon, where a lot of secondhand books and magazines are sold,’ said Connie.
‘Would you like me to take you there?’ asked Mr P. ‘Perhaps you will be able to find something suitable and it’s an interesting place to browse.’
‘Yes, please, I would. Is it far?’
‘It’s just a few blocks from the Strand Hotel. We can go there now if you wish.’
‘You might find a rare treasure. Some of the stall holders keep back special things, so ask to see everything. Have fun,’ said Connie.
As they travelled through the streets in a trishaw, Natalie enjoyed the comfortable speed and the warm air on her face as the driver’s wiry legs pushed firmly down on the pedals.
‘I will take you to one particular shop. My friend who owns it sometimes works for me as a tour guide. It was started in the old days by his great-grandfather and he has all manner of books. Lots of full boxes upstairs, too. I am sure that he will find you what you want,’ said Mr P.
Their driver pedalled steadily along the waterfront and Natalie felt pleased when she recognised where they were. She was beginning to feel quite familiar with this part of the city. Suddenly it occurred to her that the traffic didn’t seem very noisy.
‘Everyone at home told me that Asian traffic is always really loud,’ she said to Mr P. ‘But here no-one blows their horn at all, and there don’t seem to be any scooters.’
‘Both were banned some years ago. The Number One general was offended by someone who passed his car on a scooter and pointed a finger at him, like a gun. So scooters were banned,’ said Mr P.
‘What happened to the general?’ asked Natalie.
‘He resigned after the student uprising in 1988, but he had influence behind the scenes for quite some time. Then, about six years ago, he was put under house arrest for trying to plot a coup.’ Mr P paused before he added, ‘He was still under house arrest when he died but the junta didn’t make any announcement about it. It was all kept quiet.’
‘The general must have been hated.’
‘Yes, but there are others just as bad. There are many intrigues among the military. Many just want more power for themselves, and for their friends and relatives,’ said Mr P.
They passed rows of neglected colonial buildings and the Strand Hotel, and then turned into a narrow street flanked by tall buildings. Sheets of blue plastic formed awnings over stacks of old books. Dog-eared magazines were hung along the walls or spread on the ground.
At the entrance of the street, Mr P asked the driver to stop. ‘The shop is halfway down this street. We can walk and you can look at the stalls on the way,’ he suggested.
Natalie looked at the displays of printed material and watched what people were buying. There were a lot of school textbooks that looked very old and out of date. Half the items were written in English, the rest in Burmese. Some sellers tried to persuade her to buy their merchandise, but Natalie shook her head. They walked further along the narrow street, past a vendor frying dough balls that were then drained and sprinkled with sugar. Natalie was tempted
to try one, but Mr P walked purposefully on till he stopped outside a doorway. It was the entrance to a narrow building, wedged between identical sisters. Its metal door grille had been pulled to one side and stacked with stands of postcards, magazines and posters, which all flapped at the front of the shop.
Mr P called out to the proprietor.
As soon as Natalie stepped inside, she fell in love with the shop’s unmistakable smell of old books. There was more than a tinge of mustiness from some old leather covers perspiring in the humid air. Despite the appearance of disorder, and Natalie’s feeling that some of the overflowing shelves hadn’t been touched in decades, she guessed that the owner knew every title in his shop and where it was located.
The proprietor was older than Mr P. He had Burmese features but Natalie could see that his small beard was of greying ginger. He greeted Mr P warmly.
‘Natalie, this is U Zyaw Hin Watt. He is the owner. His great-grandfather opened this bookshop before the First World War,’ said Mr P.
‘Watt is actually a Scottish name,’ said U Watt. ‘My great-grandfather was a Scot who married a Burmese woman. Please, address me as U Watt. Are you looking for anything special? I can send for some tea?’
‘I don’t think I have ever seen so many old books. I would like to buy a present.’
‘Maybe some books about Bagan and Mandalay?’ suggested Mr P.
‘What do you do, Natalie?’ asked U Watt.
‘I’m a teacher, but a stay-at-home mother at the moment. I’ve become interested in Burma since I found out that my great-great-uncle was here in the 1920s. I’m sort of retracing his footsteps,’ said Natalie. ‘He wrote some stories about his travels all over Burma, and he was a terrific photographer, too.’
‘I suppose that was an interesting time, before the wars. My great-grandfather used to collect stories about the people who lived here in about the same period, both British and Burmese, but they were never published. I have them somewhere in the rear of the shop.’
‘You told me once that your family knew some of the old royal family,’ said Mr P to the bookseller. Natalie was immediately interested.
‘Yes. When she lived in Yangon, the king’s half sister, Princess Tipi Si, was one of my great-grandfather’s customers. She used to send her Shan attendant in here to collect the books she’d ordered. According to my greatgrandfather’s stories, there was some dismay when Tipi Si was forced to sell all her valuables,’ said U Watt.
Natalie thought for a moment and then decided not to mention her Uncle Andrew’s connection with the princess. Instead she asked, ‘What happened to Princess Tipi Si?’
‘When she became very old, she was cared for in a nunnery,’ he answered. ‘I believe she was buried in Mandalay.’
‘I’ve seen the nuns in their pink robes with their alms bowls,’ said Natalie. ‘Are they important, like the monks?’
U Watt and Mr P exchanged a smile. ‘A long time ago, it’s said that there was equality between the Buddhist nuns and monks, but when the Mongols attacked Pagan, which is now called Bagan, about seven hundred years ago, there was political unrest and this caused the dissolution of the power of the nuns who were no longer ordained. In the nineteenth century, under King Mindon, respect for the nuns was revived, especially in the area of Sagaing, but their power remained limited and so nuns still don’t have equal status with the monks according to the sangha,’ said Mr P.
‘The sangha is the community of monks who make all the monastic decisions,’ explained U Watt.
‘But now there are some very active senior nuns who travel outside Burma to Buddhist conventions and they are working towards regaining their authority and equality,’ said U Watt.
Natalie turned to Mr P. ‘Sagaing. Isn’t that where we’re going?’
He nodded and said to U Watt, ‘Natalie is trying to find the parents of a friend in Australia.’
‘I wish you luck in finding them. Where else are you visiting?’ he asked.
‘We will go first to Bagan, then on to Mandalay. Natalie also wants to meet someone in Pyin Oo Lwin,’ replied Mr P.
‘A lovely town. There are so many places to visit in our country. It may not always be easy for tourists to get about, but most places are worth the effort.’
‘Yes, there is such a lot to see. I’m so excited to be here.’
‘Please, take this with you.’ U Watt rose and took down a book from a shelf. There were three golden images on the cover. ‘The Shwedagon Pagoda you probably recognise, and these are the Mahamuni Temple and the Golden Rock. They are the three most popular sacred sites in Burma.’
‘How kind of you, but please let me pay for it,’ said Natalie, for while she appreciated U Watt’s gesture, she knew that she could easily afford the book. Mr P immediately understood what Natalie was doing and he told her the price of the book. She gave the money to U Watt and thanked him.
Connie had taken their late lunch out into the shady back garden. She called Win from the studio where Natalie could hear the chatter of his pupils wafting from the airy space.
‘Ah, frittata and salad. Today we eat western style,’ Win said as he sat down and poured himself a glass of lime juice from a large blue glass jug.
‘Which you will smother in chilli sauce,’ said Connie. ‘Pass me your plate, please, Natalie.’
Natalie lifted the heavy blue glass plate and Connie served her a slice of the frittata. ‘These plates are amazing,’ she said. ‘Did one of your artists make them?’
‘We wish! No, the artisan who made this glass works in a special factory. May Lin’s talking about retirement now, so I collect her pieces when I can,’ said Connie. ‘They are special, aren’t they?’
‘You should take Natalie to the glass factory,’ said Win.
‘Yes, she should see that,’ said Connie. ‘We could fit in a visit this afternoon, if you’re up to it. But if you’d rather rest, that’s fine by me.’
‘I don’t want to miss out on anything while I’m here, although don’t go to any trouble,’ said Natalie.
Win’s eyes twinkled. ‘Trust me, you must go, and Connie will enjoy taking you.’
‘It’s not far from here. It’s right in the middle of Yangon,’ said Connie.
Natalie couldn’t imagine what a Burmese glass factory located in the middle of the city would look like. After lunch, Ko Wai Yan drove them slowly past some shops and large homes on an old tree-lined street.
‘He’s looking for the right lane. It’s easy to miss. There, turn there,’ said Connie and they turned beside a high stone fence. They bumped along the overgrown, seldom-used lane until they came to a metal gate that had been propped open. A grassy track led into what looked like a neglected paddock. Large stands of bamboo and high trees blocked the taxi’s progress and Ko Wai Yan stopped.
‘On foot from here, so you’ll need some of this.’ Connie handed Natalie some mosquito repellent. ‘We have to walk through those trees and there are clouds of mosquitoes under them.’
She wasn’t wrong. The mosquitoes hung in swarms under the trees as they picked their way along a muddy path in what seemed to Natalie to be a small jungle. She saw orchids hanging in glass pots from some of the trees while tinkling glass chimes dangled from others. Connie drew Natalie’s attention to a number of large mounds that were covered in rotting leaves. She bent down and brushed away some of the debris to reveal piles of coloured glass more than a metre high.
‘Are these discarded bits? They don’t look broken,’ said Natalie as she picked through the pieces, finding small vases, glasses, plates, bowls and other ornaments.
‘It’s her stockpile,’ said Connie, sounding amused. ‘May Lin only takes special orders now, pieces for hotels or people who are prepared to pay her prices. When she needs something else to sell, she looks for it out here.’
‘But will all these sell?’ exclaimed Natalie. ‘There is so much of it and they are such beautiful pieces.’
‘Eventually. Come and see where the work is do
ne.’
As they walked, Natalie started to feel as though she’d gone down Alice’s rabbit hole. In front of her was a sort of carport made entirely of glass. Even the roof tiles were made of thick translucent squares of dark green glass. The uprights supporting the roof were covered with shards of different glass pieces arranged into a colourful mosaic. Inside the small glass palace, where the grass was growing quite high, a car was parked.
‘What is that? I mean, it’s an old car, but . . .’ Words failed her.
‘It’s a 1935 Austin. May Lin’s father adored it. Shame it’s been left to deteriorate.’
Around the yard were mudbrick and rotting bamboo shacks, rusting kilns and stacks of well-weathered wood. Natalie could see that the paraphernalia associated with glass blowing – old iron pipes and moulds and clay samples – looked as though they hadn’t been touched in decades.
The undergrowth thinned and they came to a garden, surrounded by a large open-sided building filled with tables and beautiful carved and lacquered Chinese furniture. The high shelves and glass cabinets could have graced the most formal of wealthy homes but the lovely antiques stood on a pounded mud floor, and every surface of the beautiful furniture had been covered in pieces of glass. To one side there was a small, open brick fireplace where a blackened kettle steamed and tea things were set on a shaky side table. Hanging incongruously from the ceiling tinkled several chandeliers, their glass catching the light as they moved in the slight breeze.
A young woman stood at a table wrapping up glasses in newspaper while another sat beside her, writing in a ledger. Through the trees Natalie could see two skinny dogs loping ahead of a slim, smiling woman, possibly in her sixties, who lifted an arm in greeting.
‘Natalie, this is May Lin. Her father started the Rangoon Glass Factory and she and her brother have carried it on,’ said Connie.
May Lin spoke beautiful English and offered to take Natalie on a tour around the workshops. She explained how they made their glass from special sand which came from a mountain near the Chinese border and that they made their own colours and glazes too. Natalie tried to absorb the information about their traditional glassmaking methods but she couldn’t stop staring.