In Time, Out of Place

by You Jin

  Theigni took me to see the tanaka tree near his house. Only three months old, the tree was thin and straight. The leaves were delicate, and covered in light veins. They grew in clusters of five.

  “The tanaka tree does not like the rain, so it can only be grown in the arid central regions of Myanmar.” Theigni stroked the tanaka tree, which was treated as a national treasure by its people. “We have to be patient, waiting until it is ten years old before we can use it. Usually, the drier the tree trunk and the thicker its bark, the better the quality, and the stronger the fragrance of the liquid powder that can be produced.”

  Each February or March, the tanaka tree would be covered in beautiful white flowers. The girls liked to pick them and wear them in their hair, looking stylish as they walked on the streets. When the tanaka tree matured, its bark could be used for cosmetics. When it was old, people would dig up its roots and grind them into a thick medicinal cream. To the people of Myanmar, the tanaka tree really was an unrivalled miracle.

  “Some people tried taking the fluid after it was ground up and setting it in square moulds, producing blocks of fragrant powder. They tried to sell it on the market, but it was not well received,” Theigni said. “The main reason for the failure is the slow, leisurely pace of our lives. We don’t have the concept of saving time. The women felt the ready-made product was not fresh enough, so they preferred to just buy a dried branch and take it back to grind their own cosmetics each day.”

  On the market, there were dried branches, and also stems, sold in bunches. A bunch sold for about five hundred Myanmar dollars a kilo (roughly five Singapore dollars). One bunch of branches could last for several months.

  Painstaking Work, Exquisite Craftsmanship

  Myanmar’s technological development was slow, and workers’ wages were low, so many traditional handicrafts that required a long period of time to make were preserved very well.

  Take Pagan for example—many citizens there made their living off lacquerware. One guidebook to Myanmar even had this to say about the situation in Pagan: Lacquerware is Myanmar’s most exquisite handicraft. In Pagan, ninety per cent of the population is involved in creating lacquerware.

  Theigni’s cousin Nyien was a lacquerware craftsman. That morning, when we went with Theigni to Nyien’s house, we found the man at work in his cellar three feet deep. Nyien was very patient. He did not speak English, but he explained tirelessly in detail the whole process of making lacquer in clear Burmese. The enthusiastic Theigni then translated everything to us in English. I followed the two of them carefully, listening and observing. Whilst listening, I clicked my tongue in awe. Whilst watching, I was enraptured. This lovely, bright handicraft really was Myanmar’s painstakingly wrought masterpiece.

  The lacquer tree originated in China, making its way to Japan in the sixth century. Later, it came to Myanmar from Japan. After planting the lacquer tree, it takes about ten years before its sap can be harvested and used for lacquer. The lacquer is white when it is extracted, but after coming into contact with the air, it turns yellowish-brown, and finally sepia.

  In Myanmar, there are three kinds of bases for making lacquerware: wood, rattan, and horsehair. The process of making lacquer is surprisingly complicated, and scarily tedious.

  Nyien first made a model from raw material, applying a layer of thick black lacquer on it. Then he put it on a stand in the cellar to solidify and dry. After a week, he took it out, and polished it with sandpaper until it was smooth. Then he mixed the ash of burned buffalo bones with raw lacquer, applied the mixture evenly on the outside and inside of the model, and put it back in the cellar for another week to let it set naturally. After it had set, he used broken stones and water to polish the whole model inside and out to a shine, then added another coat of lacquer. He repeated the process seven times—applying lacquer, polishing, setting—each process taking ten days to complete. (Using seven coats of lacquer is the most basic requirement. The better quality lacquer products have up to fifteen coats.) When the whole model was black and glossy, different patterns could be drawn on it, and later carved intricately with a fine needle or knife. When the carving was done, red stones were ground into powder and used to stain the whole model. It was then put back in the cellar. Fifteen days later, a mixture of rice bran and water was used to wash and clean it. When it was washed, the carving became clearly visible; the pattern was then all red. If other colours were desired, one had to add a layer of clear glue to the model, then go through the whole process of staining again.

  Generally, lacquerware only comes in four colours: red, green, yellow and orange. For each colour used, the piece has to be kept in the cellar for fifteen days to allow it to set. Because of this, single-coloured items are the cheapest, and the more colours a piece has, the more expensive it is. When the process of colouring is done, a final layer of lacquer is added to bring it to a shine, completing the project at last.

  Because the process of creating lacquerware is so time-consuming and intricate, even a small piece like a cup, bowl or plate can take seven months to make. Larger items like low tables or stools can take two years.

  Horsehair Lacquerware: humanity’s gem

  I looked at all the intricately beautiful items arranged neatly in Nyien’s house, and I had the feeling I had entered a treasure hoard and didn’t know what to do. Though I admit I wanted to buy some of the larger items, it was the smaller pieces that really caught my fancy. Nyien, seeming to read my mind, looked at me smiling. After a long whilst, he stood on tiptoe and took a cup down from the highest shelf and handed it to me. It was soft, and as soon as I pressed it with my hands, its shape changed. When I released my hands, it regained its original shape. What was more amazing was that it seemed almost weightless. This tiny cup depicted eleven Burmese women in traditional costume. Each woman looked different, and very lifelike: together they suggested a silent bustle which was very moving.

  Whilst I was looking at it, entranced, Nyien unexpectedly pressed the cigarette he held between his fingers roughly into the cup. Before I could gasp in surprise, I saw the little red tip of the cigarette go out with a hiss. Nyien smiled secretively and asked me to set the cup on the table. He took out his lighter, flicked it, and “burned” the beauties on the cup. The flickering flames licked the faces of the beauties violently but they did not harm them. The maidens did not move, and continued smiling sweetly. Next, he poured boiling water into the cup, and it elegantly maintained its shape. Nyien smiled even more proudly.

  “This is horsehair lacquerware,” Theigni said. “There are three special things about this kind—it won’t burn, scald or break.”

  “Where do you find the horsehair?”

  “My father drives a horse cart, so my family keeps a horse all year round. Every spring when the horse’s tail gets about twenty inches long, my father reluctantly cuts the long lovely hair and gives it to my cousin for his lacquerware.”

  “How many pieces can one horse tail make?”

  “For small pieces like this cup, you can do about twenty. When they are sold, you have to wait for the following spring when the horse’s tail reaches its ideal length so the hair can be cut again.”

  As I listened, I began to feel that there was a sort of life force in the cup I held. I could almost hear the sound of galloping hoofs—a handsome horse racing, its thick beautiful tail flying in the wind behind it. The eleven beautiful girls were all riding on one horse, each smiling enchantingly. As the horse ran, it sped right into my heart.

  My heart leaping, I asked, “How much is this cup?”

  Nyien replied calmly, and Theigni translated: “I don’t plan to sell it.”

  I stood up, asking urgently, “Not selling it? Why not?”

  Nyien stood on tiptoes again and took an envelope from the cupboard. The envelope had a stamp from Holland. I opened it and skimmed the letter. It was from a Dutch tourist. The letter not only thanked Nyien for his hospitality whilst the writer was in Pagan, but also expressed his intense lo
ve for the horsehair lacquerware. At the end of the letter, he said, The last time I came to Pagan, I bought five horsehair lacquerware pieces from you. I gave all of them to my friends. This kind of artwork, which is an accumulation of the Burmese people’s years of painstaking effort and the expression of their high degree of wisdom, deeply impressed my friends. Now, Nyien, my dear friend, I’m planning to buy twelve more from you. When you have finished, please send me a letter to inform me, and I will immediately arrange for them to be shipped to me.

  Theigni explained, “Nyien made twenty horsehair lacquerware pieces this year, and he sold five to this Dutch friend. After that, he sold another thirteen. Last week, when we received this letter, he only had four pieces left, so could not send them over. Now, my father’s horse’s tail is still not long enough, so we cannot cut it. Nyien is planning to keep the four cups he has for his Dutch friend.”

  I was very disappointed, being refused, and didn’t wish to hide it. I grumbled, “That person already has five and he still wants to buy more. He’s so greedy! I don’t even have one. It’s not fair!”

  Theigni translated what I had said, and Nyien laughed. They chattered in Burmese for a spell, then Theigni laughed and said, “Nyien has decided to sell two to you.” When he said this, as if afraid I would be greedy, he held up two fingers and said emphatically, “Two. He’ll only sell you two.”

  Each cup cost one thousand two hundred Burmese dollars (about twelve US dollars). For a unique piece of traditional handicraft like the horsehair lacquer, this price was terribly low. But to the people of Myanmar who had been struggling on the brink of poverty for so long, it was a shockingly high price. Most Burmese people worked hard for a whole month and only earned about a thousand Burmese dollars. Some did hard labour and only made seven hundred dollars. That is to say, to the ordinary people of Myanmar, one of these cups represented a month or two of their salary. (For the wood or rattan pieces, a cup of about the same size would only cost one-third the price of the horsehair piece.)

  My personal feeling was that this kind of traditional handicraft, which combined aesthetic sense and practical value, demonstrated not only the painstaking effort and wisdom of the Burmese people, it was also a symbol of their patience and persistence.

  There is a Chinese proverb that says, “Slow work produces exquisite workmanship.” Having been closed off for so many years, Myanmar still moved quite slowly, and traditional crafts like lacquerware-making, which were time-consuming and tedious, were very well preserved. But now that Myanmar has gradually opened its doors to the outside world, foreign investors are flocking in. It is easy to see that the future development of Myanmar’s economy will bring new ideas and new methods to the country, and accompanying this will be new ways of life and new values. The traditional handicrafts will fall by the wayside, and traditional mind-sets will face a great challenge.

  For Burmese who like traditional things and respect traditions, is this sort of change good or bad? Who can really answer that question?

  Pagan, this city with numerous historical relics, used to be the flourishing religious centre of Myanmar. Now, I can only deduce the past prosperity and bustle from the colourful Buddhist pagodas and temples. But dullness after splendour is not its final destiny.

  The Irrawady River, flowing through the ancient city of Pagan, has seen Myanmar’s ups and downs for thousands of years. As the new replaces the old, the ancient river continues to flow tranquilly and slowly. Someday when I revisit Myanmar, perhaps the only thing that will remain the same will be this beautiful river.

  About the Author

  YOU JIN has published more than 150 books in Chinese in Singapore, Taiwan, China, Hong Kong and Malaysia. These include novels, short story collections, travelogues and essays. She is the first recipient of both the Singapore Chinese Literary Award and the Montblanc-NUS Centre for the Arts Literary Award. She received the Zhong Shan Literary Award in 2010 and Singapore’s Cultural Medallion in 2009.

  About the Translator

  SHELLY BRYANT is the translator of Chew Kok Chang’s Other Cities, Other Lives, published by Epigram Books, and Sheng Keyi’s Northern Girls, which was published by Penguin Books and longlisted for the Man Asian Literary Prize. She is also the author of four volumes of poetry and two travel guides on Suzhou and Shanghai.

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