GIVE ME INDEPENDENCE, OR ANOTHER ROOM

Saga! On the loose in Shwebo

The guesthouse manager, beer belly hanging over his plaid longyi(skirt-style pants), thrust his finger at my shoulder, his voice
rising, as I tried to talk on the phone. Easily the angriest man I've
seen in the country in several months of travel here… saying things
like 'passport' and 'police' and 'immigration' in English, and
probably less kind words in Burmese. But I kept up my smile, and
tried to find out what was happening, talking with a friend in Yangon that I called in near panic. I simply wanted my passport back and to get the hell out of the guesthouse that likely doubled as a brothel.
But they were insisting I sign a form and pay something equivalent to
$15. Sometimes getting off-the-radar isn't exactly a breeze.

Before I got to Shwebo I knew it was going to be difficult. Guesthouses and hotels in Myanmar must be licensed to host foreigners,and three years ago none were in Shwebo. I spent a night in a pit, not daring spend long in the bathroom. This time I'd try to get something better. I tried to call a few day ahead to a nice guesthouse I
visited last time, thinking that might make it easier. I wanted to stay last time, but they were 'full' though let me see several clearly empty rooms so I could get the details for a LP review that would do no one any good.

I had a local pal in Mandalay call, and the hotel staff happily spoke,answering questions about how much rooms costs. As soon as we asked for the price for a foreigner – always about 500% the local cost, or more – they started pressing buttons, said 'Ha-lo?' and hung up. My Mandalay pal laughed, 'As soon as I mentioned foreigner, they acted like a child… pressing buttons like there was interference. I used to do the same thing when I'd call a girlfriend when I was a teenager, and her dad would answer!' We called another less-desirable guesthouse, and I listened to a riotously funny conversation, where my
pal spelled out 'R-O-B-E-R-T' five, six times… and they still couldn't get it. When he mentioned 'American,' I could hear the gasp five feet from the phone receiver. 'Oh, my. Please have him keep his bus ticket here. We will need to submit everything to the police.' The dingy room they booked me for – a dark, foul cell-like room, with just enough space to fit a mattress, and an attached bathroom with pit toilet and cobwebs you wished was down the hall, all for $15, easily the most
over-priced room in the country.

Foreigners are free to visit Shwebo – a scrappy, dusty town, with a few gold pagodas, some re-built palace buildings from its days as
capital three centuries ago, a portion of the old moat. But probably only about 50 come a year. That's one of the great things about this sort of work – getting to places you very unlikely would see otherwise. I arrived today on Myanmar's 60th anniversary. The government-line publication New Light of Myanmar published a hilarious poem in yesterday's paper called 'Historical Patriotic Pride' for the
occasion. But in Monywa, where I woke, and Shwebo, there was no sign of celebration. I stopped into a teashop on Shwebo's main street, and a father and son (dad in Dr Seuss-tall knit cap, son with long hair and dyed-red streaks) joined me to talk about Shwebo ('oh, very very big, maybe 60,000 people live here!,' dad said), rock bands in Shwebo ('Academy's OK – they do weddings,' son said, 'I can't play guitar,
but I sing very well'), and instructions on how to make a delicious cup of tea. They had no answer for why the independence day celebrations didn't exist, but gave me an Iron Cross CD (Myanmar's favorite rock band) and wouldn't accept payment for my tea ('this is for our friendship,' dad said with a handshake).

I wandered around that fake palace for a few minutes and past the central market, where banana sellers yelled out 'hi' after me. A few
men leaned over the dirt, facing a series of rounded holes making a triangle, trying to roll marbles into successive holes, and gaining 100 kyat (about eight cents) from each fellow player after a victorious roll. A lone elder man in a soft Burmese army cap that many locals wear casually, said 'From which country are you from?' and
tried to explain the rules 'One hole, two, three, four then five!' He lost every turn. I wandered on and a man with a long beard and skull cap drove by on a bike, suddenly turning to me, asked with a booming voice, 'You are feeling fine, gentleman?' Yes, very, and you? 'Very good, thank you.' Then drove on.

A fine afternoon after a rocky beginning. After reaching Shwebo on a three-and-a-half hour bus ride from Monywa, with a sleeping monk
occasionally leaning on my shoulder, I arrived at that $15 guesthouse,then after they took my passport to the police, and left me waiting for an hour, I wandered around the corner, where a brand new, shiny Chinese-style guesthouse stood with open arms. Staff spoke English, rooms have air con, satellite TV, big refrigerators, telephone, and spotless floors and walls. They knew how to process a passport without
making me wait, and asked only $12. I returned to the first, and let them know, sorry, but I didn't want to stay, and would be happy to pay a few thousand kyat for the inconvenience. When my friend on the phone from Yangon finally explained, I handed over the kyat and the manager gave a little wink and a salute, and even a smile, then shook my hand. 'See you later!'