HOW TO ENJOY DELICIOUS TEA

The Ride to Mandalay Airport

'They are government police workers,' my 28-year-old taxi driver with glasses and unintentionally messy side-parted hair suddenly said, as he immediately slowed down the car at the turnoff for the Mandalay International Airport, an intolerable 48km from Mandalay center.

The 6am sun was only just turning the misty morning pink, but it was clear they didn't look like 'government workers.' Two women – one with a bright red longyi, a cranberry sweater and a pink towel on her head. The other with a thick white wood sweater, a floral green longyi and a fluffy red-and-white striped scarf around her head, and tight white gloves with little happy smiling suns on them. They both piled in the car, giggling at sharing a ride with a bleary-eyed foreigner, and carrying a plastic basket – each with nearly identical contents: a metal tin with that day's rice, a few tangerines, some tea mix packets, a tea cup stuffed with a couple gold flowers.

The driver had showed up at my Mandalay guesthouse early for my 7.55am flight. He was genuinely surprised when I said Mandalay was an interesting city. 'Really?!' When I told him I was an American, and that the temperature there now is below zero Centigrade, he paused, reflected then asked seriously, 'how do people live?

Just before we reached the turnoff, he volunteered stopping at a highway tea shop. And, with apparently a little time, I didn't resist. It was already starting to get early-morning business. We sat at a small wooden table in the well-lit, high-ceiling, concrete-floor, no-wall spot with a few tea ads around. One 'tea boy' just stared at me with a frozen smile. Most teashops in Myanmar have workers nine- to 11-year-old kids like him – poor boys from the countryside, who get room and board and a bit of pay in turn for long hours serving tea. I asked one what he hoped to do eventually. 'Make tea,' pointing to the 'tea man' pouring tea dramatically into cups with a spoonful or two of condensed milk.

We ordered, and I could hear staff scrambling with cassette tapes to end the silent morning. Soon heavily synthesized beat, topped with an endless guitar solo, heavily chorused, came on for my benefit. The driver told me his wife is 'six months baby' – I explained the word 'pregnant,' which he had a hard time with so I spelled it out in my notebook. 'Thank you for your lesson.' He insisted on paying for the tea ('only 200 kyat each,' about eight cents, 'it's so much cheaper than airport tea').

I wonder if my next New York City taxi driver wouldn't mind sharing some tea?