July 23, 2014 at 2:10 p.m.
Getting his bearings
Back in the Saddle
Move in out of the shade. Pull up a chair.
Join me in taking respite from the mid-day heat of Rangoon.
I’m about half a week in on a project that’s scheduled for four weeks.
So far, I’ve been acclimating and listening, trying to get a handle on what’s happening in this extremely complicated country and trying to figure out how to adjust what I’m here to teach in a way that is somehow meaningful.
But sometimes — often — there’s simply a feeling of sensory overload. The sights, the sounds and the smells overwhelm.
The heat is a big part of that.
Though each day dawns gently, with haze over the lakes and a bit of smog over the city, by noon it’s stifling. Highs have been consistently in the 99-100 degree range every day, and after awhile that takes its toll.
Fatigue comes easily. Ambition is hard to come by. Procrastination makes a compelling case.
And then there is simply the other-worldly aspect of Burma/Myanmar itself. It’s hard to believe that this Southeast Asian nation is on the same planet with Indiana and Ohio at times.
They are simply that different.
Join me in the shade of this little café near the Aung Saun Market as I try to jot down in my journal a fraction of the things I’m seeing and hearing and feeling.
A conversation in Burmese drifts over from the next table. It’s a language as musical as it is baffling to me. Horns from passing traffic assert themselves. In the distance, I can hear the cry of some street vendor, then a truck shifts gears, drowning it out.
A smell of something rotting wafts through the open-air section of the café. Pigeons and other scavenger birds zip around like flying rats.
Women move along the sidewalk with parasols to ward off the heat. Others simply hold newspapers or books or a single sheet of paper over their heads in search of shade.
A pair of Catholic nuns, sweltering in their black habits, make their way down the street. The Buddhist nuns wear grey, and their heads are shaved in the fashion of Buddhist monks.
A fuschia the size of a large shrub is in full bloom, its blossoms an electric pink. A beggar woman with an infant in her arms paces in front of the café, looking at the patrons in hopes of finding someone who will be an easy touch.
Across the street, the end wall of an apartment building is motled with what looks like mildew or mold.
The aroma of a spice I don’t recognize escapes from the kitchen, which is open to the dining area, pots and pans rattling.
Women move down the street with a creamy paste on their cheeks as a sort of sunscreen. English conversation drifts in now from another table, then German from another.
Laundry hangs from balconies across the street. Satellite dishes sprout from the rooftops. Sandals slap against the pavement, a policeman sounds his whistle to get someone’s attention, and leaves fall suddenly from an unseen tree in a hot wind.
Half a week in, all I can do is catalog what I’m seeing and hearing and feeling and smelling and suspecting and guessing at.
Will it help me understand this place better?
Will it make me an ounce more effective when it comes to presenting my seminar to a bunch of reporters?
Maybe. But right now, it’s far too early to tell.
Move in out of the shade. Pull up a chair.
Join me in taking respite from the mid-day heat of Rangoon.
I’m about half a week in on a project that’s scheduled for four weeks.
So far, I’ve been acclimating and listening, trying to get a handle on what’s happening in this extremely complicated country and trying to figure out how to adjust what I’m here to teach in a way that is somehow meaningful.
But sometimes — often — there’s simply a feeling of sensory overload. The sights, the sounds and the smells overwhelm.
The heat is a big part of that.
Though each day dawns gently, with haze over the lakes and a bit of smog over the city, by noon it’s stifling. Highs have been consistently in the 99-100 degree range every day, and after awhile that takes its toll.
Fatigue comes easily. Ambition is hard to come by. Procrastination makes a compelling case.
And then there is simply the other-worldly aspect of Burma/Myanmar itself. It’s hard to believe that this Southeast Asian nation is on the same planet with Indiana and Ohio at times.
They are simply that different.
Join me in the shade of this little café near the Aung Saun Market as I try to jot down in my journal a fraction of the things I’m seeing and hearing and feeling.
A conversation in Burmese drifts over from the next table. It’s a language as musical as it is baffling to me. Horns from passing traffic assert themselves. In the distance, I can hear the cry of some street vendor, then a truck shifts gears, drowning it out.
A smell of something rotting wafts through the open-air section of the café. Pigeons and other scavenger birds zip around like flying rats.
Women move along the sidewalk with parasols to ward off the heat. Others simply hold newspapers or books or a single sheet of paper over their heads in search of shade.
A pair of Catholic nuns, sweltering in their black habits, make their way down the street. The Buddhist nuns wear grey, and their heads are shaved in the fashion of Buddhist monks.
A fuschia the size of a large shrub is in full bloom, its blossoms an electric pink. A beggar woman with an infant in her arms paces in front of the café, looking at the patrons in hopes of finding someone who will be an easy touch.
Across the street, the end wall of an apartment building is motled with what looks like mildew or mold.
The aroma of a spice I don’t recognize escapes from the kitchen, which is open to the dining area, pots and pans rattling.
Women move down the street with a creamy paste on their cheeks as a sort of sunscreen. English conversation drifts in now from another table, then German from another.
Laundry hangs from balconies across the street. Satellite dishes sprout from the rooftops. Sandals slap against the pavement, a policeman sounds his whistle to get someone’s attention, and leaves fall suddenly from an unseen tree in a hot wind.
Half a week in, all I can do is catalog what I’m seeing and hearing and feeling and smelling and suspecting and guessing at.
Will it help me understand this place better?
Will it make me an ounce more effective when it comes to presenting my seminar to a bunch of reporters?
Maybe. But right now, it’s far too early to tell.
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