that’s fine.’ Eva was sorry for her initial hesitation.
She looked over at the busy street on the other side of the terrace. The people of Yangon were going about their business in the sweltering heat. Men and women in
longyis
, often carrying their wares on top of their heads in wide baskets as they elegantly threaded their way through the crowded streets. Different races, Sikhs, Shan, Indian, Thai, doing business on street corners. Street sellers and food-stalls, motor bikes and scooters with girls in
longyis
riding side-saddle, open-air trucks and trishaws … It was a riot of noise and colour. Eva had almost had heart failure when her taxi from the airport had hit a traffic jam. The driver had given a cursoryglance at the road ahead and simply continued, driving on the other side. No one had seemed to care.
There still weren’t many Westerners around in Yangon. And so when you saw one you tended to gravitate towards them to discuss local sights and the best places to eat. In other words, this blond stranger wasn’t coming on to her, he just wanted to have lunch.
‘Thank you. I appreciate that,’ he said, as he perused the menu.
She could tell from his accent that he wasn’t British. German, she guessed. His English was excellent though. And, like her, he seemed to be travelling alone. This was unusual. Most of the Westerners she’d spotted clustered in small groups with their tour guides as if Myanmar might otherwise taint them, though with what, she wasn’t sure.
‘
Min-ga-laba
. Welcome.’ A young Burmese waiter appeared. Like many of the Burmese he kept grinning and saying hello to tourists all the time. She’d had no reason so far to worry about travelling alone. The people in this city were the friendliest and most helpful she’d ever come across.
Earlier today, Eva had taken a taxi to the randomly placed gilded stupa of
Sule Playa
, at forty-eight metres high and positively glowing in the sunlight, it sat slap bang in the middle of the British-constructed grid system that made up downtown Yangon. And then, thinking of her grandfather, she’d got out, paid the driver and walked on to the grand colonial buildings on the waterfront. Already, the heat was all-consuming, the pavements baking and the Burmese were usingumbrellas as sunshades as they walked down the street. Her grandfather had told her what it was like arriving at Yangon on the steamer and, standing there, Eva could imagine. Stepping on to the jetty, walking on to the wide waterfront, faced by the Victorian High Court building, which could have been plucked from London’s Embankment, and the classic Strand Hotel. If
Sule Playa
reminded her that even in bustling downtown Yangon she was still in the land of golden temples, then these colonial architectural masterpieces were an equally resonant echo of the grandness of Imperial Britain.
Her grandfather had stayed in the Strand and so Eva stepped into its cool, air-conditioned interior, admired the luscious creaminess of the walls which set off to perfection the teak staircase, gallery and furnishings in the high-ceilinged foyer. It was pure, understated luxury. But her grandfather hadn’t strolled through hallways of precious Burmese art and jewellery as Eva was now doing. He would have stayed in a mosquito-infested room cooled by an electric paddle fan in those days. Even so, even before all its renovations, from what he’d told her, the colonial life in the Strand Hotel and elsewhere had been lavish and comfortable. At least compared to what most of the native Burmese had to endure.
After a restorative G & T in the plush bar, Eva had retraced her steps to the Indian and Chinese quarters where the locals squatted on their haunches among sacks of rice, lentils, heaps of noodles and, yes, definitely fried locusts. She grimaced. They chatted and laughed, their children playing nearby, as bicycles and trishaws careered along the narrow pot-holedstreets, and as they cooked Burmese
She looked over at the busy street on the other side of the terrace. The people of Yangon were going about their business in the sweltering heat. Men and women in
longyis
, often carrying their wares on top of their heads in wide baskets as they elegantly threaded their way through the crowded streets. Different races, Sikhs, Shan, Indian, Thai, doing business on street corners. Street sellers and food-stalls, motor bikes and scooters with girls in
longyis
riding side-saddle, open-air trucks and trishaws … It was a riot of noise and colour. Eva had almost had heart failure when her taxi from the airport had hit a traffic jam. The driver had given a cursoryglance at the road ahead and simply continued, driving on the other side. No one had seemed to care.
There still weren’t many Westerners around in Yangon. And so when you saw one you tended to gravitate towards them to discuss local sights and the best places to eat. In other words, this blond stranger wasn’t coming on to her, he just wanted to have lunch.
‘Thank you. I appreciate that,’ he said, as he perused the menu.
She could tell from his accent that he wasn’t British. German, she guessed. His English was excellent though. And, like her, he seemed to be travelling alone. This was unusual. Most of the Westerners she’d spotted clustered in small groups with their tour guides as if Myanmar might otherwise taint them, though with what, she wasn’t sure.
‘
Min-ga-laba
. Welcome.’ A young Burmese waiter appeared. Like many of the Burmese he kept grinning and saying hello to tourists all the time. She’d had no reason so far to worry about travelling alone. The people in this city were the friendliest and most helpful she’d ever come across.
Earlier today, Eva had taken a taxi to the randomly placed gilded stupa of
Sule Playa
, at forty-eight metres high and positively glowing in the sunlight, it sat slap bang in the middle of the British-constructed grid system that made up downtown Yangon. And then, thinking of her grandfather, she’d got out, paid the driver and walked on to the grand colonial buildings on the waterfront. Already, the heat was all-consuming, the pavements baking and the Burmese were usingumbrellas as sunshades as they walked down the street. Her grandfather had told her what it was like arriving at Yangon on the steamer and, standing there, Eva could imagine. Stepping on to the jetty, walking on to the wide waterfront, faced by the Victorian High Court building, which could have been plucked from London’s Embankment, and the classic Strand Hotel. If
Sule Playa
reminded her that even in bustling downtown Yangon she was still in the land of golden temples, then these colonial architectural masterpieces were an equally resonant echo of the grandness of Imperial Britain.
Her grandfather had stayed in the Strand and so Eva stepped into its cool, air-conditioned interior, admired the luscious creaminess of the walls which set off to perfection the teak staircase, gallery and furnishings in the high-ceilinged foyer. It was pure, understated luxury. But her grandfather hadn’t strolled through hallways of precious Burmese art and jewellery as Eva was now doing. He would have stayed in a mosquito-infested room cooled by an electric paddle fan in those days. Even so, even before all its renovations, from what he’d told her, the colonial life in the Strand Hotel and elsewhere had been lavish and comfortable. At least compared to what most of the native Burmese had to endure.
After a restorative G & T in the plush bar, Eva had retraced her steps to the Indian and Chinese quarters where the locals squatted on their haunches among sacks of rice, lentils, heaps of noodles and, yes, definitely fried locusts. She grimaced. They chatted and laughed, their children playing nearby, as bicycles and trishaws careered along the narrow pot-holedstreets, and as they cooked Burmese
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