Read Online Return to Mandalay by Rosanna Ley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rosanna Ley
Ads: Link
curries in huge cauldrons on top of braziers, the scents of spices, dried fish and nut oil hanging ripe and heavy in the air.
She laughingly refused a trishaw ride, a rejection which inspired the driver to spit betel juice forcefully on to the road. A nasty habit, she thought, noting his gory, red-stained teeth. The trishaw looked ancient and possibly dangerous, its saddles supported by two rusty springs and the driver himself was bow-legged and certainly no spring chicken. He rattled his money pouch enticingly at her, but she decided not to dice with death on Yangon’s busy highway. Instead, she bought a bag of oranges and a pancake for her lunch and stood in the shade for a moment to take it all in. It was as if she’d moved from one side of the world to the other. A G and T in the Strand Hotel at one end and a Burmese pancake cooked in peanut oil at the other – the price of said G and T enough to buy dinner for six at the local open-air eatery.
Before coming here for lunch, Eva had visited Bogyoke Aung San market, where she purchased two
longyis
made to measure, one in magenta silk and one in indigo batik; two embroidered white cotton blouses and a pair of black velvety Burmese slippers, flip flops really, but made of softer fabric and clearly
de rigeur
in Yangon. And she’d enjoyed the shopping trip; the Burmese liked to barter, but it seemed it was just for fun. ‘I am happy; you are happy,’ more than one of the stallholders had said to her when they’d agreed a price. And they were right. Eva was glad that she had come here with some room in her suitcase, as her grandfather had advised.
Her companion, probably in his early forties, she guessed, had taken his time before ordering Myanmar beer and a Burmese noodle soup. There was a cultured look about him, in the suave confidence of his voice and manner, in the clothes he wore, which were casual but expensive. Was he a tourist? He looked as though he knew his way around.
He glanced across at her, friendly enough. ‘It is your first visit here?’ he asked.
She must have it stamped on her forehead under her widebrimmed straw hat. An innocent abroad. ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘I only arrived yesterday.’
Yesterday, the agent from MyanTravel had met her at the airport and accompanied her in the taxi to the Agency Offices housed in a huge old colonial building where she had been given green tea and slices of juicy watermelon. She would have the morning to settle in, he’d told her and then she would be meeting with her company’s contact in Yangon who would collect her from her hotel at 3 p.m.
At three on the dot he had appeared in the hotel foyer. ‘I, Thein Thein,’ he said. ‘Now, I take you to the showroom.’ They had driven miles, finally arriving at a building that looked more like a shack than a showroom. The man who let them in looked rather shady too and already Eva was having doubts about what she was here to do.
The friendly little waiter brought the
kauk-sweh
soup, a thin broth with vegetables and stringy noodles.
‘How about you?’ Eva asked her companion. ‘It’s not your first trip, is it?’
‘No, it is not. I have been here many times,’ he told her. ‘The first in 1999.’
‘The city must have changed a lot since then.’ Eva poured herself more jasmine tea. The hotels seemed full and although all visitors must still bring only pristine US dollars to the country and there were few ATMs and internet cafés, she could see that other changes wouldn’t be long coming.
‘It has, yes. And you are travelling for pleasure, is that so?’
‘Yes and no. I’ve wanted to come here most of my life,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m here on behalf of the company I work for. I’m hoping to authenticate some antique pieces and arrange for them to be shipped back to the UK.’
‘Indeed?’ He took another spoonful of his soup. ‘You work for an antique dealer? You are an expert, perhaps?’ His blue eyes were twinkling and he had an
She laughingly refused a trishaw ride, a rejection which inspired the driver to spit betel juice forcefully on to the road. A nasty habit, she thought, noting his gory, red-stained teeth. The trishaw looked ancient and possibly dangerous, its saddles supported by two rusty springs and the driver himself was bow-legged and certainly no spring chicken. He rattled his money pouch enticingly at her, but she decided not to dice with death on Yangon’s busy highway. Instead, she bought a bag of oranges and a pancake for her lunch and stood in the shade for a moment to take it all in. It was as if she’d moved from one side of the world to the other. A G and T in the Strand Hotel at one end and a Burmese pancake cooked in peanut oil at the other – the price of said G and T enough to buy dinner for six at the local open-air eatery.
Before coming here for lunch, Eva had visited Bogyoke Aung San market, where she purchased two
longyis
made to measure, one in magenta silk and one in indigo batik; two embroidered white cotton blouses and a pair of black velvety Burmese slippers, flip flops really, but made of softer fabric and clearly
de rigeur
in Yangon. And she’d enjoyed the shopping trip; the Burmese liked to barter, but it seemed it was just for fun. ‘I am happy; you are happy,’ more than one of the stallholders had said to her when they’d agreed a price. And they were right. Eva was glad that she had come here with some room in her suitcase, as her grandfather had advised.
Her companion, probably in his early forties, she guessed, had taken his time before ordering Myanmar beer and a Burmese noodle soup. There was a cultured look about him, in the suave confidence of his voice and manner, in the clothes he wore, which were casual but expensive. Was he a tourist? He looked as though he knew his way around.
He glanced across at her, friendly enough. ‘It is your first visit here?’ he asked.
She must have it stamped on her forehead under her widebrimmed straw hat. An innocent abroad. ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘I only arrived yesterday.’
Yesterday, the agent from MyanTravel had met her at the airport and accompanied her in the taxi to the Agency Offices housed in a huge old colonial building where she had been given green tea and slices of juicy watermelon. She would have the morning to settle in, he’d told her and then she would be meeting with her company’s contact in Yangon who would collect her from her hotel at 3 p.m.
At three on the dot he had appeared in the hotel foyer. ‘I, Thein Thein,’ he said. ‘Now, I take you to the showroom.’ They had driven miles, finally arriving at a building that looked more like a shack than a showroom. The man who let them in looked rather shady too and already Eva was having doubts about what she was here to do.
The friendly little waiter brought the
kauk-sweh
soup, a thin broth with vegetables and stringy noodles.
‘How about you?’ Eva asked her companion. ‘It’s not your first trip, is it?’
‘No, it is not. I have been here many times,’ he told her. ‘The first in 1999.’
‘The city must have changed a lot since then.’ Eva poured herself more jasmine tea. The hotels seemed full and although all visitors must still bring only pristine US dollars to the country and there were few ATMs and internet cafés, she could see that other changes wouldn’t be long coming.
‘It has, yes. And you are travelling for pleasure, is that so?’
‘Yes and no. I’ve wanted to come here most of my life,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m here on behalf of the company I work for. I’m hoping to authenticate some antique pieces and arrange for them to be shipped back to the UK.’
‘Indeed?’ He took another spoonful of his soup. ‘You work for an antique dealer? You are an expert, perhaps?’ His blue eyes were twinkling and he had an
Similar Books
