Everything here has to be done early. Morning market open at 3 in the morning when the electricity still out and it was cold and dark. For me it looks dangerous just to walk down on the street, alone, to this market. They sell stuffs under the candles light. And it’s not romantic or anything but undeveloped. I occasionally run into a few tourists, and they speak the language I didn’t really have a clue where they come from. This part of Burma clearly wasn’t a tourist place.
Burmese culture, from my point of view after visited the tribal villages, is one of those methodical systems of social and religious organization, a magnificent beehive of tasks and roles and ceremonies. They’re held within an elaborate lattice of customs. A combination of several factors created this network, but basically we can say that Burmese is what happens when the old rituals of traditional Buddhist is superimposed over a vast rice-growing agricultural society that operated, by necessity, with elaborate communal cooperation. There’s an unbelievable amount of shared labor, maintenance and engineering in order to proper, so each Burmese have to provide their own cooking area in the shared accommodation bungalow.
They consensus within the village, or in their shared bungalow. Over the village’s political and economic and religious and agricultural decision. When and where to killed their shared hogs. In Burma, the collective and farming are absolutely more important than the individual, or nobody eats.
The traditional domestic tribal houses are made of pines and bamboos. They’re elaborately made by the hand of the carpenter. You can see the crack at the pine columns or a scratch of the tools on the materials on the wall that can give you the feeling that this is not just a house. It’s an artificial work of the artisans in the past. This house contained the spirit when it was built. The house made by hands represents the spirit of human being. That’s what keeps this house alive, amidst all the dust and poor sanitation system. I sat down at the front porch facing west. They didn’t really care that too much sun may burn their skins. All they care about is to use the power of it as much as possible. Because that’s all they gotta do to make a living. I tried to snap a picture of the hog; black skin-pig. But turned out I couldn’t get one. They’re afraid of me; a harmless tourist, clearly unarmed unless they count a DSLR to some sort of weapons. I don’t understand why they’re afraid of me. Not the tribalian (they’re not afraid of them) who is the one that raises them and wait for them to get old enough in order to turning these innocent creatures into a meal and put it on the table.
Everything in the market has originate here; a house, a village. But market is, always, where the money goes. So all the hard works in the sun were result on the bunch of stand selling vegetables, organic meats and wild-flowers. I have to admit that I hadn’t exchange money in my pocket into Burmese currency, but luckily my tour guide lent me enough money just to by breakfast. The thing is this market reminded me of the day when I was young. I used to live in suburb in the south part of Thailand, back when I didn’t know how to use or speak your language. I instantly relieved that the food here has the taste from long ago, that I couldn’t recall in the big city, once I learn how to write and speak in your language. Everything has changed; this market and the rituals of waking up early in the country is gradually disappears in the clutter of dust. And within the next 10 years. Who know what would happen. There’s one thing to be sure of; it won’t be the same anymore. Because the world is moving so fucking fast these days. I tried to catch up with my thought while looking at the flower stand and the old lady, who has a face that may looks indifferent, but she’s very kind. She gave me a smile, the smile that could makes an angry man put his gun down, while used the gestured, waving at me to buy her beautiful wild-flowers.
I walked out of the market. Stunned by the stone-cold fact that these people didn’t really have much of a choice. The country has suffered from many things from a disaster to political crisis. They lived in the world where foods and religious are more important than the information. (Surprisingly they lived with dirt and insanitation households, but they just hardly get ills. I’m jealous.) That’s enough distraction to keep them busy for a day. Tomorrow they will just waking up and start doing the same thing no matter what.
When the sun came up, there’s no need to use candles anymore. The foods they couldn’t sell got stale by the cold. I got myself a meal. And it was delicious. I would love to change the word that defines this country from ‘dust’ into the new word which is . . . I don’t know, foods, perhaps. But wasn’t it strange if I composed the sentence that says; ‘Burma is foods?’ It doesn’t get along with what going on here. Maybe I should find some specific word that defines foods in particular like ‘sticky rice.’ Which sounds cool to me, but there’re sticky rice everywhere around here. (South-East Asia.) I have to kind of stick onto something that stands out so you can get the picture clear. I’m pretty sure that I’m wrong. The next 10 years; I don’t think this gonna be the appropriate word that can use to defines Burma anymore.
However, if I may admit another thing not entirely flattering to myself, this Burmese market isn’t really giving me a second looks. It like I’ve been here before. Sticky-rice, chicken and small coffee shop beside the street. These things are all too familiar to me. The kind of things that you neglect when you’re getting older. So I just enjoyed what I’ve been missing for a long time. I talked to people, a very small talk like; ‘How are you doing?’, ‘Good morning.’ This morning market giving me a wonderful time that I was once there before. I found no other way to recall all the feeling in the when I was young other than eat, and walked, and when I’m stuffed and no more Burmese money to buy food, imagined that I’m eating all the foods I see insight.
And, man, those flowers were so lovely it would be a sin if you didn’t buy it . . .