Stories

On our third day in Yangon, my friend Kerri and I decided to join our new friends Uros and Jerome for a ride on the Circle Train. We had all heard that it was a great way to spend a few hours, a great way to see some of the sights of the city for ourselves. I couldn’t wait – to see a country through the window of a train is one of my favourite ways to sightsee. The train is so named because it literally circles the city of Yangon; the whole journey takes approximately three hours, and a train comes every hour.

A couple of months ago, I re-watched the classic comedy Airplane!. I hadn’t seen it in years, but found myself laughing out loud at all of the silly jokes, the ridiculous puns, the over-the-top acting. For those who haven’t seen it (if not, I suggest you do), it depicts the plane ride from hell, one on which nearly everyone, including the pilots, becomes horribly ill. Comedy, and near disaster, ensues.

It got me thinking of all the times I’ve experienced something awful on an airplane. Put people in a confined space for hours on end and something weird is bound to happen. Add to that travel stress, uncomfortable seats, terrible food*, and, for some, a fear of flying, and you have a recipe for trouble.

It was March in Varanasi, and I had arrived as part of a three-week tour around India. I hesitated signing up for it all those months ago, when I was still mapping the route I’d take through Southeast and South Asia, an eight-month adventure that I’d thought of for years. I had never taken a tour of any kind, and I envisioned a bus full of khaki-wearing, sunburnt tourists, the kind who refused to eat street food or use a public toilet. As a solo traveller, I finally decided it would be easier and safer to travel with a group, even if it meant our days were sometimes planned down to the hour.

I was on one of those three-day tours from Hanoi that guaranteed a true Hmong experience. It was my first time to Southeast Asia, and I had arrived from Japan on holiday for a few weeks. The trip was booked on a whim, a necessary break from the months teaching in classrooms, a chance for my skin to finally see the sun again. The taxi from the airport hurtled down the highway – I had never seen such chaos. Motorbikes were laden with whole families, their pigs strapped to the sides; bandana-covered faces stared at me through slats in trucks, men off to try to make a few dollars for a day’s work.

There was music in this place, in the wheezing cars on uneven cobblestones, the roosters that crowed day and night, the low voices of the men who played checkers on the street, sat on overturned barrels. Looming like kings of a former empire, three volcanoes surrounded the city, protecting it, or threatening it, I didn’t know. The buildings of Antigua were painted red and blue and green, little jewels, and it was hard to imagine that once this place was ravaged by lava and fire. I walked through these streets half-dead, impervious to the action around me, unsure of my decision to come here. I feared I was taking it for granted, that the month I had planned in the city would be wasted on sadness and regret.

There, standing on the bridge that would take me to my flat, is a young man, his arms outstretched in wanting embrace, his face delighted at the sight of me. Looking at him you would have thought we were old friends, new lovers, that we had shared laughs or drinks or at least a handshake.

I have never seen him before in my life.