Travel to Yangon MyanmarTrip to Yangon Myanmar
Visit and love to Yangon, Burma
A Myanmar rapper's youthful sound on the air. Before I was even conceived, my cab had peaked, and the ageing iron was jumping and jingling down the street; the moaning of the vehicle audibly over the screaming soundtrack. During the sensorial congestion I discussed with myself whether the almost consistent shocks and blows were pot holes on the street or the basis that pumped out of the loudspeakers near my skull.
Then I looked at the young chauffeur who was occupying our box. Suddenly, I saw his fingers knocking on the handlebars in good timing to the sound of the car, without losing a stroke, even as he stretched his skull out of the windows to give a good-natured scream to the bike that blocked our way in the mid-road.
So when the rappers got feverishly excited, my cabbie sat down in his spot again and looked at me, a broad smile split his face before pointing at the radios and screaming about the sound. My chauffeur was rewarding me with a gigantic, instant aneous and merriment.
He/she reduced the score (let us not tell lies, probably in the hope that I would not "feel" the instant again) and began the regular line of questioning: For how long in Myanmar? His English then ran out and we fell into a pleasant stillness, the sound still vibrated in the backround as we drove around the edge into the probably most beautiful traffic circle of the earth, Sule Paya.
Ana and I had been to Sule Paya, a beautiful marina in the centre of Yangon, before. That cab trip took me around town to find a new guest house and most of the time I was anxious and under stress about Ana, back at the hospital.
But when we drove back to Ana, where the motel was now arranged and I concentrated on the cab journey back, the drive through the Sule Paya roundabout in Yangon fascinated me completely. I was slowing down in my life, times were slowing down, and the anxiety that afflicted my mind was fading into the buzzing of the night in Yangon.
Our vehicle was wrapped in a fragrance washing, which had abruptly decelerated to a creep when a fancy-dress party took up a fourth of the carousel. Hot air rinsed my face from the fry doughnuts right under my windshield. It has a barbecue flavour, man's perspiration and scented bouillon, united in an array of scents coming through my open automotive windows.
It was the first goddamn thing I'd been in years. He shimmered golden against the far dark skies. Myanmar's muffled bellow now raps me in tune with the sonic signals that come from the overwhelming crowd that slows down my cab. There was a swirl of the earth around me quicker than my mind could absorb, and I was bubbling with a smile.
Satisfied, I placed my heads and my arms on my rusted windshield and looked at the heart rate of my heart fading as our vehicle moved freely onto the open street.