Making Ends Meet

Mr. Ye’s (alias) story is incredible because it is so ordinary. He is a spry, rail-thin man of 59 with large, elfish ears and tattoos covering both his arms and chest. And, as is the case with most Burmese, he has had to work all of the angels in order to survive.

Life Without Duties

As soon as I crossed the border from Ruili, China into Muse, Myanmar, I was greeted by the General in charge of the border, a film crew, and a group of photographers. The General, who was distinguished from the other Army officials by his slightly lighter green uniform, was a short, squat man whose few remaining teeth had been stained red by betel nut, the chewing of which seems to be a national pastime in Myanmar.

As the cameras rolled and crowds gathered to stare at the fair-haired American with the local governmental leader, the villagers quietly whispered and joked among themselves. I found out later they were discussing how much time the encounter would take up on the local news programs that evening and if my picture would be in the paper the following day. After stumbling through his welcome speech, confirming that I was an American citizen, and lightly chastising me for not bringing any of my friends along, I was allowed to proceed into a car and travel for several hours past jeeps with large machine guns on my way to Lashio, the first city after the border in which foreigners are allowed. This was my introduction to Myanmar, a land of stunning beauty, crushing poverty, friendly people, and a strong, authoritarian military government.