Peeling off the layers in Myanmar

Some friends call me “Queen of the Streets” because I have this sick tendency of being followed by random creepy people. Yes, not cute guys, but the scary types. I remember walking on the sidewalk when a drunken guy followed me to a jeepney (a public transport in Manila), and declared his undying love for me. After a Karate tournament, a mid-thirties woman also followed me home because she wanted me to adopt her. It’s like I have this signboard on my head that says, “Creepy? This way please.”

So imagine my nervousness when I booked a flight to Myanmar, with the intention of going solo. My friends’ reactions varied from “Wow!” to “Are you nuts?” It disturbed them; not only because the world still know so little about Myanmar, but also because they know me well— my navigation skill is 1/10, getting lost is my day-to-day habit, maps make me nauseous, and I’m a creepy magnet. But I needed to do it. I’ve been nursing a broken heart for six years, and I thought maybe a shocking experience, may it be awesome or terrible, would finally electrocute me out of it.

My first day did electrocute me. Days before the trip, a friend told me that because I am Asian too and resemble the Burmese, I can get away with not paying the entrance fees. The fees go to corrupt and abusive military officials anyway, he said, and even the Lonely Planet guidebook advises against paying the fees.

I decided to give that a try in the famous Shwedagon Pagoda in Yangon. I did manage to go inside the pagoda with ease, until one guy approached me. He asked if he could be my tour guide. I politely declined. He kept asking, and always, I would gently refuse him. It pissed him off and he began to ask if I paid the entrance fee because I don’t seem to hold pagoda brochures. He angrily uttered, “You don’t help Myanmar people!” before reporting me to the guards. It was totally humiliating.

I went back early to my backpacker hostel. “This journey to heal a broken heart is totally failing,” I muttered as I cry myself to sleep. I am this professional, who constantly makes a conscious effort to support small-time vendors and fair trade but that guy accused me that in my true form I am a cheapskate who wants to save money at the expense of the poor.  I can make excuses, but I know there’s some truth to it.

I woke up to have dinner, still feeling awful, when I met a Buddhist Israeli. We decided to have dinner together. While munching on doughnuts, he told me that he travels to peel off his layers. So if there’s anything that I don’t like about my character, I can peel that off and just leave it. Those words changed me. I resolved to peel off the cheapskate and the hypersensitive lady, and went to my next destination.

It was a 12-hour bus ride to get to Bagan, an ancient city that boasts of thousands of temples and pagodas that were built between 1057 and 1287.

I was forced to rent a bicycle because other means of touring the temples were too expensive. I had a bicycle accident when I was a kid, and ever since then biking scared the living daylights out of me. But with the courage of a woman who’s been stuck in the world’s lamest heartbreak far too long, I pushed through.

I started biking at 4:30 am so the road will be empty. I hoped that by the time all the cars arrive, I would already be comfortably and confidently biking.

Rush hour came. I biked confidently, yet I heard my heartbeat each time a bus passed by. I entered a residential street to avoid the cars. The road was narrow and a bit rough. Every conquered rock or jagged surface was victory; I felt like I’m winning the Tour de France. And then I saw a red car coming, telling me that I will fail again, that I will fall, that I will not survive. It passed by without hitting me, but I over-reacted and threw myself to the ground.

 I gave a signal to the driver that I’m okay. It was like me telling my heartache, “It hurt but it didn’t kill me. You can go.” I dusted myself up and laughed.

After days of seeing glorious sunsets over temples, boating in scenic lakes, and chitchatting with perky strangers, my heart still did not heal completely. But I’ve found a new courage to face that brokenness. I guess the constant conquering and peeling off layers, toughened me up.

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