In Yangon (Rangoon), the overflowing drainage systems are a part of everyday
life in the rainy season that is repeated year after year even though the
municipal would clean them in the dry season, to prepare for the approaching
rains months ahead. It is clearly evident that their measures were insufficient
or something wrong somewhere to be sure: whatever, the scenes were repeated
yearly as far as I can remember, nothing new really. We Myanmar are very
forgiving people, must be the Buddhist religion, with a few mumbles and quiet
grunts, we would go about our usual businesses at the end of the day, thus a
never ending cycle repeating itself.
As I stepped down from the bus at
downtown 52nd Street stop, my right leg plunged into a tepid liquid,
actually it was neither cold nor warm, just wet, maybe a wee bit on the cold
side at times, followed by my other leg. The colour of the overflow sea of rain
reminded me of my coffee that I had that morning prepared by my loving wife, sweet
condensed milk with coffee and a spoonful of sugar, just to add that punch of
extra sweetness. With my tiffin box in my right hand and upholding an umbrella
in my left, I navigated the pavements to my workplace, which was still a good
another half hour walk. The rubber slippers on my feet felt quite secure and I
could not sense any mud underneath which was a blessing as it made my walking
reasonably more secure. Mary bought me the rubber flip flops last year so that
my normal leather slippers need not be worn during the monsoon and would last
longer, specifically no further need to face the challenges of our monsoon
downpour.
At least the buses are still
working, after all they were purchased as second hand or as reconditioned from
Japan, Korea and China and no telling how robust and sturdy they all are, we
Myanmar importers like cheap, cheap things, profits for the rich few are name
of the game. I am quite sure the weather there is somewhat unlike our monsoon
and may not be built to withstand such punishment. Out of the whole lot, the
buses from China are the worst with low power, slower, frequently breaking
down and not so well constructed as their contemporaries. The tires diameters are all above one
meter, thus negotiating our monsoon seas are not much of a problem with their
engines higher than the water levels. I live in Thaketa, a township with
nineteen wards and about half a million of us are located in that eastern part
of Yangon where working classes like my goodself live and cocoon there.
Without the buses, I’m sure Yangon will come to a stand still. There is the
alternative Yangon Circular Railway, however afraid it does not touch our
satellite town in the east, which would have been nice as it is the cheapest
form of transport around. In our ward, being the furthest from Yangon, our
house or more correctly dwelling was built on stilts of hardwood poles, similar
to those from the deep countryside to overcome and counter such an occurrence.
The roads are still dirt tracks and far from being tarred: afraid we are not in
the VIP list. Some households do own a laung hlay (narrow wooden boat), which they use for commuting but not too many
around.
The southwest monsoon graces its
yearly entrée by May or June with dances of thunder, lighting bolts and high
winds till October and the five/six months are full of contradictions. At times
it may pour down with such force that roofs, trees, telegraph poles and what
not are totally displaced or destroyed. Sometimes the rains would continuously
drag for days on end or maybe weeks without a break. Should the Rain Gods be
kind, it does give a few hours recess during the day. One thing is for sure
though, it does not only rains but it pours creating temporary lakes, rivers,
streams and seas.
Our monsoon rains are a blessing
if we know how to appreciate it. Take for instance the young couple I saw on my
slow wet slog to work; he would balance his umbrella in one hand while
shouldering his beloved with the other, sharing it while she snuggled close to
him, holding her drenched cane basket with tiffin box and folded automatic
umbrella in one hand. What a wonderful sight and I’m sure this frame would not
be repeated after bearing a few children by her. I also would witness children
playing in the rain on their way to school while others have a dip as
though it was the sea. Some just
sat outside their apartments watching the going on unfolding in front of
them. Each time I have a meal with
my family, I quietly thank the farmers and peasants for the rice we were eating
and all this would not have been possible if not for the monsoon rains. Heavens
opening up is really a Godsend, a ritual we go through every year and at least
we do not need the long and heavy overcoats. City dwellers may curse but in
fact we must thank the Rain God, for he is lending us a helping hand for our daily
meals, we city folks sure can be complacent at times, are we not?
My house is of a wooden structure
and the roof is of galvanized wrought iron sheets. All five of us; I, my wife’s
mum and dad, Mary and our pride and joy little Ma Pyone (Miss Smile) three years old resides. Mary’s dad looks after the
four ducks, who all enjoy a field day quacking in the rains and shelter beneath
our house when they so desires. Her mum and Mary has a small stall selling puns, sweets, cheroots, cigarettes and a few knick knacks in front which pays for our
kitchen needs and the replenishments of their rickety stall. The hatched duck eggs does fetch a fair
price in the market and my salary runs the household. During the weekends, I
would hold my mug of coffee in the mornings and gaze out onto our dirt street
filled with rainwater while the peddlers and passer bys negotiate the temporary
stream. Inside our house may be dry but with over 80% humidity, all one touches is a
bit damp while I listen to the symphony being played by the heavens above on my
galvanized roof. I often wonder do the monks with their shaven heads without
umbrellas or raincoats get pneumonia collecting elms in wet robes and bare feet
daily ………….
