Soul Of The Rains

The roads were nearly knee deep with dirty brown water that snail down from higher ground and joined the overflow outdated drainage system built for the nineteenth century. For that moment in time, our city’s streets were a never-ending sea of rushing, roaring water with islands of stopped vehicles in the middle of the roads, with traffic lights taking a ‘pause café’ due to short circuits. For us, the insistent rains were a normal state of affairs in the mist of monsoon, which might seem a little out of place to most westerners comparing to their usual standards.

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 52^nd 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  ………….