Story: Full Moon Day of Tazaungmone

 

On the night before full moon in November, the pagodas of Myanmar stay open all night to welcome visitors. People lie on rough blankets on the marble pagoda floor and set up small camps beside golden Buddhas and under golden awnings. People stop pray, pour water and light candles in honour of the symbol of the day of the week they were born.

Shwe Dagon Pagoda is a giant Buddhist temple built in the 6th century. In its golden tower, alongside diamonds and jewels are eight hairs from the head of the Lord Gautama Buddha. It is located in the centre of Yangon, at the top of long steeps flights of stairs. The central courtyard makes a wide circle, decorated with lines of shrines, fountains and candles on the inside. On the outside there are small houses with Buddha statutes in different forms shapes and sizes, with lanterns, fairy lights, marble and glistening golden walls.

Tazaungmone is the festival to make new robes for the Buddha statutes in the pagoda. Groups work on looms to weave new cloth in a bright golden yellow. Crowds cheer on as the competition to be the first group to finish gains momentum. The crowd watch on via video transmission into the central room of the Pagoda.

Everyone smiles, stops, stares as I pass.

” Minglabar” they all say.

“Minglabar” I say back and they are delighted with my one word of Burmese, laughing and pointing

“Minglabar!” We communicate by signs, pointing to their children, or sweet smelling jasmine flowers. One little boy jumps in front of the camera, grins as I take a picture, then rushes forward to shake my hand piping:

“Nice to meet you.”

Others are keen to practice English and they stop me to discuss religion, politics, my home country, my job and pop music. One monk and his friends ask about my taste in music.

“Do you like Justin Bieber? Do you like Katy Perry? Do you like nightclub? “

“Do you like Justin Bieber?” I ask

“No” the monk laughs back, “I am a monk, I cannot listen Justin Bieber!”

Others consider more philosophical questions. A young boy asks about the meaning of life.

“We have one life and it ends.” He announces. “So what will we do then?”his eyes wide and round, his mouth wide in a smile.

As night goes on, more people prepare to sleep, it feels like Christmas and New Year all in one night. When the sun starts to come through the clouds it casts warm light onto the golden tower, people hand out sweet rolls and red juice, monks lay out their wooden bowls to collect donations. Some sitting humbly, other walking among the crowds, others moving in groups, descending on the generous and the tourists in groups of ten or twenty like children trick or treating at Halloween. Some seem delighted with their gifts. One young boy monk struggles to carrying his collection of gifts, his bowl and hands overflowing with bits of cake, some money, fruit, piles of noodles.

As day hits the pagoda the temple loses some of its magic. People disperse into the city and everyday movement returns to the towers and statutes of the Pagoda. The full moon gives way to the sun and the monks move to eat a donated breakfast in another part of town, before getting on buses back to their monasteries, their bags of goodies tucked like a children’s presents under their robes.

Story: Walking and Talking with Monks

“We are walking and talking,”he says abruptly from the crowd. A short monk, dressed in a dark red robe and carrying a wooden collection bowl. Thick tufts of grey hair grow directly from his ears.

“We are walking and talking, ” he repeats.

“OK.” I say.

So we begin to walk and talk, circling the giant golden pagoda tower, our bare feet moving over the morning marble floor. We move through crowds of people who watch us, some greeting the monk.

“My students,” he says.

He talks about UK politics, wonders about Tony Blair’s career after politics. He discusses the role of the USA in South Asian politics.

“Someone told me a story of a Scotsman who got a fly in his whiskey. He picked out the fly and continued to drink. They say the Scots are very miser,” he laughs, “is this true?” Quickly, he looks right.

“Chinese tourists” he says with a wink, rushing forward with his alms bowl for donations. The Chinese tourists give generously. He smiles at me, shutting the lid on his bowl.

He talks about his life in a monastery north of Yangon, and the bus he will take to return there later on in the day. We continue to walk around the pagoda tower.

“We find teashop, go for tea” he suggests.

A young monk is offers noodles by one of the grand entrances to the pagoda. The monk rushes forward again.

“Noodles, good with tea” he grins accepting a large spoonful of noodles into the bottom of his bowl.

We start to walk down stairs to look for the teashop. At the exit, people offer drinks to people for the festival day.

“Cold drink” he says, “very nice cold drink.” He takes a cup, swallowing it quickly.

“Teashop not this exit, back up.” he says, so we take an elevator back up to the pagoda, now hot and bright with day. We circle again looking for the teashop.

“What time is it?”

“I have a clock that talks” he says. “A talking clock.” He presses the talking clock, which says in American:

“It is eight o two o’clock.”

We circle the pagoda a few more times.

We do not find the teashop, it is already day. The monk starts walking towards the exit. “Eight o’clock. Free lunch near Phay Road in one hour for monk. Monk not eat afternoon.” He smiles, beckoning me to follow.

Lucky Dip: Binyavanga WainainaI

An extract from a short story, Discovering Home by Binyavanga WainainaI, from the collection : Ten Years of the Caine Prize for African Writing, published by the New Internationalist

I particularly liked the impressions of powerful strong women in this story. It is a great contrast to the many stories of women’s disempowerment or weak, oppressed African women. The main woman character in this tale is strong, smart and capable. The women are also not presented in as sexy or alluring. They obtain their power through other means, in the same way as a man might. They do not use their ‘feminine charms’ to win men over.

The main character Eddah has political power as a member of a political parties, economic power by asserting control and ownership of her husband’s resources as well as setting up her own business and physical power by acting together with other local women. She also has essentials provided to her via a garden which men tend for her and from a shop owner with whom she has an affair.

Indeed, these women possess most of the characteristics sought after by development projects for gender equality or women’s rights : political participation or participation in decision making and generating alternative forms of income. The methods used to accrue these forms of power may not be the most orthodox, yet it is difficult not to admire the strength and resourcefulness of these women and particularly Eddah who defies a system which could very well be considered intended to suppress her.

Here are the extracts which show some of the strong female characters.

“I met Eddah when she had just married Ole Kamaro. She was his fifth wife, 13 years old … I remember being horrified by the marriage – she was so young! … ( A) few years of schooling were enough to give Eddah a clear idea if the badc tenets of Empowerment. By the time she was 18, Ole Kamaro had dumped the rest of his wives. Eddah leased out his land to Kenya Breweries and opened a bank account where all the money went. Occasionally, she gave her husband pocket money.

Whenever he was away, she took up with her lover, a wealthy young Kikuyu shopkeeper from the other side of the hill who kept her supplied with essentials like soap, matches and paraffin.

Eddah was the local chairwoman of KANU (Kenya’s Ruling Party) Women’s League and so remained invulnerable to censure from conservative elements around. She also had a thriving business, curing hides and beading them elaborately for the tourist market at the Mara. Unlike most Masai women, who disdain growing of crops, she had a thriving market garden with maize, beans, and various vegetables. She did not lift a finger to take care of this garden. Part of the co-operation we expected from her as landlady meant that our staff had to take care of that garden. Her reasoning was that Kikuyu men are cowardly women anyway and they do farming so-oo well.

Something interesting is going on today. There is a tradition amongst Masai, that women are released from all domestic duties a few months after giving birth. The women are allowed to take over the land and claim any lovers that they choose … I have been warned to keep away from any bands of women wandering about. We are on some enourmous hill and I can feel old Massey Ferguson’s tractor wheezing. We get to the top, turn to make our way down, and there they are: led by Eddah, a troop of about 40 women marching towards us dressed in their best traditional clothing.

Eddah looks imperious and beautiful in her beaded leather cloak, red khanga wraps, rings, necklaces and earrings. There is an old woman amongst them, she must be 70 and she is cackling in toothless glee. She takes off her wrap and displays her breasts – they resemble old gym socks.

Mwangi who is driving, stops, and tries to turn back, but the road is too narrow:on one side there us the mountain, and in the other, a yawning valley. Kipsang, who is sitting in the trailer with me shouts for Karanja to drive right through them:

“DO NOT STOP!”

It seems that the modernised version of this tradition involves men making donations to the KANU Women’s Group. Innocent enough, you’d think – but the amount of these donations must satisfy them or they will strip you naked and do unspeakable things to your body.

So we take off at full speed. The women stand firm in the middle if the road. We can’t swerve. We stop.

Then Kipsang saves our skins by throwing a bunch of coins onto the road. I throw down some notes and Mwangi … empties his pockets, throws down notes and coins. The women start to gather the money, the tractor roars back into action and we drive through them.I am left with the picture of the toothless old lady diving to avoid the tractor. Then standing, looking at us and laughing, her breasts flapping about like a Flag of Victory.

Train ride around Yangon

A few photos from riding the train which circles the city if Yangon. The whole train ride is three hours long and offers an interesting way to see the city. Although I have been in Yangon for two months now, I was surprised by the city that revealed itself through the train windows. It is not the Myanmar seen from taxis, buses and pavements. The old train track cuts through a different city where the new developments of shopping malls, good roads and smart cafes are yet to appear. People wash by the side of the train track, crumbing houses and shacks compete for space, lines of clothes lie flat on the tracks, drying in the sun. Then, there are food stalls, with low plastic chairs and sweeping tarpaulin covers and further from the city rice fields, country villages and agricultural markets. People climb on the train with baskets full of corn, rice and other vegetables. They heap them in great piles in the middle of the aisles then lean onto benches at the side of the carriage and watch as the train circles into Yangon central station, then out again, to make another turn around the city.

New Year’s Day

Happy New Year everyone! Sorry for not posting for so long. I have some problems accessing WordPress and internet from my new home in Yangon. I hope to rectify this soon. In the meantime here are a few photos taken wandering Bangkok on New Year’s Day.

Lucky Dip: Rachida Madani

This week a new Lucky Dip post from an Excerpt from Rachida Madani’s Tales of A Severed Head, translated from the French by Marilyn Hacker and published by Yale University Press in September 2012, featured on Jadaliyya. Rachida beautifully expresses the feelings of being a woman in Morocco in a changing but still traditional society. In a world where women are both moving on and being held forcibly back.

A few lines beautiful lines I want to share from the poem The Severed Head:

What city and what night

since it’s night in the city

when a woman and a train-station argue over

the same half of a man who is leaving?

He is young, handsome

he is leaving for a piece of white bread.

She is young, beautiful as a springtime

cluster

trying to flower for the last time

for her man who is leaving.

But the train arrives

but the branch breaks

but suddenly it’s raining in the station

in the midst of spring.

And the train emerges from all directions

It whistles and goes right through the woman

the whole length of her.

Where the woman bleeds, there will never be spring

Again.

in the night, in her head, under the pillow

trains pass filled with men

filled with mud

and they all go through her

the whole length of her.

How many winters will pass, how many snowfalls

before the first bleeding letter

before the first mouthful of white bread?

Weekly Photo Challenge : Geometry

To explore the lines that we built and the way in which they fit together. I have moved continent to SE Asia to start a new job. On the way I spend a few nights in Bangkok. Yesterday I visited the Wat Phra temple. The geometry is so different from European and Middle Eastern architecture. Its difference highlights how different I find it here, how new everything seems.

I like this these shots because of the strangeness of the angles and composition. The lines of he building run against each other and attack the frame. It made me reflect on the geometry of our lives. How we slide together, fit together in harmony or jar oddly side by side. In this new continent I feel that I jar. I seem strange and ungeometric. I don’t know the social customs. I don’t know any of the words to say. With time I will perhaps slip in line more easily. Learn the patterns and how to turn myself into one. In the meantime I stick cut a hard line against my surroundings, displaying my foreign geometry.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Silhouette

This post takes us to my native Scotland. A Highlander Bull stands in silhouette against a Saltire-coloured sky. He is dark, a defiant shape on the horizon. His horns make a determined point, his bulky body ensures we keep our distance.

In the morning the farmer wakes early to lead him towards his house. He feeds him by hand, sits by his side to brush his long, red-haired coat. The bull placidly follows, chews on a thistle, bellows so softly.

In Scotland this past two weeks has marked the agreement on the terms for a reference for independence. It is exciting, but also now a slightly nervous reality. We Scots like the romantic history of battles we fought against the English, the dramatic defeat of Bonnie Prince Charlie, the sharp words of The Bard Robert Burns, the bravery of William Wallace, the strength of our Kings and Queens. We re-enact them on football pitches, sell them to tourists, toast them in our pubs, speak them in heated, cocksure rhetoric.

Now on paper, in legal terms, independence is no longer a romantic dream, it is a real possibility. Now, we must determine if it is a reality we want according to sober statistics, long legal documents and economic prospects. Our hearts, our myths, our ancestors are silent. They no longer speak for us. Now independence must be assessed by our heads. That is not where our passions lie.

The silhouette image of the Highlander Bull speaks to Scotland’s romantic past. The image of the lone, warrior, fighting and defending his land. Fighting against rough, barren terrain, seeking freedom at all cost. The reality is of course the morning breakfast with the farmer, a much more mundane and quiet affair, without the romance of myth or the illusion of grandeur.

There is still much to be determined, much to be seen. Whatever choices we make in 2014, it is this week we realised that even if in the future we can (and most likely will) create a myth of this moment, the results of the referendum for us will be much less dramatic and much more vital.

Ligo Circle of Appreciation

As a big fan of celebrations which reflect the season turn of the earth, I am very happy to have been invited to join the Ligo Circle of Appreciation by Essenga’s Voice.

The yearly Līgo celebration happens every summer solstice in Latvia. At this time we adorn our heads with Līgos of flowers, oak leaves, grasses and plants. We join circles around bonfires and celebrate life, and our appreciation of each other.

Here’s our Līgo Circle of Appreciation among fellow bloggers.

For duration of 22 days, starting on 1st October 2012, we will be inviting 2 bloggers per day to join the Līgo Circle of Appreciation.

PLEASE NOTE: This is an Appreciation, NOT an Award.

To fully participate in the Līgo Circle of Appreciation:

* Complete this sentence about blogging: ”A great blog is…”
* Refer back to the blogger who invited you
* Invite 2 bloggers to join the Līgo Circle of Appreciation on a post

Here goes:

A great blog is true to the person writing it. It is creative, honest and prepared with care.

The bloggers I would like to invite to join are:

SageDoyle

Taste for Adventure

 

~

Liebster Blog Award

Lucky Dip Life was nominated for the Liebster Blog Award by Viv’s View. A big thank you to Viv for the nomination!

To accept the award these are the  rules:

1. Thank the person who nominated you
2. Answer the following 11 questions
3. Nominate 11 bloggers for the Liebster Blog Award and let them know they have been nominated. That’s it. So here goes…

1. The book that changed your life: 

The Poisonwood Bible. I read it at after a couple of months living in Nicaragua and it echoed my own experiences of living in the rural parts of the developing world. It helped me better understand and appreciate big changes at a key moment in my life.

2. Your favourite author/writer: 

Hmm tricky. I love Kathleen Jamie, Margaret Atwood, George Mackay Brown, Edwin Morgan, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Barbara Kingsolver, there is a big list, that will do for now

3. Your pet and its name: 

I don’t have one. I would like a dog … one day when I travel less.

4. The craziest thing you have done: 

Hmm… I don’t think I define my life like this. Many people think my life decisions are slightly crazy, but I just see it as normal –  I have moved countries for work/study/personal reasons over nine times in the past nine years. That seems quite crazy in retrospect. At the time it made sense.

5. Your best friend: 

Too many to name and they all have given me wonderful gifts.

6. A childhood prank: 

I was a good girl

7. Favourite musician: 

Hmm.. I like world/folk/dance music – no favourite.

8. A place you would love to visit: 

On the list for a long time is a trip from Sarajevo to Istanbul. I think that would be pretty great.

9. If you had just 5 minutes left to live what is the one thing you would do? 

Be grateful for my life.

10. Favourite sport

 Yoga. But I also love dance, running, swimming and am currently trying out circuits too. I love sport.

11. How do you define love? 

Sharing. Respect. Care. Kindness. I think there are many different sorts of love. Hard to define them all.

I am nominating some of my latest followers  on both my Lucky Dip Life blog and Writing on Rights (my human rights reporting blog). A big thank you to you all for following my work. 

Heartflow

AnythingWorld

Yazrooney

Czechtheflip

adventurousandrea

biobioncino

Poetry and Musings

islandscribbler

theclosetseeker

managuagunntoday

Cholethewriter