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Lying on my back, on the floor of the small hut, the only sounds I'm aware of are the creaking of bamboo and the grating whine of mosquitos swarming closer. Two old ladies - in whose home we are about to enjoy our first Burmese massage - shuffle quietly around us in long, faded longyis, carefully arranging a selection of herbal oils on the floor beside us. Noticing me slap at a mosquito which has settled on my arm, one of them smiles knowingly, kindly eyes shining in the candle-light, and holds up a reassuring hand. Wait, wait, I've got just the thing she seems to be saying.

Burma Two: Bicycles in Bagan

Michael Meadows
2007-03-08 16:29:17

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Lying on my back, on the floor of the small hut, the only sounds I'm aware of are the creaking of bamboo and the grating whine of mosquitos swarming closer. Two old ladies - in whose home we are about to enjoy our first Burmese massage - shuffle quietly around us in long, faded longyis, carefully arranging a selection of herbal oils on the floor beside us. Noticing me slap at a mosquito which has settled on my arm, one of them smiles knowingly, kindly eyes shining in the candle-light, and holds up a reassuring hand. Wait, wait, I've got just the thing she seems to be saying. Stepping stiffly away behind a discreet curtain, she returns moments later, proudly gripping one of those electrified mosquito swats, on the tennis racquet-like surface of which hapless insects may be netted from the air and instantly fried. Holding this marvel of modern weaponry before her like a sacred relic, she advances on me, kneels at my side and proceeds to pass it - as slowly as possible - along my entire body. I notice she has not switched it on; in fact, it doesn't even seem to contain batteries. Having thus blessed & protected me, using the magic wand of technology, she pats my shoulder lightly, to reassure me all has been made well, and returns the wand to its hidden alcove. Finding myself moved by her trusting naivete, and even more by her gentle compassion, I try not to move at all when the mosquitos make their inevitable return.

Half an hour later, I totter out of the bamboo hut feeling slightly drunk - as often seems to be the case after a good massage. The 'tourist agent' we'd arranged the massage through is waiting for us already, a small man with quiet eyes and a sad smile. A dark mole eyes us suspiciously from his chin, as if determined to compensate for the man's trusting nature, and make sure noone takes advantage of him. Like many so-endowed men in Burma, (and indeed, most parts of South East Asia that I've visited), he is evidently ...