Chez Cotton Extract from The Brightlands Suicide Yangon
I
t’s evening, ten o’clock, a colonial villa that’s seen better days. Jet lag’s kicking in. Through pigeon Burmese and mime, I convey to the receptionist that I’m going for a walk. She is shocked, says she’ll get me a taxi. I laugh, shake my head, no, no, I’m only going round the block. Outside is complete blackness. There is no pavement. There is no road. There is nothing. I realise, in every way, I am ill-prepared. Back inside, the place has filled with Chinese businessmen. I’m the only woman, the only Westerner. I take a spoonful of steaming, pungent mohinga, a fish and shallot broth, topped with boiled egg and coriander. Punky looking teenage boys in sarongs and vests take to the stage with acoustic guitars. They look subdued. The singer’s mournful tone suits my mood. It takes seconds to recognise, even with Burmese vocals, ‘Life on Mars.’ It’s not what I expected. I can’t keep my eyes open. I drift back thirty odd years, the seventies, my hero, David Bowie. A boy in my class sees me with my family. Back at school he asks, “Why is your dad a Paki?”. “Actually, he’s Burmese,” I say, but no one’s ever heard of Burma. And now here I am in his birthplace, Rangoon, now Yangon, and under military rule; Dad, Gran, the sisters, all dead. I have no idea why I’m here, what I’m searching for. I sit up quickly, head spinning. I reach for the side lamp, hit empty space, a wall where it shouldn’t be. Momentary panic, where am I? It comes quickly. I’m in Yangon, in a hotel, I’ve been asleep. I lay in the darkness, alone on a faraway continent, no one to tell I arrived safely.
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chez cotton
