Myanmar Markets - Of Trade, Chatter and Life

                                  

I am well aware that it is an unfair assumption on my part, but I feel that traditional markets anywhere in the world are where the real people are found. The salt of the earth they are. The traders, the merchants, the locals themselves. l love spending time being surrounded by their day-to-day lives. Burying myself deeper within the fabric of their society. Observing behaviours. Listening to their chatter. Being part of their energies. 

A market is an authentic place. It is where I can fully immerse in the local culture.  Where I can witness things as they truly are. There are no frills and graces to be seen. No pretences. People are who they are. Their true selves. They have no need for anything else for they are surviving, often with meagre  earnings each day. A pittance. The market is their reality. Connecting them to others. Serving as a lifeline at times.

Despite the lack of cash being an ongoing curse, most markets are filled with happiness. Community. People are not alone. They have their neighbours. Often store owners have shared the same spot for generations past. The children spent childhoods running together in between the boxes and merchandise. They know each other’s stories. Nobody’s journey is secret. It has been spoken of and listened to by all. Some may have added their own bitter or sweet versions to each tale. But they still laugh at the same jokes.

The market is one extended family. A community where people come together. To share and support each other through grievances. To celebrate the successes of life. No matter how small and insignificant they may seem. At the end of each day, people are grateful for what they have made. A sense of achievement. Some may have collected a few extra pennies. Enough for rice. Others may have collected the last down payment for their son’s college fees. They share the same desires. They have the same instinct. To survive. Each and every day. 

There are those of course who wish for more than simply survival. They seek fulfilment. They carry within them perhaps, the pride of generations before them. With possibly no education, they use the only resources and tools they have. Their dreams include the basic joys in life. A shelter, food and good health. Some are lucky enough to add an education to the list. Grabbing spare seconds to study in between trading. Others are simply exhausted. Finding comfort curled up on a hard steel chair.

Many traditional markets may seem chaotic at first glance. Continuous activity floods the zone. Persistent noise drowns all sound. Both always occurring at a heightened intensity. There does, however, exist a system. One that works perfectly well. One that no doubt has been tried and tested through generations. The buyers and sellers keep this unique universe operating. The baseline of such a system is one of honesty, trust and support. And fiercely hard work. Conditions are usually tough on every level. It takes true grit to succeed.

Produce was packed neatly into containers of every shape and size.  Eggs were beautifully displayed. Even the huge baskets of onions looked inviting. Scales are always close at hand to weigh purchases. Large sheets of cardboard had been cut out on which to sit. Possibly to provide an unspoken boundary. To allow their spaces a sense of pride. This touched me deeply. One does not need wealth to obtain this. One needs self-respect and dignity. 

The people of the markets share a lot of laughter. They see life through eyes which are observant. Always noticing the small stuff. Often chuckling with their neighbours. I was always greeted with infectious smiles. We would chat, each in our own mother tongue, and make use of gestures to convey our meaning to each other. This was followed by waves of giggling and an unspoken sharing of the lighter side of being human. These ladies shared trust with me. They let me in. For a brief visit each time I visited the market. Their hearts were happy. They exuded an aura of warmth and friendliness. They taught me much about circumstances and attitudes.

 

I was happiest when walking amongst the flower sellers. In my mind, they are undoubtedly the loveliest gentle souls. They must be, for they spend their waking hours in the presence of such beauty.  Colours and varieties of fresh flowers were scooped up to be wrapped in old newspapers. A sprinkling of floral perfumes wafted through each bunch. To be given and shared as symbols of nature’s jewels. 

A certain group of men selling vegetables made an impression on me. They were dignified and polite. And appeared to have found serenity in their corner of the market. How I wondered what each lovely face was reflecting. What journeys had they travelled? Each and every person I came into contact with during any given visit to the market, touched my life in some small way. Leaving behind traces of wisdom from which I could learn.

I too loved walking amongst the fish sellers. The  assemblage of activity attacked my senses with the unpleasant reek of thick putrid fish paste. Buckets of questionable water were thrown over the day’s incoming catch as it arrived on the floor. Wreaking havoc over all that could have possibly resembled a degree of cleanliness and normality. The yelling and bargaining was strewn across the hall. Orders blasted forth. The odd lone vendor seemingly ignored the raucous laughter around, focussing on his speciality. After a sale, most would join in with the ongoing bustle. Eager to share their successes. A tougher bunch, the fishmongers were. I greatly admired the women among them. They held a no-nonsense attitude and were quick to get the job done.

A selection of crude tools made their presence known on the butcher’s slab. He clearly required only the basics to deliver his service. No attention was given to uphold hygiene standards. His scales and buckets had stood the test of time.  Bleached by harsh sunlight. Together, they continued to complete the task required each day in order for that man to earn a living. This colourful madness provided me with deeper insight into his world. This is what travel does. It opens our eyes. Our minds. Our hearts. It educates us. Creates understanding and tolerance. Empathy and respect.

Markets are a kaleidoscope of smells, colours, sounds and so much more.  Great local food is always being served fresh. Small groups of people would randomly sit down to eat amidst the chaos. Communal servings of everything and anything were served on skewers to be dipped into spicy sauces. There always seemed to be enough for everyone.

The great spaces pulsated with vitality and productivity. Bursts of colour were produced throughout by displays of fresh produce. The notorious coloured plasticware played its part in bringing brightness to the scene. As did the heaps of bright green bananas as they lay waiting to be sorted.  Nature’s own paintbrushes know no limits. Vibrant green doors in the Thanlyin Market provided wonderful backdrops to the stalls. Deep blue buckets held curry powders and other such spices. Supplies of white rice in buckets too stood handsomely in neat lines. Their price tags upright and orderly.

There were those markets in Yangon consisting of one tiny shack. A few items on display and not much more. The shade of a huge tree would offer much-needed protection from the heat of the day. This mini-market too had ambitions. It offered a service. Personalised service. I loved the simplicity. The ease with which I could select my produce. If my choice was not available, I sat under the tree and waited for the youngster to head off on his bicycle to find my desired goods.

I stepped into Bogyoke Aung San Market, downtown Yangon. The lime green corrugated iron walls beckoned me with a twisted sense of stylishness. It was with much anticipation that I stood to one side and simply observed the scene before tackling the first few yards. My thoughts anxiously kept asking how I would ever find my way home again. It was then that I decided to blast forth into the unknown. For he who hesitates is lost. I would figure out my way home later. No doubt once my bags were full of exciting purchases. My wallet empty. 

The expansive Victorian structure, known as Scott Market, was built in 1926. It was named after the then Municipal Commissioner, a Scottish official, Mr. Gavin Scott. In 1948, after the Burmese Independence, the building was renamed after General Bogyoke Aung San, the Father of modern-day Myanmar.

Walking through open spaces, corridors and various smaller stalls, I was in awe of the expanse of the building. In fact, I stood rooted to the spot for ages. Daunted.  Nervous to head off down one of the numerous aisles. The obviously beautiful colonial architecture encased the main area in a protective manner, allowing hundreds of other stalls to spill out and over the outer rims. The building was clearly proud of what she held within. My mom discovered the endless rails of silk scarves. Something of which one never tires in Asia.

There were dozens of jewellery shops, art galleries and souvenir outlets.  I was openly surrounded by thousands of Burmese rubies and pieces of jade. Other precious stones filled the trays on display. There was clearly something for every collector too. Old clocks, stamps and memorabilia en masse. The black market money changers were also a popular commodity. I preferred to stop thinking right there as to what else was available on the floor.

My favourite areas were always the traditional Burmese handicrafts. On sale everywhere were the Pyit Taing Htaung toys made from papier-mâché. Massive supplies of  handwoven rattan balls or bamboo Takraw balls were present. They are used in the national sport of Myanmar, Chinlone, which has been played for almost 1 500 years. Players are not allowed to use their hands at all when transferring the ball.

I treated myself, more than once, to huge woven cushion covers from the Shan State. The set of wooden Buddha monks of various heights stands tall in my home. A pride and joy of mine. And of course, the many parasols I simply had to have. I spent many happy mornings wandering around the Bogyoke Market. Her inner cobblestone streets added a certain old-world charm. And led me through endless intriguing clusters of vendors and their precious goods. One of my most cherished shops was the outlet for the traditional lacquerware. This product is truly exquisite. Each piece quite unique. The containers are wood-based which are then painted with resin. Usually in deep reds, old gold and brown tones. There are those which have gold leaf added to the paint. Mine certainly have.

There are those markets which only operate once the sun sets. The night markets usually sell food and drinks, although other goods are on sale too. It is then that the heart and soul of each village, town or city come alive. Friends unite. Families share meals. Tourists wander.

But at some stage the goods are secured. Bundles are rolled up. Metal doors are brought down. Baskets are emptied for the last time. And containers are washed. Each and every soul needs time to rest. Time to replenish the body and the mind. And in the morning, the cycle of life in markets everywhere, will begin once more.

To be continued …