Making a Buddha

The tour was alright. Mr. Trishaw took me to a big paya with a huge gold Buddha that people press gold leaf on. The stuff has built up over the centuries so the statue has big lumps all over its body, except for its face. Mr. Trishaw led me right to the front, where people were kneeling and chanting, and had me kneel. Nobody seemed to mind. Then he took me to an old wooden monastery, a gold leaf shop, where I saw them pounding gold into the paper-thin leaves (it takes six hours), a stone-cutter shop, where they were carving and filing Buddhas, and a couple tapestry shops. I wanted a tapestry, but didn’t plan to buy one today, especially since I imagine Mr. Trishaw will get a cut. But I saw a Buddha footprint I liked, and started talking to the guy. They really know how to keep you there, since they ask politely “Well, what’s the absolute maximum you would like to pay?” every time you try to leave. He started at $35 and I paid $20. Then I saw some Buddhas I liked, and talked to that guy. We established a good rapport, so I figured I’d try again. He offered $60 for the statue I liked. I only wanted to pay $10, and stood my ground (“I have not job, so I have no money”). I got it for $13. I’m sure he still made a huge profit, despite his “I need the money for my children.” In light of this, I probably should have paid $10 for my tapestry. After this I learned one of the tour’s hidden costs: fuel for the motor. I wanted to eat, and didn’t want to eat in front of Mr. Trishaw, so I bought him lunch, which he accepted without a thank-you.

Then Mr. Trishaw took me to a big monastery. I went to take a photo when an old woman, called Cherry, started talking to me in perfect English. At first I was happy to talk, until she offhandedly mentioned that her husband and children died 10 years ago, and now she makes money by helping tourists. Oh oh. She said come back after my photo. As I walked around, a young monk came up to me. He said he was studying at the monk university across the street, and offered to show me around. So I went with him and he showed me the classrooms full of studying monks, the ordination hall, and his dorm room, where I met one of his friends. Their English was limited, so conversation was difficult. His friend offered to take me to the top of Mandalay Hill. He was a bit of a rebel. He said he was skipping the respects they pay to the Buddha at 6 pm, since they don’t take attendance. He also mentioned that monks aren’t supposed to eat dinner, but he sometimes sneaks one, since he gets hungry. I’m sure I would do the same.

When we passed Cherry, she ran up to me and asked to have tea with me. I said I couldn’t since I was with my friend. Then she started talking angrily in Burmese to the monk. He said she was a tour guide, and was angry at him for cutting in to her “turf.”

The barefoot walk up the hill was long, but the views were fantastic. The top was packed with ugly middle-aged Norwegian tourists waiting for the sunset.