❝ SIXTEEN DEGREES NORTH LATITUDE, after breakfast, from the reception of the hotelAs we had agreed, we set off towards the Akauk Taung cliff He was driving, and I was a passenger. Ako Maung started his new motorcycle and drove for about two hours with such determination that he seemed to know where to run or where to cut corners, although he told me that, despite having spent his childhood in the town of Pyay, the place we were heading to was as unknown to him as it was to me.
The road, not only because of the situation of the intrusive government of the Military Junta and its tedious police roadblocks, but because of the journey itself (signs only in Burmese and not even completely clear to the locals), required a guide to successfully reach the surprising a place about sixty kilometers from Pyay in a southeasterly direction where Dozens of Buddhas hang down on the waters of the Irawadi.
We were the only strangers that day in the village of Hton Bo, and when we arrived, the young Burmese woman who ran the boat rental booth changed her bored expression to a cheerful one, pulled on a bamboo hat with its chin strap, and whisked us to the pier. With a lightning-fast shout, she ordered the child boatman to move forward, and before we knew it, we were sailing on a rickety, noisy outboard boat loaded with bouquets for the offerings she herself had sold us. She didn't stop talking until we reached the steps that led to the monastery above. Tired of the journey, Ako Maung forgot to translate for me those unique, and at times subtly remote and strange, sounds of Burmese speech, intermingled with the dull, metallic rattle of the old propeller in the cavitation, which seemed to be communicating with each other, to my astonishment. Halfway up the climb, an iced lychee drink managed to restore us.
On the way back, as we stepped onto the shabby pier again and began to hear the voices coming from the village's street food stalls, Ako Maung suggested we pack up the bike and stop for a more leisurely lunch at a relatively nearby picnic spot. I'd been able to spot several of these modest establishments as we made our way toward the monumental escarpment, though I wasn't convinced they'd be able to feed us afterward, but I accepted my guide's suggestion.
In the middle of nowhere, that expressionless woman who ran the establishment where we stopped, with the help of her two daughters, deployed like a spring the service for two diners and thus unexpectedly emerged a mere instant.
A mere instant in which the scene and time began to freeze. The intertwined chirping of birds perched on the vertical silhouette of the firm, majestic trees fell silent after welcoming us.
The light breeze that circulated calmed, the waitresses' footsteps became inaudible, and they themselves soon became invisible. Barefoot, as is the custom of the owners, with freshly washed hands, we ate on the open-air platform in front of the picnic area.
Gravity slowly receded, and the few vehicles that appeared on the horizon moved in slow motion along the small road before our distracted eyes. Ako Maung ordered two noodle soups with toppings and salad accompanied by some fried foods.
I only vaguely remember the beginning of a spicy, savory taste from that simple kitchen and a penetrating smell of roasted soybeans that faded to neutral as we enjoyed the meal.
On the way back to Pyay, the speed and stifling heat returned with the potholes on the road.●
