Confront me with a problem and I’ll be on the lookout for a solution.
I have a small confession to make readers: I’m not a real estate agent by trade, I’m a trained journalist. But I am also usually a man with a plan. Confront me with a problem and I’ll be on the lookout for a solution.
So, when I found myself thoroughly bored, living in the mining town of Roxby Down South Australia – at that point population 1000-2000 on a good day – and approaching the end of my 12-month contract, I knew I needed to come up with an interesting escape.
I had my heart set on a Youth Ambassador position, a program run by the Australian government to encourage young professionals to effectively volunteer in aid-backed projects in the region. But after scanning the following year’s offerings, I was disappointed – there was nothing of interest. Instead, I turned to Seek.com and couldn’t believe the listing I found, which ran something like this:
“Are you a young journalist who wants to work in an exciting Southeast Asian country that you have probably never heard of? If so, send your CV to the following…”
Looking at my reedy CV before I sent my application email, I couldn’t say I was waiting expectantly but I was excited when a response came back a week later asking me to sit an online editing test. I passed the tests, sat a phone interview and soon enough was offered a position as an editor at The Myanmar Times, way back in 2006. The next few months were a blur: winding up my job at The Roxby Downs Monitor, selling belongings, packing, getting travel shots (Japanese Encephalitis is terrifying, Google it), obtaining travel insurance, and plenty of boozing. In fact, my last night in Adelaide was a late one and my subsequent flight to Bangkok a painfully hungover one. [Sadly, not the last].
I still had bugger all idea what to expect when I arrived in Yangon but it’s safe to say that whatever I’d imagined was nothing like what transpired.
I met a young Aussie traveller waiting for the plane, who helped open my eyes to what lay ahead. He claimed to only have a US$150 in his pocket but was confident he’d be able to take money out at an ATM in Myanmar but a young Burmese guy quickly brought him up to speed: no ATMs in Myanmar, everything is cash.
I knew I was being collected at the airport by my company and was thus safe but I never did see the backpacker again; hopefully he ditched the flight, got more cash and tried again later or his stay in Myanmar would have been short and uncomfortable.
But my ride was waiting for me at the airport, then a lightly trafficked hub that could barely handle one or two flights at a time. After collecting my luggage, I got into Mr Nyo Tun’s car – a decrepit 1980s Toyota pickup and we went to visit the boss, Ross Dunkley.
I didn’t know it then but late November is just before the start of Myanmar’s short cool season – December and part of January if you’re lucky – and the air sweeping in through the open windows was warm and wet. Even on the main roads the street lights fought a losing battle against the dark and were fed an inadequate electricity supply. I remember glimpses of tall leafy trees, a few sweeping bends and not much else until we made a pitstop at Ross’ house.
Ross Dunkley is many things to many people, a genuinely larger-than-life character that fiction could never match but on my first night in Yangon I knew I was going to be okay: he welcomed me into his house and offered me my first cold can of Myanmar Beer and spoke with a broad Aussie accent that could easily have come straight from Roxby Downs.
END PART 1