30 August 2020
[Above photo: The perfect swimming pool at the Governor’s Residence.]
There has been a Covid-19 count rapidly growing in Sittwe, the capitol of Rakhine State. A woman visiting in Yangon for three days returned to Sittwe and, puzzled because she couldn’t smell anything, visited an ENT Doc. He became the second case. It went to 5 and within a few days to 70. The State borders are locked, people are to stay inside, and we wait and hope. The genome of the virus is new to Myanmar, not like the 400+ cases that preceded it: much more contagious with rapid community spread. Rumors are that people rode buses to the Ayeyarwady State border, disembarked, got on minibuses with the locals and continued on. Is it really true that the Military just want to lock up Rakhine State and sort it out again? At least no pedophiles, cannibals, and Satanists.
Because it seems likely to spread, my students convinced me to monitor clinic from home by Zoom. Clinic traffic, like all traffic, is down with the news of the virus, so the students will spell each other on rotation, 3 at a time, in the clinic itself, allowing for better social distancing. On Sunday Thi Thi was heading from her home in Magway to the bus station to return to our class in Yangon when the city was locked down and the trip cancelled. At least she’s locked in with her family. I do worry, as Yangon is so dense in areas that it seems the virus could spread like a California wildfire. And it’s not my time yet.
I mentioned over lunch Monday that I was looking for a less expensive apartment, closer to the original old Yangon downtown, with classic British buildings and lots of trees. My current apartment is $1500/month and while I can afford it, it seems silly to toss away so much, especially if I’ll be in the US for 4 months each year. The area where I want to move is much quieter and less crowded. Su Su knew of a condo owned by a friend–$370 for a two bedroom, with a view of the river, near Botataung Pagoda. I could even take the Water Taxi from Botataung Jetty to the jetty at Lanmadaw Street and walk the few blocks to UM 1 on Thursdays. I fantasied about it for a couple of days.
Thursday after class four of us drove there. It is in a huge complex of 3 apartment towers; they look like the beehives I saw on the Chinese mainland when Aillen and I took a boat tour around Macau. Su Su had gotten a key for the elevator from the owner, an orthopedic surgeon, when we stopped briefly at Yangon General Hospital on our way. We rode to the 5th floor. The condo in question is leased until December by a Japanese family. They are stuck in Japan with Covid and they have the only door keys. Across the hall was an open door and a family of seven—-granny, husband and wife, sister of wife, and 3 young children. They allowed me to have a look. It was very small, very generic, with a wretched kitchen, and no view of the river, identical to the one becoming available. It also was sited in an industrial area about 20 blocks east of where I want to be. I could picture getting very depressed in a place like that.
However, it is next to V-Hangout where Kelly and I had a beer a week ago—-V is for Vintage, I learned, not female anatomy, BTW—-so we went for a cool drink on the shaded upper deck and chatted and laughed. The petite, most energetic of our group, Su Myat, was drinking Red Bull. What?!! “I don’t like anything else—coke or juice. I had it during my pregnancy—they all said it will damage the baby. She’s now 5yo and fluent in English, Myanmar and Mandarin.” It is true. Her daughter left me a message on my phone, instructing me—“Dr George, my mother’s dress is Pink, not Shocking Pink.” Ha. Now Su Myat is determined to find me an apartment. “If you use an agent they will show you the most expensive. I know what you want. Bogalay Zay or Bo Aung Kyaw streets. Old buildings, quiet, lots of trees.” I said I’d give her the broker’s fee—1 month rent—if she found me the one I moved into. Her eyes sparkled as she laughed!
We see a boy in clinic who is so rigidly oppositional I wondered if he was on the Autism Spectrum. At 14yo he states he enjoys nothing but denies having a low mood. He easily gets bored with everything. Currently, he is not seeing his few friends because of the virus, all being homebound. He has been playing “Fortnite” a lot when he should be studying. “I can only study a couple of hours a day or I fall asleep.” He is so quiet in the therapy hour that it is difficult to get a conversation going. I start a game of wastebasket ball with him using crumpled up paper for basketballs—he gets into it and, finally, smiles and engages. That’s the route, I think. He seems depressed but also, underneath, hurt and angry and rigidly tied up in knots.
There is nothing to mention about the RNC—lies, lies, and more lies. I could watch only a tiny bit. If Kim Guilfoyle and Junior are the faces of the New GOP, god help them. She really was just bellowing; he was just selling cars. I prefer the lady doctor Mafia Don used as a Covid resource who talked about devil sperm when a woman has sex outside of marriage. She has a lively imagination, at least. Poor Junior, a chip off the old block, he lies so smoothly. Is there a conscience around here somewhere?
A few months ago a contest for best band name was initiated on Beach Island. I used my old standard, Rock Cod and the Fingerlings (as in fingerstyle guitar). But at 4AM today I awoke and had a creative burp. Consumer Warning: one is not PC. “Ghengis and the Hordes: [Headbangers], “A Diet of Worms” [Reformation Punk], and “‘Dolph and the ‘Stapos” [Camp Songs]. How about “Don and the Lyin’ Trumplets”? [MegaChurch Choir]. Or “Mitch and the Chins” [Something with an accordion]. “The Rotters” [Sappy National Anthems]. “The Peloponesians” with Thucydides on vocals. [Spartan Chants]. “Hippocrates and the Oaths” [Medical Malpractice]. This could go on awhile. “Prufrock and the Ragged Claws” [Hesitant Hip-Hop]
The Main Event for me is that I’ll be 80yo on Tuesday. I’ve been invited away for the weekend by 3 friends. “Pack a bag with your swimming suit and we’ll leave from Kelly’s at one on Saturday.” Hm. I didn’t ask more but said, definitely, no female room service. I’m just not that kind of guy. One of them is a woman and I trust her kindness and good judgment will prevail. It makes me a little nervous but I’m certain we’ll have a memorable weekend. They are all 3 fun and lively and compatible. I would have let the date pass; I liked to count them when I was younger but now I feel it’s one more step towards the edge of this flat disk we inhabit. {Kidding, although there are those who believe that, despite the 3-D photos from space.]
I’ll pause writing now, Friday afternoon, and resume Sunday evening after the Event.
As I was instructed to do, I arrived at Kelly’s at 12:30PM Saturday, overnight bag with swimming trunks packed. Jose soon joined us and we cabbed to the street one short of Yangon Children Hospital where our clinic was last year and turned into an unpretentious entrance. However, after walking into the building we found acres of manicured grounds, a fabulous and immense crescent-shaped swimming pool, peacocks strutting through the outside dining areas, a pair of ornamental and aggressive geese on the croquet pitch, and, finally, ascended stairs to my elegant room of polished teak. It was a 1920’s palace for important ethnic Kayeh visitors, called the Governor’s Residence. Fabulous, 800 thread sheets, pillows as soft as any lover’s breast, on and on. Irene greeted us there and had purchased an array of wonderful gifts—a lacquer-ware bowl, a self-contained tote bag, flowers, a sweet little water bottle, various munchies, dark chocolate of a variety I rarely afford, wine. We were served champagne in the room as we plotted our assault on this palace: how best to exploit its pleasures without feeling like we were on a mission, driven. Kelly assured me that “Koh Rah”, a gorgeous mystical girl was—in the wardrobe. No? She’ll join us later, for sure. We ate—Truly amazing croissants at breakfast! I am not a snob but I do get that way with croissants.— and swam and talked and drank and played vicious croquet. Vicious croquet is when you are so far behind that your only thought is to pursue and smack the leader to the nether reaches of the pitch. Forget going through the wickets! Irene, on her first croquet outing (It was the Brits, not the Scots, who invented it.), with a tiny assist, beat us all. Kelly and I were fractiously occupied, trying to do each other maximal damage, and Jose was perfecting his long shots.
Lying poolside, I had great talks with Irene and Jose, separately. Each has led such an interesting life. Irene, searching for her spot on this earth, covered a lot of ground, from business (not a fit) to dance to yoga to humanitarian work. Jose’s parents were both physicians in the Philippines and came to Mayo Clinic in the 60’s. His maternal grandfather was wealthy and was the Mayor of Manilla. Jose has degrees up, down and sideways. I know Kelly better as we bachelors sup together with some frequency.
It was a wonderful weekend, a celebration unanticipated by me. I thought I’d let 80 slide by. How joyful can I get as I am headed for the last exit in this Brooklyn? I don’t have the Burmese [what seems to me] advantage of another life to anticipate, even as they are trying to escape the cycle of reincarnation. I’d rather be a dog or a frog than random molecules in the earth—I think.
I have, at last, forgiven my mother. She was a mixed bag. Not a warm, cosy, steady, interested-in-your-thoughts kind of lady. Ambitious, bright, accomplished, competitive, easily stung, exquisitely reactive. But she was loyal, paid for my college, medical school, and assorted psychotherapy back then. She was a great raconteur and an adventuress, always up for a fun and exciting time. Thank god I got to 80. I’ve discovered and resolved so much in myself in the past 5 years, as well as having a hell of a good time. I feel much better forgiving her for her shortcomings. It’s a step towards forgiving myself for mine which is, of course, the rub for many of us.
A Psychiatrist in Myanmar 