A December morning takes shape, shrouded in cool misty air as the darkness fades and the day begins.
• Rickshaw driver, somehow sound asleep on his rickety trishaw, hat tipped over his eyes keeping the coming day at bay
• Figures emerging in the twilight
• “Good morning, Ma’am” in clipped perfect English, from a pyjama clad gentleman in the lane
• Wide smiles from the two women as they pass, each bearing a large bowl on her head, the feet of the three dead chickens sticking out over the rim of one. The other holding its secrets.
• Sleepy dogs curled up in custom made potholes at the roadside, exhausted from a night of howling their secret messages
• A trail of maroon robed, barefoot monks silently treading along the roadside, collecting their alms
• The jasmine seller, moving alongside us, his razor blade slicing a fresh thread of jasmine blossom in exchange for a grubby 200 Kyat note and yesterdays faded bloom
• Two young women carrying their lunches in stainless steel tiffin boxes and lotus leaf woven baskets, smiling and giggling “Minglabar!”
• Three young children heading to school, fresh, carefully smoothed thanaka on their cheeks and their green and white uniforms
• “Morning sir”, from a random young guy as he cycles past
• Chitty chatty mynahs passing the morning gossip and news from treetop to telegraph pole
• The first rays of sunshine reaching out from the glowing red sphere nestling on the horizon, casting a pink light on buildings and progressively creating elongated shadow palm trees, like shoots unfurling
And so another day begins.
Good morning, Yangon!