Rangoon II – Robbed!

Shwedagon Pagoda, Rangoon.

The currency of Burma is the kyat, pronounced something like chat. US dollars are accepted for hotels, tickets and entrance fees but for everything else you need kyat. I survived my first three days on $50 I had changed at a hotel but the rate was crap and I wanted to change a couple of hundred dollars before I left Rangoon. The best exchange rates, I had heard, were given by the black market money changers that loitered near certain parks and markets. I tend to be somewhat absent-minded when it comes to trivial things like passports, credit cards and volumes of cash – recently in Thailand I lost my passport for 5 days and was surprised when it slingshotted itself across the room on a pair of underpants I was pulling from my pack – so I was nervy about a shady, street-side money change.

            My money-changer's name was Rashid. He was short and skinny with long lank hair and quick eyes. He looked about as trustworthy as hepatitis, but his rate was good. At a nearby tea shop I was given tea spiked with condensed milk at a tiny plastic table that would have looked at home in a child’s play house. Three of Rashid’s friends were there with us, standing behind me or sitting with us. I double checked our exchange rate.

            “850 kyats, right?”

            “Yes, yes, of course 850. Where is your money?”

            I handed him a clean, crisp $100 bill. He checked it quickly, holding it to the light before passing it around. There was a rapid-fire debate in Burmese.

            “No, no. It’s no good. See, it’s serial number starts with hb.” He indicated the number. “I can’t take this. Give me another one.”

            And this is where it gets stupid. Flustered I took out a wad of four $100 dollar bills and handed him one.

            “Ok. This one’s good.” From out of his bulging bag he pulled out bundles of 1000 kyat notes. “Count it please, you see I’m an honest man, but be quick, before police come.”

            By the time I got to 850, Rashid was on his feet. He shook my hand and left quickly. I knew I had been scammed, I just couldn’t work out how. I counted and recounted my money, checking every note for damage or forgery. It wasn’t until I got back to my hotel that I realized he’d never returned the original bill. I counted my stash of hundred dollar bills and sure enough, I was one short.

            “Oh, tits.” I said. Or something to that effect.

            Outside my hotel an elderly taxi driver must have seen the smoke billowing from my ears. “Have you been robbed, sir?”

            “Yes.”

            “At the gardens, I think. I have seen it many times. They are bad men.” I nodded. “Can I ask how much, sir?”

            “Um, $100.”

            “$100! So much. You must go to the police. It is a short walk, you do not need my taxi.” He led me to the intersection and sketched a map on the pavement.

            I thanked him, wondering how many cabbies the world over wouldn’t have exploited such a golden opportunity for a fare. The police station was off a main road between a restaurant and a mobile phone shop, set back behind a wall of sandbags topped by razor wire. I remembered that a Burmese cop shop hadn’t been on my itinerary. A young policeman sat in a booth by the open gate playing on his phone, automatic rifle dangling from a chair. He hardly glanced as I walked through the gate. In the station an officer behind a wooden desk looked up without surprise, waving me to a stool as he talked on a phone with a rotary dialer. Soon an older guy strode in from a back room, his uniform jacket unbuttoned in the heat.

            “Yes?”

            “A man took money from me.” I said in my slowest talking-to-foreigners English.

            “Ah, robbed were you? At Mahabandoola gardens I suppose. We’ve had a problem with that lately. You should just use a bank, you know. How much was it?”

            I told him and his eyes flickered in surprise. I later learned that it was probably more than he earned in a month, although most Burmese civil servants made their real money from bribes.

“Come with me.” He buttoned his jacket and with the full might of the Burmese government behind us we strode across busy roads, waving traffic and pedestrians to a halt imperiously. At the gardens, a pack of money changers saw us coming – well, saw him coming – and flinched. Stopping a bus with a casual flick of his hand, he summoned a man to him. After a two-minute dressing down, including several pokes in the chest, my new friend told me to describe the thief.

            “He was shorter than me and slim with black hair…” I began, before realizing that I was describing every man in Burma. “His name was Rashid.”

            “Was he Indian or Burmese?”

            “Indian.” I replied.

            “Ok, we will find your money. Go with this man now.” He pointed to a quiet man who took me to the tea shop where I had been robbed. I bought him a Star Cola, the local fizzy drink, and we sat down.

            “This man, he is Indian. I know him. I am Myanmar man, we are money changers for many years. For one year the India men come. They are bad men. Now the police don’t like us.” He sucked on his straw. “I think you will get your money.”

            Soon a tall Burmese man introduced himself to me. “I am the boss of the money changers. We could not find the man but I know him, I will get the money. Now I can give you 80,000 kyats. It’s ok?” He pulled out a wad of cash and handed it to me. It was all there and I was amazed that he would do this without any proof.

            An hour later I boarded a ferry to the Irrawaddy delta, smiling at the thought of Rashid having a rough few days.

At Rangoon's ferry terminal I found a new contender in my ongoing search for the world's worst toilet.