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. |
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