Priced to Move

“This is where we’re staying?” Miss Mona asks.

I look at the plain-Jane building, our hotel. It’s nothing like the beautiful Mandalay Hill Hotel. There’s no glam in Mogok. “That’s what our keepers say. Come on. I’m sure it’s clean. And you did want an adventure.”

She sighs. “I did, didn’t I? I guess it looks like an adventure. Now you tell me. Why does everybody and their brother always bring up how clean a dump is to try and redeem it in all its dumpiness?”

Oh-kay. “Just think all you’ll have to tell Aunt Weeby when we get back.”

“I’d better take pictures.”

“You better not think of going back empty-handed.”

“I miss her.”

I never thought I’d say this in Myanmar. “Me too.”

“But she really couldn’t have handled this, honey, not with that foot busted into bitty pieces the way it is. Oh, and all that hardware they stuck in there. Poor thing . . .”

“Don’t feel guilty, Miss Mona. Aunt Weeby’s probably taking your business apart and rebuilding it from scratch. By the time you get home, you might not own a TV network anymore. Who knows what that wacky brain of hers might come up with?”

“I’d best be calling her, don’t you think?” Miss Mona runs a hand over her sleek silver hair. “Well, Andie, you’re right, of course. Let’s get to getting here. We need to bring in our luggage, unpack the essentials, and then . . . then we need to go get us some rubies!”

I glance at my watch. “It’s four thirty already. That crazy dirt road trip took six hours. I don’t know that there’s going to be much happening at the—oh, I’m gonna butcher this name—Panchan-htar-pwe outdoor market by now. I think we’ll have to wait until tomorrow for rubies.”

“Bless you! Now there’s a name for you. The who market?”

When I shrug, since I have no idea what the correct pronunciation of that mouthful of letters might be, she chuckles, then continues. “I’m sure we can find us something to eat at that Paunchy-something-or-other market. Don’t you want to try some native food?”

Do I look like I want the runs?

“Only,” I say, “if it’s so fresh it wants to get up and leave, they’ve fully cooked it, and the cooking utensils are clean so we don’t come down with bubonic plague, bird flu, or any of Job’s disgusting ailments. You do know we can only drink bottled water, right? If we forget, we’ll have to break out the Imodium. Oh, and we can’t get on the wrong side of gun-toting locals, if you get my drift. The hotel’s dining room looks super-fine to me.”

“That’s all good with me, honey. Let’s finish up here.”

We unpack, and in the end, meet the others in the hotel’s modest but—you got it—clean dining room. The S.T.U.D. crowd sits at two long tables, where we’re served about a dozen Asian mystery-meat-and-veggie delicacies, all with a side of rice. Our armed nannies sit at a smaller table to our right, and while we laugh our way through the meal, they keep their deadpan faces on, say very little, and shovel down their mountains of chow.

It actually tastes pretty good. But between bites, I pray the tons of MSG I’m sure lurks in the mystery mix doesn’t sideline us all with permanent migraines.

I don’t know about anyone else, but two hours later, I zonk out the minute my head hits the pillow and don’t wake up until the sun streams in through our window.

A quick bath followed by a simple breakfast has us on the road to a ruby mine by nine o’clock. When we reach our destination, what I see makes me wince. Yes, I’ve been to other mine sites in third world countries before, but the crude and primitive conditions never fail to move me.

“This place is rougher than those Hollywood actor types’ unshaved chins,” Miss Mona says. “Is this typical?”

“Pretty much. But this one’s . . . oh, maybe a little worse. You’d think as long as they’ve been mining here, and with the price of Burmese rubies what it is, their operations would be more upscale.”

Beneath canvases stretched between four sturdy sticks, a hole pierces the dun-colored, dusty ground and descends at an angle. In the shade cast by the canvases, I count a crew of about a dozen miners standing around, dressed in shabby, dirt-stained clothes.

I slant a look at Miss Mona, whose expression screams worry. I say, “Hey! Here’s the Mogok Welcome Wagon come out to greet us.”

Miss Mona smiles. “At least they don’t have guns. From what I can see, that is.”

“They look poor,” Max says. “It’s got to be a tough life.”

Ding, ding, ding! Give the fellow in the blue shirt a cigar.

“It’s one of the poorest countries in the world, Max. These people are caught up in the fist of a communist government— no human rights or civil liberties, you know—and there’s not much commerce. It’s worse than just poverty you see here.”

I stare past the dirt-dusted mine, the tattered miners, and the dingy canvas cover. A short distance beyond, more of that Zambian-emerald rich green landscape reaches all the way out to meet the Ceylon-sapphire blue sky. The sober contrast hits me hard.

Father God . . . how can you stand to see your children in these crummy circumstances? I’ll tell you, it’s breaking my heart. Remind me how tough it is for them any time I haggle on a price too close to where it could hurt them and their families. I want to be fair, to honor you, and I want to get Miss Mona a good deal. Show me how to do that, ’cause I sure don’t see how. Okay? Thanks.

As soon as we park, the men break out in smiles and conversation.