Buckeyes.
Just what we need.
Sports talk won’t get us where we want to go, so by the time they’ve enumerated a slew of pros and cons for each team, I say, “How about we wrap it up here, guys, and head for the Panchan-htar-pwe market? I’m not so sure they
“Oooh, Andie!” Miss Mona says, “I’ve always loved treasure hunts. And I did want to visit the market from the start, remember?”
We wave good-bye to our newly minted miner friends and pile into the van. I have no clue what to expect at the market, but excitement fizzes up inside me. I have to agree with Miss Mona. There’s something about treasure hunts that really grabs you. It’s the what-if factor.
We reach the market, and I fall head over heels with the whole thing. Pink and blue umbrellas mushroom over the blocks-long open-air bazaar. Burmese folks bustle in and out of the aisles, hustle their way between the tables, and finally vanish in the field of colorful umbrellas. An electric energy radiates from all that activity and draws me in.
“Let’s go,” I urge once the driver finds a parking spot on the packed-earth area just in front of the umbrellas. “I can’t wait to see what we’ll find today.”
I scramble out, fighting my natural urge to run ahead.
I don’t think the demure Burmese can handle a crazed American rushing their prized market. And I have a sneaking suspicion I’m actually allergic to Burmese jails. I itch at the thought.
Our translator follows me into the maze of vendors, and I’m off to the races. The first table I stop at has little to look at. The ruby rough is tiny, cloudy, and nothing I want to mess with.
The next table I visit, though, is a whole other story. While this vendor has no rubies, he does have other goodies. Our translator gestures for me to sit, and moments later, Miss Mona does the same. The gem-dunce follows. Lucky me.
The vendor pulls out a silver bowl and a folded-paper rectangle. My heart starts to pump. As he draws out the moment, unfurling each flap with painful deliberation, I grow giddy.
I can’t stand the overdone suspense. Finally, the slip of paper blossoms out flat. In the very center multiple stones twinkle and wink at me. I bend closer. They glow stormy-ocean blue. “Ah . . .”
“Nice?” the vendor says.
I rein in my stampeding glee. “I’d like to loop them.”
When he nods, I reach into my pocket, pop open my 10x magnifier, and look at the stunning, clean stones. The man’s carat scale reveals decent weight. These babies should set up great. “Do you have more?”
“More?” The vendor leans over, digs around in a beat-up old suitcase, and after a few minutes bounces back, a larger folded packet in hand. “More.”
You know I buy all those sapphires.
Miss Mona slips the two parcels into her handbag. “Oh, Andie. I’m so excited! Our viewers are gonna eat these beautiful pieces up with a spoon.”
“That’s what I thought when I laid eyes on the first lot.”
“I knew the color was good,” Max said.
“You’re learning.” I hope.
“Everyone knows sapphires. It’s all that stuff about other unknown stones that can trip a guy up.”
“A guy who doesn’t know his gemstones . . .”
“When you know all about football and golf . . .”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“D’you see me turning blue?”
To keep from saying anything more, I find another table— not a hardship, since I figure there’s about a couple million of them under the umbrellas. Just a tiny exaggeration, but that’s how crowded the pink and blue mushroom world feels. I wave at our translator. “Could you please ask this gentleman to show us what he has?”
He nods, singsongs something at the vendor, and after a slew of smiles and more nods, this guy rummages through a white canvas bag slung over the back of his chair. I sit down across from him. Miss Mona takes the chair next to mine. Max the Magnificent stands.
“Spinel,” the man says.
I nod. Most people think of spinel as the fake, man-made stuff they put in most class rings, but real-deal spinel is a thing of beauty. Especially the Burmese material. I lean forward and hold my breath.
This man is more progressive with his packaging. He keeps his stones in mini-ziplock baggies. Another silver bowl comes out of the canvas sack, and the gems are poured into its center.
I sigh. “Beautiful . . .”
He has purple, blue, pink, and the big mama of spinel: red.
Max leans forward. “That’s not ruby?”
“Isn’t it amazing?” I say. “But it’s spinel, not ruby. And you’re far from the only guy to mistake fine spinel for ruby. It actually tends to be cleaner, more transparent, and the color? There’s a whole world of rubies that dream of
