Why I Love Yoga

I love yoga. I love yoga more, now that I don’t practice it a lot. I love it so much because of all the contortionist moves I have to make to get to sit on one of those nasty bus benches. At least I got a seat on the Pyay – Pakokku bus, the last one available but one of the best in the house: behind the bus driver in a bus designed for left-sided driving in a right-sided driving country (apparently, the Burmese, in a violent attack of asserting their independence switched from left-sided driving to right-sided driving practically overnight; what they forgot was to change their whole fleet of right-sided driving vehicles, which makes everything a whole lot more interesting).

To get such a bus from point A to point B on tiny, narrow, potholed little roads is an art, which requires at least 3 people: the driver per se, who is quite important but not as important as the left-view-mirror-and-overtaking man, who stands propped on the bus door’s step (left side) and shouts at other traffic participants (mostly bicycles and motorcycles) to get out of the way and tells the driver when it’s safe to overhaul big trucks (because the driver can’t see); and the man in charge of minor issues like, for instance, passengers. Some get down but most of them get on and it’s always a surprise that there still is space for them inside the bus. This third man is in charge of money and seating people and his job mostly involves shouting at passengers inside to make space for the newcomers. There are always newcomers.

So you’ve got people seated neatly on seats on either side of the bus with their bags under the seats or in their laps, tons of bags and packages on the aisle and another bunch of people on top of the things on the aisle. Imagine all this on wheels. Now imagine all this on wheels in sharp turns. And now imagine all this on wheels, in sharp turns with potholes and incoming traffic on a road that barely fits a bus and a car next to each other. Just another normal day in Burma. There are left-sided cars and right-sided cars and it’s fun to get at a bus station and laugh at the people who are not sure on which side of the bus are they supposed to get up (those ‘people’ would be me most of the times). Still, I’m not sure which lane is the fast lane: in cities it seems that the fast lane is the one on the right side, closest to the sidewalk and the slower motorcycles drive almost in the middle of the road. Outside cities the story is the other way around. Thankfully, there is not so much traffic in this country. I don’t think there are many rules either.

Back on the bus, I was seating quite uncomfortably next to a sullen Burmese woman with heavy eyelids with my knees wedged sharply in the board that divided the seating space (created for gnomes) and the driver’s area (a lounge compared to my space). She was standing next to the window, the perpetually open window (as was the door and all the other windows) because air needs to be conditioned somehow and, lacking air-con, this would have to do. Next to me on the aisle was what appeared to be sacks of something covered with a big canvas. Before we left Pyay we stayed in the parking lot bored and sweating on the bus while a man advertised (as he would later explain to me especially) some kind of medicinal good-for-everything powder-in-a-can, which people actually bought so we could go our way. I hadn’t expected the potholes and neither were my knees, which suffered greatly throughout the journey; oh, yeah, and it had been hinted to me that the journey would last about 11 hours. But I only had to contort for about 8 hours, as the Burmese woman stopped in some city and I took her place, which was not even slightly better. Still, the fact that at least to my right I had a solid non-breathing surface made the trip a lot better.

And now to the bus people, the trio I mentioned earlier, immensely valuable to the bus ride. The bus drivers: two of the three, interchangeable by no apparent pattern, betel-chewing, loud-speaking, shiny-brown Burmese, who had fun at the expanse of the entire bus by driving faster than the road would have allowed it, honking for no apparent reason, and turning on the numerous sparkling Christmas-like lights in the bus, just to keep you awake. And the third man, keeping up with the first two, sometimes jumping out of the rolling bus to buy new betel for him and the drivers, while the bus eventually stopped and waited filled with silent prayers that we would soon be on our way, so that at least there’s some breeze blowing – my silent prayers, of course.

We stopped for dinner. Everyone got off the bus and, along with the passengers from two or three other busses, shuffled hurriedly to the toilets and the restaurant. Every meal was brought incredibly fast and similarly finished: 20 minutes later we were back on the bus, bouncing towards our destination. But at the next stop some 3 hours later, the bus drivers discovered me. They were amazed by the fact that I smoke and therefore I had the honour to have a seat at the bus drivers’ table, where they got free coffee, tea, cigarettes and betel from the owners of the respective place and were delighted to share it with me. I sat with them, unable to communicate one bit, watching them as they stole glances at me while obviously commenting on some of my features. They laughed a lot. I didn’t.

But back on the bus, the third man (who took the seat next to mine once the Burmese lady was gone) offered me his chilled, brand new bottle of water with a straight face that said more something like ‘you need it’ than ‘it’s my pleasure to offer you this gift as a token of our nations’ friendship.’ Still, cold water seemed like a gift from heaven.

Once we got to Pakokku all three bus people were very careful to give me my backpack and ask me where I would go and what I would do. Once they got the idea more through sign language than actual speaking, they looked for a motorcycle taxi to take me at the guesthouse. But, as luck would have it, this one knew enough English to tell me that that particular guesthouse was inexistent in Pakokku and that I should better go to another one – he would take me. ‘But,’ I said, ‘it’s here, look! That’s the street name…’ And, sure enough, the bus people convinced him to stop it with the commission-hunting and take me to my guesthouse.

This only means that my waking up the whole guesthouse was only possible because of the nice bus people. And because of yoga.