Dubai is Not Dangerous

Before flying to the U.S. for 4th of July reunions, I packed some presents from Myanmar and Thailand that I planned to bring to friends and family. Included amongst those goodies were a few aromatic Thai inhalers. These camphor-filled cylinders must look like bullets to an airport x-ray machine. The Bangkok security team pulled me aside.

At first I couldn’t think what they could be worried about, but when the guard and I opened the suitcase and discovered the inhalers, we both had a good laugh. Strangely, at the Chiang Mai airport, before taking the short hop to Bangkok for my connection to the States, I had sailed through unchallenged.

A few hours later I approached the third check of the day. In Dubai, all transit passengers must re-scan their carry-on bags. This time a large woman wearing a head covering stood up from her position at the x-ray machine. She was not smiling as she waved me over to a table near the conveyor belt. I knew she wanted me to feel scared of her, but I just smiled and prepared to explain.

Even when she pointed at my second bag, which contained no inhalers, I still couldn’t feel concerned. Then she announced, “You have knife.” It was not a question. I opened the small pack to show her a harmonica that sometimes confuses x-ray readers. She shook her head, taking over the unpacking. It was an awkward moment. I knew I had nothing to hide, she knew she had seen a knife. The more I smiled, the more she glared. 

She removed a book, laptop charger, toothpaste, hat. Finally all alone at the bottom of the pack was a small bag containing Burmese snacks… and my mother-in-law’s six-inch-long kitchen knife.

I was stunned. The last time I had seen that knife, about three weeks earlier, it had stowed away in a package I was bringing back to Chiang Mai from Jip’s village. I could imagine a few different ways it could have ended up in this daypack, but in fact I wasn’t sure. I was sure that nothing I could say would sound convincing to the intimidating man who replaced the intimidating woman. He took my passport and boarding pass with him to a desk, where he began documenting my crime. I began crafting the speech that would explain the true story of the knife’s journey.

“Well, sir,” I imagined saying, “my mother in law loaned me some old photographs. We used a knife to cut the string when we wrapped them in newspaper. Without our noticing, the knife became lost in the package. I didn’t find it until I untied the pictures at the photo shop where I scanned them.

“Later, I tossed the knife in with a large bag of food gifts that I purchased in Naypyidaw. All of these bundles traveled home with me on the bus. Now I’m taking those same gifts to the U.S. It never occurred to me that the knife would still be in the bag….”

I didn’t move as I rehearsed this speech. Something told me to avoid doing anything they might consider furtive. My connecting flight departed in under an hour. I wondered if I would be allowed to get on it. The ominous man walked back over to me to start his interrogation.

“What…” he began.

I opened my mouth to explain.

“…is your nationality?” he continued.

Surely this was a trick. He was still holding my passport, face up. He had just written down my information. There had to be a catch. But on short notice I couldn’t see it, so I simply answered, “I’m American.”

To which he nodded, handed me my documents, and walked away. I made my connecting flight. Before passing through Dubai on the way back to Thailand, I believe I’ll triple check the bottom of my luggage.

Naypyidaw is Not Like Anyplace Else

Quick—what’s the capital of Myanmar/Burma?  If you said Yangon/Rangoon, you’re half right. Practically speaking, much of the country’s future gets charted in the city that the British chose as the capital in the 1800s. It’s still the economic center, and all of the embassies are based there.

But officially the government moved its headquarters 250 miles north to the middle of nowhere about eight years ago. Nobody got much notice. The inauguration of the new capital kicked off at 6:37am on 6 November 2005, less than two weeks after most of the Yangon civil servants who would be working there had first been given the news that they had to move. Secretive planning for Naypyidaw—the name translates in English as “Abode of Kings”—reportedly grew out of conversations between the generals and soothsayers.

Outside Asia, many people still haven’t heard of the city that one critic has called “more a sprawling army compound than a functioning metropolis.” Indeed, this planned community without any community has aspects of a fortress. Naypyidaw’s suburbia-style street grid simplifies crowd control. Being between mountain ranges makes it much easier to defend than a river town like Yangon. And rumor has it that connecting the many ministries and mansions are miles of tunnels.

I had a chance to stay in Naypyidaw this past week as a helper to someone attending a major financial meeting, the largest event ever held there. Had it taken place anywhere else, I wouldn’t have been interested. Because this place simply isn’t like anywhere else.

Vast, and too quiet, Naypyidaw is functional but not fun. The city is able to host the South Asia incarnation of the World Economic Forum by day, but unable to provide any entertainment by night. In the words of one Korean attendee, “It’s easy to get around here, but there’s nowhere to go.”

The roads are wide, empty six-lane highways in both directions. City blocks stretch for nearly two miles, lined only with a few dozen 100-room hotels. There are no food carts, no beauty salons, no bookstores, no bicycle shops, no tour companies, no dogs, no traffic, no clinics. Just hotels. And not a Marriott nor a Hilton among them.

Surreal, yet oddly attractive, Naypyidaw’s appearance is clearly intended to impress. The city’s landscaping budget reportedly dwarfs that of all the country’s other municipalities combined. A large lawn surrounds the parliament building, which appears to be two or three times larger than the one in Thailand. Streetlights stay on all night, unlike most cities in Myanmar, where electricity is sporadic. Five golf courses allow for open-air financial negotiations between government officials and businessmen seeking favors. Everything is spread out under a big sky, complemented by silhouetted peaks in the distance.

I got on the back of a motorcycle to head for the ministry zone. My errand was simple: hand-deliver a couple of documents. Mostly I was looking forward to passing through something resembling a city center along the way. No such thing. Those clever generals perhaps wanted to prevent Arab-Spring-style gatherings, long before such movements arrived in the Middle East.

Soon the motorcycle driver and I found ourselves wandering from Finance to Communications, stopping along nearly vacant roads to ask directions of gardeners. The individual ministries are spaced every half-mile or so, always set back from the streets far enough that they can’t be seen. Which may be a good thing. Viewed up close, these buildings have already begun to decay. Mold and wrinkles cover the exteriors. Inside, you find sparse furniture and an air of listlessness that goes beyond the level you might expect, even of a developing country bureaucracy.

Though Naypyidaw doesn’t have a downtown, or really anywhere that could be considered a public square, there is a telling cultural symbol occupying what appeared on my map to be the exact geographical center of the city. You’re probably thinking: a large monument to a hero? a religious edifice of some kind? maybe a flagpole? No, it’s a museum… yet not one that celebrates particular moments from the country’s past. Rather, Naypyidaw offers pride of place to the natural resource that partly provided the millions spent to transform a jungle into row upon row of pattern-built office space. Yes, it’s the Museum of Gems.