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knapsack. I flip through the pages until I find the section on health.
    How much does it cost?
    I have chest pain.
    I vomit often.
    My throat hurts.
    Is it serious?
    There is no word for
condom
in the glossary, either. What if a worthy traveler found herself in Burma and needed some handy protection? Why do the Lonely Planet writers take their title so literally? In my experience, the planet is not lonely at all.
    How about
penis?
    I flip through a few more pages while Min Ley looks on with a slight frown. He takes a long drag on his cheroot.
    Ta-da! Just as San San comes out of the house with a fat baby perched on her hip bone, I pronounce my new word
—penis
—well enough to be understood.
“Ingaza!”
    San San laughs and looks around. “Where?”
    Min Ley sits up, waving cheroot smoke away with his hand. He leans over my arm, blinks at my pointing finger. Then blinks at me.
    How about
plastic bag?
I’ve learned that word already, numerous times, but where is it now? Lost.
    Here it is!
    “Condom. Plastic bag. Penis. You don’t have children.”
    They both stare at me. Min Ley smiles cautiously. He looks at his wife and says, “She can speak Burmese.”
    San San looks confused.
    I have to try to explain. I grab my notebook and begin, slowly, to draw a penis. San San and Min Ley both stand over the table and watch. To clarify, I add a little spray of semen, hoping they don’t think it’s pee. I say, “Children.”
    San San laughs and announces, “Yes, yes.” The baby smiles, too.
    On the facing page, I draw a condom.
    On the next page—the sketching gets dodgy here, I have to admit—I pull the one onto the other, just so, with the little reservoir tip in place and everything. This time the little spurt is contained inside the condom. “See? You don’t have children.”
    Min Ley’s brow furrows deeper. He tilts his head to the side and squints. “Ahhhh. I know. I know this. Condo. Good.” He explains to San San, who frowns at me as she listens. She nods, taps a finger on the drawing, suddenly all business. She asks Min Ley a long question. To which he responds with a single grunt.
    Exasperated, she says to me, “We don’t have condo.”
    “You don’t have it in Pagan.”
    Min Ley shakes his head. “No, not in Pagan, not in Burma.”
    “In Rangoon they have condoms.” Street vendors sell them. The brand is called Apaw.
    “Really?”
    “Yes. Rangoon has them. Apaw.”
    “I don’t know apaw,” San San says. “But we want condo.”
    Min Ley explains, “We don’t have this. Many children, no condo.”
    I wonder if this can be true. If I went to a pharmacy here, would I be able to buy condoms and give them to Min Ley the horse-cart driver who has five children and does not want any more? Would he even try to use them?
    He answers this question by picking up the pen. He places his elbows on either side of my notebook. Then he writes in Burmese: “Here, my house. My address.” He points at the condomed penis and continues, “Send me, from Rangoon. Very good.”
    San San smiles at me and hands the baby to her husband. “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you.” Then she turns away and fills a kettle with water, lights the gas burner. “Would you like some tea?”

CHAPTER 4
“IS IT REALLY POSSIBLE
TO BE HUNGRY IN THE TROPICS?”

    There is only one other person staying at the wooden hotel above the wide river. We’ve run into each other a couple of times now, going in, going out, passing the terrace on the second floor. She is an artist from Spain, a brunette who wears graceful cotton shifts. She has pale brown eyes and high cheekbones. On the evening before her departure, we dine together.
    “I’m an idealist, like you. I grew up in Spain. I remember what it was like, during Franco’s time. My parents were always telling me not to get involved in the politics, it was too dangerous. So I appreciate the situation here. And I think it’s terrible that the people are so badly off.”
    “I