I poked my head in the taxi and said, 'Mingalabar – Yuzana Hotel?' with a glint in my eyes that is one of the many subtle codes here in Burma for 'I mean something else, but I'm not supposed to say it.' Given that they are speaking with a foreigner, sometimes people reflect that glint back to me and sometimes not; fortunately, this driver did. He knew I wasn't going to the Yuzana Hotel, but instead to the far more interesting destination across the street. He smiled, glinting, and pointed to his dash, where he had affixed a National League for Democracy (NLD) badge from the week's previous elections. I giggled nervously and hopped in.
On the way to the NLD headquarters, the driver sputtered in excited broken English about the night before. He had been hired by a pack of foreign journalists, he said, to keep his taxi idling while they sat outside Aung San Suu Kyi's house, awaiting her release. They had given up 20,000 kyat, around USD 20, and he was still thrilled at his good luck. True, this was a hefty fare for a driver in Rangoon, but I was more confounded by foreign journalists in Burma openly stating their business – and that my driver was talking so freely about the NLD and Suu Kyi. We drove past the Shwedagon Pagoda, and the gold dome glinted in the morning sun.
The crowd and atmosphere thickened closer to the NLD headquarters. It was still an hour before Suu Kyi's scheduled noon speech, but clusters of longyi-clad locals were already eagerly arranging themselves for the best view, squatting in the street, perching on the branch of a mango tree, unfazed by the broiling sun. The international community had arrived too: shiny vehicles bearing diplomatic plates – Japan, USA, UK, Singapore, France – lined the curb leading up to the ragged NLD headquarters. No other cars were getting through here, as the road was completely blocked by the crowd – though this in itself was an enigma. Where were the police? Where were the rifle-wielding soldiers who are an everyday presence on Rangoon's streets? Instead of it being a relief, their conspicuous absence only added to a palpable tension. What was going to happen? Was it a trap?
I wheedled my way into the crowd of thousands – men, women, children, Burmese and foreign, old and young, monks aplenty – finding a tight spot to squat down and sweat and wait with the others. I made mental notes of ways out in case it became necessary to run, but the mood was amiable. Hawkers were selling fresh fruit and ice lollies; down in front, a large woman in large sunglasses kept standing up, blocking the view with her wide bottom, but everyone just laughed at her. Next to me, a rawboned old man with heavy black glasses was holding a tattered piece of paper. On one side was a yellowed photo of Burma's national hero, General Aung San; on the other, a smeary printout of his smiling daughter, Suu Kyi. Every few minutes he would creak up to his feet and spin slowly in a circle, exhibiting to the crowd this image clutched tightly to his chest. Tame applause and wild grins rippled through the crowd as he turned. A mischievous smile flooded his face, and in his eyes: hope, decipherable, glittering and real. He squatted down again and smiled at me. Momentarily, for the first time in seven years, Aung San Suu Kyi would be speaking to her country's people and to the world.