Chapter 2: The Beauty Trap
Uncle Harvey was going to Myanmar for the jade emporium. I never expected he'd invite me along.
Airfare, hotel—everything was covered. I just needed to bring myself. When I set off for Myanmar, cheerful and oblivious, I had no idea the trip would lay the fuse for so many bombs to come.
And I certainly never expected the girl who would make my heart race every time I remembered her later.
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I have a quirk: at airports and train stations, I love observing the people around me—especially their accessories. Some people look unremarkable but wear jade of extraordinary quality, or with exquisite craftsmanship, suggesting deep cultural refinement, making me think, "You really can't judge a book by its cover." Others are flashy and extravagant but wear street market trinkets or overpriced duds—clearly newly rich. Still others prefer not to flaunt their wealth: their necklace is visible, but the main pendant is hidden under their shirt, and yet just from the accent stones, metal, and design, you can tell it's worth a fortune.
An airport is a place where you can see a diverse range of humanity—every trade, every corner of the country. But today was completely different. Today, it felt like everyone was heading to Myanmar. The Dehong Airport, usually quiet, was packed. The international customs area, usually empty, was now a sea of people. And looking around, it was obvious these were all jade and jewelry professionals—well-heeled men and women with money written all over them.
The men mostly wore jade bead bracelets or blue-water glass-type saddle rings, and one even sported a massive imperial green thumb ring. In the boom years, that single ring would have been worth over a million! The women were even less modest—pendant, necklace, ring in matching sets, some even with brooches, all featuring high-quality jade as the main stones, with the occasional ruby or sapphire from Myanmar.
While I was surveying the accessories of these wealthy travelers, my eyes suddenly lit up. A beautiful young woman appeared, standing out strikingly among the crowd of older men and women.
She wore a baseball cap, long black hair falling over her shoulders, delicate and balanced features, an oval face, large dark eyes that sparkled, and thick, heavy lashes. Her skin was a warm reddish-brown, like the fine red copper used in Xuan Dynasty censers. Her body lines were sleek, her features unmistakably Burmese.
She was standing in line not far behind me, and I kept stealing glances. This girl was the only person with absolutely no jewelry on her.
She caught me staring and gave a polite smile. I realized my rudeness and felt my face flush. I smiled back and quickly turned away.
Most people would've just wanted to go over and chat. But me? I was a man of action. I'd already walked over and sat down next to her.
"Are you also flying to Mandalay?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes." She seemed a little startled.
"Me too. We're driving from Mandalay to Naypyidaw."
"Oh? You're in the jade business? I'm going to Naypyidaw too."
She spoke with a heavy southern accent. Through our chat, I learned she was a Chinese born in Myanmar—her parents were bothethnic Chinese, and she spoke Mandarin.
There were many overseas Chinese from Myanmar in Yunnan. They were essentially no different from Yunnan locals, with fluent Chinese to boot. This wasn't surprising to me.
"Oh, what a coincidence! I'm from Myanmar too. Look—strangers becoming friends in a foreign land."
"Sure you are. What do you mean?" She laughed.
Honestly, I was from Beijing. I didn't know anyone in Myanmar and barely knew my way around. "Can I add your WeChat?" I finally pulled out my QR code.
Her response was clever—she opened her phone's camera instead of WeChat, snapped a photo of my QR code, and said, "Sure, I'll add you when I have internet later."
This was neither a rejection nor an acceptance. Very high emotional intelligence.
I took the hint and stepped away, feeling a little wistful.
Suddenly, I saw someone waving at me from the lounge—ah, Uncle Harvey! He was still wearing his little shirt, but paired with a Myanmar sarong, called a "longyi." I waved goodbye to the girl, who didn't respond, and walked over to Uncle Harvey.
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Seeing that I hadn't gotten her WeChat, Uncle Harvey laughed. "Hey, let's go. There are lots of pretty Myanmar girls. Didn't you know?"
It looked like Uncle Harvey was about to launch into another monologue about Myanmar girls. I quickly grabbed my bag and got into the boarding queue.
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The flight was short.
The jade emporium was held in Myanmar's new capital, Naypyidaw. Previously it had been in Yangon, and before that in Mandalay, but now it had moved to the new capital. My flight landed in Mandalay, and from there it was another four-hour drive to Naypyidaw. Uncle Harvey had hired a car and driver for the trip.
I spoke a little Burmese, but only enough to buy jade and order food at restaurants.
But there was one word everyone in Ruili knew how to say in Burmese: Myanmar beer—"Myanmar Beer." Myanmar in English is "Myanmar," which transliterates to "Myanmar beer" in Chinese, and since Myanmar was a British colony for many years, the Burmese word for beer sounds exactly like the English "beer."
Myanmar beer didn't just sound like English—it tasted like proper British beer, with rich malt flavor, full hoppy notes, and a smooth, creamy mouthfeel. It was delicious and cheap. Locals and Yunnanese drank it with almost every meal.
In my least-bumbling Burmese, I said to the driver, "Beer weh! Myanmar beer dah!" "Weh" meant buy, "dah" meant drink. The driver understood immediately and beamed.
Back at the car, the driver asked, "Hotel?" I said "Yes, hotel," and added a few words of Burmese thanks. Honestly, I should have thought of speaking Burmese earlier—whenever I said even a few words to the locals, their dark faces would light up with genuine smiles.
It reminded me of 1990s China. Back then, hearing a foreigner speak Chinese felt novel and delightful to us too.
Language barriers weren't the real problem. The real barrier was in people's hearts. When locals discovered you could speak their language, they felt closer to you. Even relying on gestures and guessing became easier.
Back at the hotel, I messaged Uncle Harvey: "I bought Myanmar beer. Want to drink?"
Uncle Harvey replied: "Come to my room, 210."
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Uncle Harvey sipped his beer and told me:
"The Myanmar emporium isn't something you can just walk into. It's the only officially sanctioned place for jade exports from Myanmar. Anything leaving the country outside the emporium is considered smuggling. So the requirements to get in are quite strict. First, you need to be invited by the Myanmar government or the Gemstone Association. Second, with that invitation letter, you have to pay a 20,000 euro entry deposit."
Twenty thousand euros was about 150,000 RMB. A steep price! I couldn't afford that myself, but if I went to the emporium, I could bid—and if I won a lot, maybe I'd make money!
I asked him, "Can I just come along and watch without paying the entry fee?"
Uncle Harvey laughed. "If you just want to observe, it's 1,000 euros for a ticket, non-refundable, and you can't participate in bidding."
"Good lord! A thousand euros just to look and not even bid? That's such a waste!"
"Exactly. So you might as well get an invitation." He handed me something that looked like a greeting card—a green copperplate cover with printed white paper inside, all in English.
"Myanmar Gems Association Invitation Letter," I murmured, reading the title, then scanning down. It was all official language. "Cordially invites..." When I reached that line, I looked up. "The name and passport number fields are blank?"
"Studying abroad really did help your English," Uncle Harvey complimented me. "This one's yours. Fill it out. Tomorrow we go to the emporium. Our workshop has already paid your deposit. Don't get the wrong idea—it's a loan."
I was taken aback. "You fronted that much money for me? I feel bad."
"Haha, why feel bad? I asked you to come help me, not for a sightseeing tour."
After the business was settled, Uncle Harvey and I drank several more beers. No more jade talk—we just rambled about everything under the sun. Uncle Harvey pulled over a chair for me, sprawled on the sofa himself, then shifted around until he was propping his chin on his hand like a beauty posing for a portrait.
"Zane, you're so handsome. Does your girlfriend know? Or do you not have a girlfriend? Lots of girls must be chasing you."
"I'm not that lucky. My wife is the one chasing me—and not in a good way." I didn't have many girls chasing me either.
Uncle Harvey didn't look like someone who lacked admirers, nor someone who should be married, though the "several wives" part did have a certain ring to it.
We were goofing around when my phone buzzed twice. I put down my beer, pulled out my phone, and as I did, said, "Are other jade friends from Ruili staying here too? Should we invite them over for drinks?" Uncle Harvey didn't even look up from his own phone. "Sure."
I unlocked my phone and opened WeChat, only to find a friend request:
"Sunny Yin, requests to you as a friend."