Nomad Codes

and attractive, her prettiness marred only by severely betel-rotted teeth, although whether this imperfection is seen as such by the Burmese I cannot say. As I posed for a photo with these two ladies, the Hottie reached behind my back, grabbed my hand, and placed it firmly on her hip as she gave me an alluring glance. When we parted, the imp of the perverse who lies within us all could not resist giving her hip an unseen squeeze.
    We were ushered into the main pwe enclosure, a large blue stall surrounded by fences on three sides, its roof strung with multicolored Christmas lights. The altar was crowded with a handful of mannequinsized idols, tons of flowers and bananas, and a small Buddha in the corner, reminding those who cared to notice who was theoretically in charge. Things got rolling when the Boss performed a stylized sword dance for Maha Giri. Small flags decorated with rabbits and moons were then trotted out and twirled, and finally the two mediums faced the altar and lightly flagellated themselves with bunches of green ferns as they offered up little hip shimmies. A long series of dances followed, with each medium alternately taking the lead. The Boss or the Hottie would call out the tunes associated with various nats, the appropriate ritual implements would be placed in their hands, and then they would dance—curious moves that simultaneously invoked the nats, propitiated them, and allowed those disincarnate beings to temporarily get a groove on. At regular intervals, the two mediums would toss lucky money at the small crowd, which was mostly made up of women sitting cross-legged on the ground. The devotees offered up warm cans of soda to the nats, or liberally sprayed their living vessels with cheap perfume—treats that soon gave way to London cigarettes and Red Sea rum. Others would rise and pin bills to the lacy robes and glittery headdresses of the nat kadaw. Large denominations were likely to elicit private words of advice, which usually concerned the appropriate nats to propitiate for success in love or business. As they accumulated kyat on their costumes, the mediums took on the character of androgynous birds, their feathers composed of one of the more comical currencies on the planet.
    The nat kadaw certainly commanded all the attention, but they were not exactly in charge. Their ringleader was a rail-thin young man who acted like the pimp-daddy manager of a pair of soul divas, keeping one eye on the clock and the other on the cash. He looked like a genie, the nails on his right hand as long as claws, his many rings a garish brand of mystic bling. Radiating the condescending pride of a hustler, Mr. Bling seemed completely unmoved by the presence of the sacred forces in his midst. Without a smile, he collected notes from the crowd in a small silver pot that he then handed to the Boss, who proceeded to dance the gambling dance of Ko Gyi Kyaw, magically suspending the pot between her hands like an ace juggler.
    As the rum continued to flow, the Hottie began to direct her attentions toward yours truly, and the mischievous squeeze earlier in the afternoon flowered into full-scale public flirtation. I knew all bets were off when she came up to me, demurely turned her head away, and invited me wordlessly to kiss her neck, which the imp of the perverse performed with alacrity. The act produced gleeful cheers from the crowd, including the profoundly amused J. When I next turned toward the orchestra, one of the male singers—a sweaty, vaguely feral guy whose thinning hair was pasted to his forehead—caught my eye. Through winks and gestures, he let me know that the real trick when offered nat neck was not to kiss but to inhale. He mimed a sniff that embodied, at least at that drunken moment, a heartfelt prayer for carnal deliverance and release. Ten minutes later, after the Hottie had bestowed a soft peck on my cheek, she again offered me her neck. I took the fellow’s advice and huffed. And there, in that late afternoon air, thick with particulate matter and sweet perfume and pungent sweat, I was delivered unto an aromatic pureland, some far field of ambrosial incense and flowering trees where the Buddhas teach by scent alone.
    The rite closed with a long series of false denouements, as the nats refused—characteristically, I would learn—to disembark from their vessels of flesh. The Hottie kept calling more tunes, although it was no longer clear whether she was guided by the spirits of the nats or