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I arrived to the markets of Tayoke Tan sleep deprived and running off caffeine and the background buzz of adrenaline. The buildings are close and varied in appearance. Soot and burnt orange paint peels from the walls as laundry hangs and goods are sent by pulley system, precariously scaling the balconies. The scent of clove, tobacco, coriander, salt and lime lingers in the air, it dances and morphs as I walk. I pass by stalls of animals being butchered on the street, mainly chicken and pork, one meat I didn’t recognise made me curious to what it was, my suspicions were confirmed when the butcher remorsefully held up the unmistakable half-carcass of dog. Buckets of eels writhe in the growing heat, teenagers with thanaka painted faces pick live crab squatting on the sidewalk, vibrant herbs and vegetables splash colour throughout the narrow passage. Groups of female monks in pale pink robes, golden shawls and silk umbrellas seek donations from the vendors, stray dogs beg for scraps and taxis crawl noisily through the crowds. I did not have the pleasure to ramble. My schedule was tight and I had to haggle the best I could to avoid paying almost double than the locals - the unfortunate price for being the only Westerner - something that grew increasingly infuriating. The sticky, close heat of downtown Yangon was inescapable; all I could think about was making it to the hotel to shower and recharge. Once free from the grip of the markets I met Aung Tu, the bar supervisor for the event I was here to cater for. He stood in the reception of the hotel with a presence that relaxed my racing mind. His smile revealed reddish-brown-stained teeth that comes from chewing betelnut, which they call ‘kun-ya’ (which is the nut of the areca palm that is mixed with lime powder and other spices, wrapped in a betel leaf). As I extended my hand to him, dark eyes radiate kindness back at me. We didn’t spend much time together as the event was running. I was frantically setting up the kitchen, unpacking and organising all the food I had prepared the previous two days and delegating jobs to the ill-prepared chefs I had there to support me. The event was a success and the pressure I had felt evaporated by the smiles of guests and organisers. Back in my hotel room I got to know Aung Tu more as we bonded over our affinity for single malt, pouring generous glasses of Macallan. The following day, as I clambour into the back of a taxi with four of the other caterers, Aung Tu takes my hand and wraps it around his, rests his head on my shoulder and tells me: ‘I really like you man’. ‘I really like you too, man’, I reply. I turn to where my other hand is tangled with my girlfriend’s - her huge grin expresses how we both feel. Coming from a culture where male to male contact and signs of affection like this aren’t often shown, or bullied and stigmatized, it made the act seem so special. This theme of contact and affection continued. On one occasion he prized apart my girlfriend’s hand from mine to hold on to me! She laughed out in mock jealousy and we exchanged glances of endearment. I began to notice this more and more often among the young males of Myanmar. Driving past a dusty, sleepy petrol station, two boys of about 17 dressed in sarongs and striking thanaka rest lazily with their arms around each other. Moving to a country that has been marred by political atrocities and tainted by media coverage, I did not know what to expect. The love, kindness and open affection amongst the young male culture was a welcome surprise, something that one rarely experiences growing up in the UK. Aung Tu and I have become very good friends and we are now working together. His childlike love of life inspires me daily and the country never ceases to surprise me.