I am a writer, editor and freelance journalist.
You can find samples of my work below.
I can be contacted at [email protected]
San Zarni Bo’s destiny was foretold. At the tender age of six, a traveling astrologer read his horoscope and informed him that he would become a fortune teller himself.
Life: a stumbling hellscape of fear and uncertainty. We are, argues anti-natalist philosopher John Rothman, condemned to a life of perpetual misery and frustration. "We're almost always hungry or thirsty," he writes. "When we're not, we must go to the bathroom."
Bouhinga are recording in Myanm/art, a white-walled, high-ceiled art gallery in downtown Yangon. Outside, heavy rain is falling, and dirty water is bubbling up from the sewers. Occasionally, the music is interrupted by a car horn, dogs barking, or the wail of a street hawker, ambient noises par for the course in this part of the city.
Two hours after meeting Mr Sharky in the restaurant that shares his name, I find myself nose deep in a barrel of half fermented fish guts. Behind me, the man himself moves from shelf to shelf, snatching down jars of wheat grain and honey like a Burmese Willie Wonka, waxing lyrical about the fermentation processes that set his restaurant chain apart from the rest.
When New Jersey native Art Hongpong married into one of Myanmar's prominent business families and moved to the country's commercial capital Yangon in 2012, the future of his ice carving business seemed as fragile as one of his legendary sculptures.
Our journey took shape in the small hours of one morning in January. Dom, our de facto leader, had spent a week staying up until dawn, obsessively scrolling through Google maps, firing coloured pins into lakes and rivers that could be potential destinations.
Wearing a black t-shirt encrusted with a colorful sequined tiger, arms covered in sleeve tattoos, and hands bedecked with gold rings and silver bracelets, R Zarni is quiet and demure - a rockstar in the Myanmar tradition. Growing up in Yangon's Tamwe township, he has had a long journey to the heights of fame and success.
Dressed in traditional Chin textiles, a cup of tea in one hand, Anna Sui Hluan cuts a demure and impressive figure. In the refined interior of Le Planteur Restaurant & Lounge, we sat down to discuss her life, faith, and her many projects, all with the same fundamental goal - improving the lives of disadvantaged ...
By TOM SANDERS | FRONTIER Two figures in white cotton suits are locked together, limbs interlaced. The only sound is heavy breathing, and the mat is soaked through with sweat. With a sudden twist, one is tossed to the ground. As he falls, he pulls his opponent forward and wraps a leg over his head.
If you're white, racist and fed up with the grinding oppression of living in the West, where you're forced to rub shoulders with a small proportion of people who are not the same race as you, there's a new solution: move to Africa.
Director Tran Anh Hung 's 1995 film Xích Lô is widely regarded as his masterpiece. It's a seminal piece of filmmaking, presenting a lurid and picture of an under-documented stage in the country's history, beauty and ugliness both in abundance in every oversaturated frame.
This piece is really two things: a eulogy for three places in Saigon that will soon be gone, and a commentary on trends in the city that are emerging. Saigon does not need misty-eyed nostalgia any more than it needs sneering expat dismissal.
Adam Palmeter is a busy man. When he's not hosting open-mics, organising the Saigon Skill art showcase, or deciding which of his thousand identical NY baseball caps to wear each day, Adam makes vivid, abstract-expressionist art. Adam's newest project, In Stalls, pushes Adam's work forward not just in execution, but by a unique choice of gallery available to the fine public of Saigon.
In 2011, a London student started a small multi-arts festival with the aim of celebrating the contemporary UK creative scene through an event founded on principles of volunteerism, collaboration and independence. The July, over a thousand people (including four hundred collaborators) came together in the grounds of a Sussex stately home for the festival's third incarnation.
Brighton three-piece Spit Shake Sisters play a messy blend of garage and psych, evoking Ty Seagall as much as the Stooges in their reverb-drenched, lo-fi sound.
A few days ago, I had three wisdom teeth extracted from my skull. You might know this already. If I've spoken to you recently, I've probably told you. Honestly, if I've ever met you, I will have called you up and let you know. "Hey, I'm having my wisdom teeth taken out."
Bangkok's traffic brings the city to a dead stop, so I step out of the cab and into a bar. Inside; low light, dirty tables, a lurid drawing of Alice in Wonderland supping tea with the Hatter, and a couple of young Thai men holding their friend, heavily flushed and clinging to a cigarette like...
From here, the city looks like one big question mark, and the clouds in the sky are swollen with rain. If you listen you can hear things growing; murky water has risen to a cascade of clashing froth and white flecked foam, the golden Pagoda is all seeing and all seen, the breast of the...
Two women are playing badminton with a severely splintered shuttlecock. The light is dim, beads of sweat rise up to soak my shirt. I stumble across a makeshift barricade of barbed wire and iron, and am forced to turn back. The shuttlecock traces a parabola through the air, then skitters on the floor next to...
The same dog a dozen times, sometimes six together, sometimes kilometres apart, mewling through the streets, skin the colour of a vanilla muffin, bones that I can count through the rain-flecked window. Shower, shirt, shoes, taxi to the hotel. Yangon unfolds in front of me. The radio plays Let Me Love You, and when it...
Food and Drink
Who is James Cheese? A western pilgrim who first brought cheese to the shores of Korea? Is it, perhaps a cryptic reference to our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ? One thing is clear: James Cheese is a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a frankly disturbing amount of cheese.
Somewhere in between having mid-afternoon sex with their teenage mistresses, decapitating their aristocracy and urinating while smoking cigarettes, the French deigned to give the world the gift of their glorious culture.
It's the dying days of the hot season, and Yangon is gripped by rolling power-cuts. Lights shut off, fans shudder to a halt, and sweat drenched figures stagger through the streets in search of air conditioning. In the stygian darkness, your faithful writer crouches, committed to pushing out the culinary reviews that a benighted Yangon so desperately needs.
From Sanchaung to Chinatown, Kandawgyi Lake to the Strand, two words are on everyone's lips. The chattering classes mutter them over espresso martinis, they are daubed on the city's walls in fresh betel spit, and even the dogs are crying them out in the summer heat.