Burmese Days - And In the Beginning there was Yangon

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Well, miracle of miracles we are in an internet cafe only two blocks from our hotel and there seems to be the makings of email, albeit slow. As promised, with power outages a daily occurrence we will see if we get to actually write and save this! My very dirty fingers and toes are crossed ...

It is day 3 of our journey and we are slowly adapting to life as traveller with its own rhythms. After reflecting for a few days I am beginning to identify with someone who said that "Myanmar is not a developing country, but a lost country." Arriving here feels like going backwards decades and decades. The former glory of its years as a colony as clearly evident with buildings from that time filling up full the mammoth downtown, but all of them are derelict. English and Burmese signs are hanging askance in the streets over small shops. The sidewalks are full of holes and broken tiles making walking hazardous, particularly when you get caught up in watching the streetlife. The shadow of the British is felt in its retreat and it seems as though everything dating from that time has just been left in a time warp worn down by the decades.

In a city of 5 million people, made up of Indian, Muslim, Chinese, Burmese, Shan, and Bamar floating together in a sea of sarongs, the liveliness of the streetlife belies the harsh reality for much of the population. We awake to the sounds of peddlers crying plaintively in the street in front of our guesthouse at 6am which signals another day in Yangon. After our breakfast of watermelon, bananas, eggs, toast and instant coffee and "Hi-tea" we are ready to immerse ourselves in it because life on the street is where it is at in Yangon.

From top to bottom there are the tea shops set with plastic tables and the smallest stools from which to perch and sip a cup of tea out of dainty timble like cups and aluminum pots of tea all the while listening to the gossip and conversation of the Burmese who sit there for hours. The only downside is the fumes spewing forth from the ever present buses and taxis, and pickup trucks that are chock-a-block full of passengers including hangers on off the back.

And making your way in between the tea shops, there are the street vendors where just about anything can be bought including grey market IPODs, all style of the ever popular flipflops, shirts, pants, pens, perfume, CDs (pirated of course!), and food of all shapes and colours, mostly non recognizable in heaping piles. And if you amble too long, you are likely to get pushed along by the crowds who might be going to stand in a very long line up at Immigration where they might be lucky to get a passport. But along the way, you will be stared at in a very curious manner and quite often given a huge smile of welcome or better yet a "hello".

Our least favourite conversationalists, however, are the money changers. A savory business no doubt, but we need money and they need business so it is a marriage of convenience. We are distrustful of them, but on the look out for their calls "change money". We use the same men twice who lure us to a lonely stand, hardly deserving of the title "shop" and negotiate a rate with us. As it turns out, larger bills yield a higher rate than smaller ones and since I have mainly small bills I am hard pressed to get the best rate. Kurt is better off though and between us we do ok at 1250 kyat (pronounced chat) to the $1. After changing $200 US on two separate days we need a shoebox to carry our stack'o'bills. Unbelievable.

The second foray is worse than the first with the men being extremely paranoid that we are being watched and us feeling like we are going to be cheated so we conclude as fast as possible and make tracks only to find out later that we have been shortchanged by about $20! Oh well, such is life on the dark and seamy side.

Fortunately the money changers are only one small element of life in Yangon. Monks befriend us everywhere we go and are anxious to speak English. They sit and talk to us for hours at a time which is so different than in Thailand, Cambodia or Sri Lanka where they keep to themselves. Their English is excellent and we read that they have been some of the most resistent to the military dictatorship and politically active. After a number of converstaions it is easy to believe that this is true. They are reaching out to us ideologically, but they are also quite frank in asking us for "donations" as they call it. We call it "money" and are surprised that they are so blunt, but begin to see that life here is not life in Thailand, even for a monk.

After walking the streets and trying not to get hit since the cars don't stop for pedestrians and you have to play a hopping sparrow dance to make it across the intersection, the heat takes it toll and it's good to get back to our guesthouse and prepare for the main event, our trip to Shewdagon Paya, every Buddhist's dream pilgrimage. Set above the city, and build in roughly 1485, the main stupa dwarfs everything in its path. According to the history, Queen Shinsawbu provided her own weight - 40kg - in gold which which used to gild the structure. Not to be out done, her son-in-law, went many times over that to make a significantly larger donation. The original stupa was only 66 feet, but after layers were added to represent the monks food bowl, umbrellas, lotus flower, wind vane topped off with a bud of diamonds, it reached a staggering height of 326 feet. It is inlaid with 3154 gold bells, 79569 diamonds and other precious stones.

And when that isn't overwhelming enough, there are pavillions all the way around where you can go to give offerings and so while there you amble clockwise as is the custom, the huge area is filled with chanting, praying, smoke from incense and burning candles, flowers and the devote pouring water over various shrines. According to the day that you are born, you should give offerings based on that day of the week. For me this meant stopping at Monday with its tiger and pouring water from the tiny cups over the statue, 5 times and then 3 times over its shoulder and then 3 times over the elephant on the bottom alongside all of the others worshipping.

The place has a magic and intensity that I have never seen just because of its sheer size. Everyone is welcoming to tourists and monks befriend you to tell about the history and significance and to seek donations. In our case, we got a little more than that when the monk decided to candidly express his views about his government!

Starting in the late afternoon to see the brilliant sun glisten on the gold coloured stupa, and staying for the sunset and then nightfall where lights illuminate the round shape, it is magical at anytime. Sitting with all the other Burmese listening to the birds singing and just soaking up the atmosphere is a must. But after a few hours you find yourself overdosing on Buddhas and stupas so it is time to wander around one last time and appreciate this unique pagoda of devotion where the Burmese are still arriving in car loads to pray and introduce their children to the ritual of being Buddhist in Yangon. And as we slip away in the night our dreams are still lit up from the flash of the gold of the stupa lighting out way back into the city.



Next up ... Mandalay (we hope that the computers hold out! I want to post more photos, but it is a difficult challenge!). We are on our way today by plane.

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