Yangon

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There's a quietness amongst the passengers onboard the flight from Bangkok to Yangon. The arrival process at the airport is quick and efficient. Most of the foreigners are greeted by a lone representative of the 'Motherland 2'hotel that offers a free bus service into the city. Most tourists save the $6 taxi fare by doing so. The traffic in Yangon is civil and the streets aren't as crowded as I expected for a city of five million people.

I stay at the Motherland 2 Hotel for approximately three days. The tourists arrive daily, eat their eggs for breakfast and go through routine discussions about itineraries. It becomes unbearable quickly, so I move to a hotel that is cheaper and has fewer tourists. I find one right in the centre of town called the Garden Hotel, which does not have a garden. It overlooks the 2,200 thousand-year-old Sule pagoda situated smack bang in the middle of a roundabout. The British “redesigned” central Yangon in the early 1900s.

The hotel is basic but the room is surprisingly quiet. Outside, the streets, and the footpaths resemble ruins of an ancient city; as if an earthquake had recently struck and repairs were never carried out. There have been many actual earthquakes over the years. At night, central Yangon is dimly lit and chaotic and there are many street stalls lining the broken footpaths. The whole atmosphere is kind of carnivalesque and spooky.

Before arriving in Myanmar, I read that the military-run junta government raises revenue by collecting entrance fees to the various tourist hotspots in Myanmar. Earlier in the week, I’d briefly visited Sule pagoda. While attempting to circumambulate the stupa, I was accosted by angry-looking officials. They interrupted my walk around the stupa with abrupt demands for money. Ignoring their rude interjections, I try to continue my meditative walk but was harassed again by another angry person - a man purporting to be a religious teacher who explains that all foreigners must pay the fee. Explaining, in my condescending manner, that there shouldn’t be any monetary fee to enter a religious site, he gets angrier. I replied, “you are no teacher you're just another greedy angry man!” and left. Walking along the cracked streets of Yangon, I wonder if all future attempts to visit the stupas in Myanmar will be met with such an experience.

As I watch a chicken’s throat being cut, its head pulled off with a flick of the wrist and its body being thrown into a bucket to bleed out, I think about death. The butcher disassembles the chicken with ease. Splattered blood covers the brick walls and on the concrete floor are baskets of live chickens waiting to be killed. I notice the feathery dust from the chickens floating in the air and think “… this is Bird Flu city!” The butcher notices me taking a photo and smiles. There’s a sense of pride behind his smile. I think about the concept of 'right occupation’ mentioned in Buddhist texts. Having a profession relating to the suffering of animals isn't one. I don't think this is on the mind of the butcher, as he continues to kill another chicken, as he appears to be Muslim. It’s also written that the animal kingdom is one of suffering. Even the butcher would have to relate to that one. Downtown Yangon is dusty and hot, so I leave the market somewhat affected by the gruesomeness of those chicken deaths and head back to my hotel room.

After being in Myanmar, I’d like to attempt the border crossing in the northeast and continue travelling into Laos so I need to organise a visa. I go to the Laos embassy and fill out the forms. An official there tells me that it’s technically not an international border crossing and only three people have crossed there in the past year. Regardless, I pick up my visa later that day and organise a permit to enter that area. I also need a ‘backup visa’ and permit to cross into Thailand if the Laos border crossing isn't an option. The information at the government-operated travel agency isn’t helpful. I cannot purchase the permit alone and must pay for a guide and a jeep. Also, I cannot cross into northeast Myanmar by land. I’m told I’d have to go to Keng Tung. I abort the whole land border crossing mission and instead purchase a return flight back to Bangkok, departing Yangon in 28 days on the 12th of the 12th. The numbers seem curious, as my initial visa for arrival in Myanmar was issued on the 11th of the 11th.

Originally, I planned to stay at Pa-auk Forest monastery for a 10-day vipassana meditation retreat. I haven’t yet completely decided against it. Walking towards Shwedagon Pagoda from the west, the golden temple shines in the sun. This is the most important Buddhist site in Myanmar. It’s also where the monks began their protests in 2007. Which was followed by a systematic ransacking of monasteries and the killing of many monks. As I jump a fence to cross the road. A soldier calls me over and reprimands me for doing so. I notice a large scar across his face. His attitude changes the moment I apologise.

Heading towards the entrance I sense there will be the same unpleasantness here as there was at Sule Pagoda. Riding the escalators up to the top of the temple platform, my presumptions are warranted. The women were female clones of the Sule officials and they rudely demand $5 US dollars to enter. I reply with my rant but they’ve heard it all before and have trained for this moment. There’s no entering unless I pay the government fee. “Please explain to me, the difference between a donation and a fee?” They don't care to be lectured by some foreigner and seem to be getting some perverse pleasure out of this. The only person who is getting upset is me, so I fork out the cash. What a fraud. It takes me a while to calm down. Then, after an hour or so I’m approached again by another two uniformed officials who request to see my ticket. Assuring me, that no tourist has escaped without paying the compulsory fee. It is a stunning place. Reported to be at least 2,500 years old; an essential place of pilgrimage for Burmese Buddhists to visit at least once in their lifetime. The equivalent of Mecca for Muslims. It is said, the temple houses hairs from the Buddha’s head. I meet some monks, who ask me to sit with them to practise their English; they’re friendly and we talk for about an hour. One asks me whether I’d go for tea near his Monastery. Leaving the giant pagoda I feel a lot better than when I first arrived.

Over a cup of tea, the conversation turns to a more serious nature regarding the political situation and the protests. It’s getting late, so we arrange to meet the following day. The monk is very enthusiastic to learn English. Many Burmese learn to read and write English at school and want to practise their pronunciation with native speakers. I offer to make a sound recording for him, as I have a digital recorder and laptop with me. He arrives at my hotel and we get right to it. Producing a sheet of paper with about 150 short English phrases, we make a recording of myself speaking the English phrase while he repeats the same phrase in Burmese. We do the best we can in such a short time. I edit the recordings that night and burn them to cdr. In the morning I leave a couple of copies at the hotel reception and arrange for him to pick them up. I’ve been here a week now and it’s dusty, crowded and getting hot. I’d like to stay and hold free English lessons for the Monks.

After a long taxi ride to the bus station on the outskirts of town, I miss both buses going north to Mandalay and Pyay, so I decide to go to Bago instead. I begin my first ride by local pick-up, basically a ute with a custom roof rack. Twenty people can fit in the back and another twenty on the roof rack. Paying a little extra I get a front seat next to the driver. An hour later there is a loud bang followed by a metallic grinding sound as the vehicle begins to sway across the road. In a matter of seconds, I envisage the car will flip onto its side and roll along the highway throwing the passengers into the night sky or worse squashing them beneath the vehicle and the bitumen road. A few more seconds and the driver miraculously brings the car to a screeching halt. Everybody quickly evacuates the vehicle and runs into the dark. I grab my torch and look underneath. The tail shaft is hanging down from the front, twisted and bent. We aren't going anywhere. Just then, another pick-up stops, everyone climbs on board and without a second thought, we continue our journey. Mere minutes, and we’re back on the road to Bago. Now there are about thirty people in the back and thirty on top. I’m packed in the back with the other passengers, sitting silently as we contemplate our near-fatal incident. Arriving in Bago about two hours later, I check into the Emperor Hotel.

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