Mysterious Myanmar

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September 27


To say I wasn’t a bit bit apprehensive flying into Yangon would be lying. Myanmar fascinated me, but seemed so unknown, so mysterious and even a little dangerous.
Plus, I’d had to get up really early - 2.30am - to get the 4am shuttle to the airport. Though it set off late and so the driver hurtled through Bangkok like a lunatic to make up the time. I sat next to this Japanese scientist who kept falling asleep and banging his head on the window. I thought he may not be doing much more research at Oxford after this journey. I crawled out of the minibus and found a cockroach crawling on my hat.
The Japanese brainbox was philosophical. ‘There are many cockroaches in Tokyo,’ he said.
The Air Asia flight was mostly empty, though the few passengers on it were all sitting on top of each other.
I fretted quietly through the journey though I needn’t have worried - Myanmar may not have the best infrastructure in the world, but its people are delightful. They went out of their way to help me whenever they could and would not dream of harming a foreigner. And while the usual suspects - souvenir vendors, taxi drivers - may overcharge at times, you are very unlikely to be robbed.
Yangon by night is offputting at first as it is rather dark, due to a shortage of reliable electricity. The wide streets seem full of shadowy figures, but they are essentially harmless. Much more threatening is the danger is of tripping over something or falling in a hole. The pavements are not all they could be.
On arrival the airport is quite modern and clean, it’s just a bit weird that there seems to be only about six people rattling around in it. I get my visa on arrival, which turns out to be the last day it is available before the November 7 elections.
Driving into the city, the place seems normal enough, if a bit dilapidated. But then so is most of Asia.
I stay in a rather damp hotel and head out into the grey humidity. The central landmark is a big gold stupa - Sule Paya. People very much live on the streets here. Snacks are everywhere, though not many appeal to me as they are all sitting out in the sun, generously coated with car fumes and flies. I’m not sure intestines on sticks are my thing anyway. However even in Thailand before I left my appetite had been inexplicably feeble.
Myanmar is not as cheap as you might think, as there is a two-tier system and foreigners pay more for everything. Money is annoying, as you have to bring all the cash you need with you, there’s no getting more unless you go back to Thailand. Even more annoyingly, it’s difficult to get a decent rate on the US dollars you have to bring, and the money-changers are incredibly fussy. They only want large, crispy, crackling new notes.
As do all the government agencies and hotels that need to be paid in dollars. So dollars and kyats (chats) are required. I changed a large amount of dollars when I arrived, never wanting to be short of kyat, but it turned out to be too much as you can’t pay for accommodation with it.
Anyway, muddled through all of that. In the end money wasn’t a problem. Well not as much of a problem as train derailments and a trip to hospital.
The Yangon streets are packed with life - bikes, horses and carts, ancient vehicles, women balancing trays of stuff on their heads. Myanmar is where old cars come to die. Apparently some 30-year-old sedan will cost you about $10,000. I only got 1,200 pounds for my Fiat which was nine years old and had a brand new clutch that cost 300 quid.
On the second day I attempt to walk to Shwedagon Paya, which is a bit foolish because it’s hot and I get lost but I bumble my way there eventually and it is truly impressive. I’m almost satisfied by the covered steps leading up there. It’s very beautiful and very gold and it rains for an hour which is a bit annoying but it cools everything down so walking on the marble with bare feet is pleasant rather than scorching.
Have an iced black coffee in a nearby café - the waiter brings me every ingredient so I can check them out, bless him. It comes with condensed milk in it, which is what I wanted anyway.
Try to walk back, but end up miles from town, which is fine except I have an appointment to meet Suzzi, an American English teacher I have met through Couchsurfing. I corresponded with her months ago, when I was trying to find out what Myanmar was like. She helped me decide to go.
I get to Monsoon restaurant (good food in attractive colonial building) and we chat over salads. She invites me to a ‘food day’ at her school on September 24 and says I can stay with her on my return to Yangon.
Next day I do the ‘circle line’ around the city. I need my passport to buy the dollar ticket and Lonely Planet says it takes two hours, but it’s more like three and a half. The conductor alerts me when we are finally on our way back to the central station. In between I see some countryside, villagers, enormous amounts of stuff being moved around and a man with a rooster. Then I get a cab to the bus station - a vast complex of rickety transportation - for the bus to Mandalay. Meet two Australians there who I keep running into later. At that point I’m not ready to be only foreigner on the bus.
I was dreading the overnight journey, with memories of an horrendous one I did in India, but this one is not too bad. We travel on the country’s one good road in what could well be the nation’s one really modern bus. During the night we stop at a surreal, neon-lit roadside stop full of bustling restaurants. I can’t figure out how to order, finally get some food, then am called to the bus before I have time to eat it. I try to pay, but an initial attempt fails and then during the bus boarding panic it gets overlooked. I fret that government agents will come after me, but nothing happens.
Next morning end up on a motorbike with Toe Toe, who smells of alcohol and makes a good profit out of me. He wants to take me to a waterfall, but he disappears, which is probably a good thing. After Laos I am a little weary of waterfalls anyway. Stay at the Royal Guest House which is fine, if a little hot, for $5. When I return have my own bathroom and aircon for $7. The staff at the Royal are great. Each time I come back they remember me. I try to tell one that all is not perfect in England, but eventually have to concede that even at their crappiest, things work far better in the UK than they do in Myanmar.
Mandalay sounds romantic, but it’s in the middle of dusty dry zone and the city itself is not immediately alluring, although I enjoy the tea house down the street where lunch cost 30 cents. Views from Mandalay Hill are a given, as is a tour of the ‘ancient cities’ outside Mandalay.
I spend a good day with two fellow travelers admiring the stupas of Sagaing, creaking around Inwa in a horse cart, then stopping off a pwe (festival) to see colossal mounds of identical stuff and drag queens jumping around while women pin money to them. The locals think it’s hilarious when we take digital photos of them and show the results.
We end the day at U Bein bridge, a much-photographed icon of Burma. Even I take about 30 pictures of it - sunny, sunset, twilight. From the bridge, from a boat, and every angle in between.
Somehow I’ve organized myself to go to northern Burma on the train. Myitkyina in fact. The trip should take about 24 hours and I have secured the berth ‘reserved for tourist’.
This will turn out to be one of the most memorable train trips of my life. Though not for the reasons a tourist board would appreciate.

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