No such thing as a free lunch? There is in Yangon

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Yangon Part Two

Ethically the question of whether to visit Myanmar is not an easy one to answer. The country is run by a military junta*, who, in true military junta fashion, live like kings, hoard all the wealth in the country, allow their people to starve and live in unbelievable poverty, supress human rights, impose travel restrictions on locals and foreigners alike and generally treat everybody with contempt, disrespect and cruelty. On the other hand are the people, the long suffering yet ever smiling people of Myanmar, keen to talk about anything and everything in order to have a semblance of contact with life beyond the borders of their homeland. Indeed, allow them to start talking and their loquacious nature takes over. It is best to grab a small plastic chair, a cup of strong, sweet tea and go with the flow.

Talking is one thing our guide had certainly mastered. We began the day at Shwedagon Pagoda, the most famous pagoda in the country, and the site most visited by tourists and locals alike. The golden stupa is visible from all over the city, particularly at night when it is brightly illuminated, standing out brilliantly against the gloom of a city lacking in street lights. We were shown slowly round, stopping at various temples, statues and various other objects along the way. We made an offering at the statue representing the day of our respective births, rang a bell three times for good luck and were stopped in our tracks at the sight of a hermit monk, dressed in dark burgundy robes, slowly shuffling around the perimeter of the structure. Hermit monks take a vow of silence, and as the name suggests, live a solitary life, venturing out only to collect alms and make significant pilgrimages. It was a unique sight.

All the while the commentary was flowing from our guide’s mouth. Without his help and knowledge the visit may well have ended up as “just another pagoda”, but instead we came away with at least a vague understanding of its significance and importance to the people of Myanmar, many of whom dream of one day visiting Yangon simply to leave an offering at Shwedagon. Unfortunately, I can’t name him here, nor show his photo, which is a shame to say the least. To give you some idea of the situation for locals here is a joke he told me, in his fluent and mildly accented English.
“Why did the chicken cross the road?”
“Shut up! Don’t ask questions, this is Burma!”
The very definition of Tragi-comedy I think.

Leaving the Pagoda behind we jumped on a local bus and made our way into the centre of town to buy some bus tickets for our next stop, and also at our guide’s insistence, to pay a visit to his house for coffee and cake. We didn’t stop long, but still had time to meet most of his extended family – mother, brother, sister, cousin and at least one uncle – before heading to the local market to buy me a longyi. It was his mum’s idea, and who am I to argue with a woman I can’t understand? I’ve tried it with Anja and invariably I lose before I have begun. The market is a sprawling collection of wooden stalls, stretching over two or three streets, and selling everything imaginable, and a couple of things (banana tree roots, fish heads in a bag) that aren’t. We wandered around, attracting many an intrigued glance in the direction of my badly knotted purple longyi, and then made our way to a local monastery for lunch.

After a few words with the head monk and a bowl of rice and fish curry, we jumped on another bus and headed to the river. The buses in Yangon make the cars look positively showroom fresh, and riding in one is an unforgettable experience. The one we caught had the rounded edges of public transport from 1950s America, futuristic for the time no doubt, but a tad dated today. The metal work was bare both inside and out, all the paint long having faded, peeled or simply worn away. In fact, judging by the patchwork arrangement of panel work, little of the original bus remained. The windows were but a distant memory, as were the doors. Judging by the ride all the wheels were of different sizes, and inside there was standing room only by the time we jumped on board. Unfortunately, the standing room was designed for shorter people than me, as I was at least a head and a half too tall to stand up straight, much to the amusement of the locals. As I clung to the rail on the ceiling I had a look around, as far as my cricked neck would allow. Aside from the grannies chewing betel nut and the smiling painted faces of their grandchildren, the most arresting sight was a huge basket, at least 1 metre in diameter, stuffed full of chickens. All dead, and all plucked, but definitely chickens. It was about 35 degrees outside, and hotter on the bus, and by the time we got off I think the birds were somewhere between medium and well done. The smell was incredible too, and thankfully we only rode a few stops before jumping off the still moving bus and dodging the oncoming traffic to make our way to the jetty.

After paying our fee – 300 times more expensive than for locals! – we crossed the Yangon on an open sided passenger ferry at a steady pace, leaving the pollution and noise of the city behind in favour of the leafy, laid back surroundings across the water. There is little more than a small village to be found, including a pagoda which was our final target for the day. We got slightly waylaid on the way however, by a group of trainee hairdressers working by the side of the road. Never one to refuse a freebie I gladly sat down, gritted my teeth and wished I had someone to pray to. My fears were misplaced however, for despite taking the best part of an hour, the three youngsters who had snipped away at my locks had done a very respectable job. Refusing all offers of payment they cheerily waved us on our way to a thoroughly disappointing pagoda. Even the guide seemed a bit non-plussed, and we hurried on our way back across the water before the rain came. We said farewell, with a parting gift to our guide and hailed a taxi back to the hotel amid a torrential downpour.


Our third and final day in Yangon was the hottest so far, and we didn’t venture much further than the local shop and restaurant, before heading to the bus station to catch our bus to Bagan. Strangely, the bus station is located about 45 minutes north of the city, and we took another taxi to get there. The taxi of choice in Yangon is a 1970s white Toyota saloon, generally with all the nice bits removed – windows, interior carpets and plastic facias, wing mirrors, seatbelts, radio and anything else that uses the battery. Basic doesn’t even come close to an accurate description. Three times on the way to the bus station I had to reposition the “taxi” sign on the dashboard as the potholes were shaking the screws loose. Still, despite the rough nature of the roads and the somewhat erratic driving style adopted by the driver, we made it in one piece and found our bus. To give you an indication of just how old most of the cars are in Myanmar it is worth noting that in 1970 the country switched from driving on the left (like civilised people) to driving on the right (like the French). Since 1970 left-hand drive cars have been imported, but the vast majority of vehicles on the road (including coaches) are still right hand drive. i.e. they are from before 1970.

This makes overtaking particularly interesting/fun/dangerous. I think I have worked out the general rule adopted by most drivers, though I may be wrong. If the car is right hand drive, then overtake in the English fashion – to the right of the car you are overtaking. If the car is left hand drive, overtake to the left of the car in front. That seems to be what happens at any rate. Or it could just be that there are no rules and overtaking is done on a whim and a prayer? It is hard to tell at times.

Anyway, long story short we got to the bus station, found the right bus, sat down in the waiting room and watched the mighty Yangon United on TV until departure time. We left at 6pm on a Sunday with Bagan our destination. We arrived on the Monday morning at the ridiculously uncivilised time of 4 am, where we found a hotel and went to bed. On that note I will end this second instalment of our Burmese Days for now.




*There was a general election last year and officially the Military Junta was dissolved. In practice little has changed.

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Photos

Buddha's footprint.
I thought my feet were big

Comments

[Gordon]

Burmming about!
"Loquacious"...you can have that one! Great read mate, sounds amazing. Hope you're both well.

[TomAnja]

All good so far mate, how are you getting on in South America? what are your plans long term? Oz at any point?