Going, Going, Yan-gone

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I was re-reading George Orwell’s first novel – Burmese Days – on the flight back to Rangoon. It is a book that I devoured some years ago and one which I had decided to delve back into whilst in the country to offer some greater perspective. The colourful community, set in the days of the British Empire that Orwell describes masterfully really enriches ones experience of Burma. The little traditions, rituals and activities described are spot on – and haven’t changed much since the book was first written in the 1930’s.

The old twin prop bumped down onto the rugged tarmac of Rangoon International Airport, snapping me back from the alternate reality in which I was immersed. I had a busy couple of days ahead with a swift trip south to the Golden Rock coupled with market shopping and a visit to the Shwedagon Paya at night – something which illness robbed me of on my last stay here.

After checking back into the same guest house that I stayed originally and wandering off for an afternoon stroll, these plans were soon put into disarray. I remember commenting in my first Burma blog about the horrid pavements that line the city streets. They are an absolute minefield that requires a constant dance, similar to a repetitive game of hop-scotch, to avoid plummeting into the many scattered open-sewers or falling flat on ones face.

I was taking a slightly different route into town and so, rather stupidly in hindsight, glanced at the map in my hand whilst still walking. A dark hole – long, small and (near) deadly – swallowed my left foot in this instant. My flip-flop-clad foot plummeted towards the belly of Rangoon’s filthy sewers leaving my left big toe to bear the brunt of the impact against the cold rough concrete inner wall of said hole.

The result was a painful collision, followed by a very unhealthy scrape vertically down for some distance. This culminated in a rather large, rather thick two pence piece-size of skin flapping wildly loose beneath my injured toe, spilling an unhealthy content of blood – which in a bizarre moment occurred to me to look like the red betel-spit that many project - all over the pavement.

My planned afternoon amble, as well as trip to the Golden Rock (which involved a mountainous climb) was over and I hobbled to the roadside to hail a taxi back to the guest house where I could administer some first aid. A few people saw my disposition and muttered for me to be careful – a few moments too late in the day to be making such a comment I think!!

Back at the guest house, I wrapped up my horrible looking toe with tissue and smothered some antiseptic cream all over it as it began to throb with the same intensity of an unhealthy heart after a particularly gruelling marathon. My first aid kit comprised, rather pathetically, of some little plasters and dehydration sachets – pretty useless in my current predicament.

I thus changed my plans and decided to take things a little slower the following day with a light trip to the market and then Shwedagon Paya the following evening about all I could imagine being able to complete. I felt so utterly disappointed to be missing out on the Golden Rock and was in quite a miserable mood for the rest of the day and feeling rather sorry for myself and my left toe, who really took one for the team on this occasion.

The following day I felt a little more positive and hobbled out, much to the curious stares of the guest house staff and locals going about their business on the street. I bought some first aid supplies which included iodine, gauze, bandages, (lots of) ibuprofen and microporous tape. I re-patched up my injury properly and cleaned it thoroughly. Although I did lack the courage to rip the flapping bit of skin off. My toe has suffered quite enough already!

I caught a taxi to the market which is located in downtown. The Bogyoke Aung San Market is rather old and rather famous in the city with a life that spans over 70 years. The market stalls have swelled on all sides from the principle structure and contain a myriad of vendors selling a whole manner of items from textiles, jewels and gems, tribal art, bags and fragrances amongst others.

I was here primarily to buy souvenirs, something I had been avoiding throughout the country. I had seen some marvellous local creations on my trip. Unique art, statues and paperweights that I thought I would be able to pickup at the market. Sadly, I was wrong, but I did manage to get quite a few things such as a longyi, some paintings and a chin-lon ball (the keep-up game) to enjoy when I get home. I wandered around the stalls for some hours, having lunch at the market and admiring the impressive handicrafts before returning to the guest house.

I had developed a knee-twisting, calf-spasming walk as a result of trying to keep pressure off my toe. I had to catch taxis everywhere, which was unfortunate as part of the joys of the city are the simple strolls to soak up the street theatre. So, frightened for my remaining toe, I caught a taxi at about 5pm to the Shwedagon Paya to admire the magnificent temple for the final time.

I tried to dodge the government fee of $5 on the principle that I had already paid it once. I was collared just as I was about to mount the final step and enter the complex, giving me a tantalising taste of the smugness I would have enjoyed had I succeeded. I coughed up and climbed the steps again as dusk was beginning to settle across the uncharacteristically cloudy sky.

I was bombarded by the familiar colours of greens, reds, blues and glittering golds as I wandered around the enormous central stupa again. I weaved in and out of the groups of worshippers, monks, nuns and other tourists and sat down in a suitable contemplative spot to enjoy the show.

The sky soon faded to black and the entire area became a magical hive of activity. There is a spell-bound, near-impossible beauty to the Shwedagon Paya and the exotic, calming yet strangely bustling atmosphere that is exudes at night. It feels eminently spiritual and wonderfully serene as focused spotlights throw their ethereal glow on the bright golden stupa.

Candlelight flickers from the base of the central stupa – dancing off the walls and throwing shadows which lick the floor, monks and nuns ramble their practised rhythmic sermons whilst caressing prayer beads made of fragrant sandalwood, worshippers with eyes closed in prayer bow before the main zedi in a trance as the sweet smell of fat bunches of incense floats lethargically in the air. It was a magical scene and was impossible not to feel touched, rather wonderfully, on a metaphysical level.

I soaked it all in for as long as I could before walking around the stupa several times more to enjoy the atmosphere from multiple other locations. Families and groups of friends were gathered, chatting on the floor, warmed by a day in the sunshine and the sound of bells being struck reverberated around endlessly, their sound waves contained by the colourful ornate temples that appear to muffle all sounds to a delightful decibel.

I left via a different corridor to which I entered that led down to the street, glancing up one last time at the shining bright golden beacon that is the Shwedagon Paya which looked as bright as the sun against the black sky.

As it was my last night in the city and the country I had decided to shirk the rice and noodles staple that I have been enjoying throughout Burma and go to a rather more upscale establishment. Therefore I ended up having a rather delicious lasagne with french fries, washed down with an apple juice. I eat alone, sadly, but enjoyed the solitude to bury myself in Orwell’s wonderful masterpiece once more.

Burmese Days (well done for those that spotted this reference in the first blog title!) captures the wonderful spirit of the country beautifully. It paints the picture of a longyi-clad, cheroot-smoking, betel-chewing, pagoda-building superstitious populace which I have found to ring very true in all areas of the country I have visited, regardless of ethnicity.

Burma comprises of many differing minority groups and tribes including that Shans, Bamar (majority – hence the name Burma), Kachin, Chins, Rakhaing, Mon and others that I am sure to be forgetting. These factions each have their own unique traditions which are centuries old and were generally only really united because of the British when they re-drew the maps in this area long ago.

Today these ethnic minorities are fractiously held together by a military junta that keeps them in check – but for how much longer? If full democracy were to sweep through Burma it would certainly bring with it enormous challenges in which keeping each of these groups happy, and the country intact, a primary concern.

Whilst here I have also been wrestling with the role the military junta has played in moulding the society into what I have experienced today. Alone and starved of trade partners the country and its people have fostered a wonderful attitude to cultivate many of their own produce and manufacture everything required themselves. At the expense of building roads and improving infrastructure the country remains culturally beautifully pristine and feels like stepping back in time. This is something that perhaps would not be quite so evident if a democratic government with capitalistic policies had been in charge.

I do whole-heartedly disagree with how the country is being run and how certain people in the upper-echelons of government are feeding Swiss bank accounts at the expense of people living in poverty. This must be stopped along with the ethnic cleansing, imprisonment of political opponents and other heinous crimes. Freedom is, after all, a right and not a virtue.

Many of these feelings washed over me as I caught a taxi back to my guest house for my final night in Rangoon before my flight back to Kuala Lumpur. From this ride I was able to absorb part of the city I hadn’t seen before. A more cosmopolitan blend of architecture raced past, laden with throbbing, and incredibly tacky, LED Christmas lights alongside upscale restaurants, shopping malls and hotels.

The roads in this part of town were wider and smoother and reminded me of a certain small section of Saigon in Vietnam. It was not long before the familiar pot-holed roads ensued though and my body bounced across the back seat of the taxi for the remainder of the journey.

This journey, like many of the others that I have taken in the country has been challenging. I have been squashed onto large boats with no room to breathe, on horribly uncomfortable bone-shaking buses and terrible taxis. But, despite how awful they appeared at the time, these journeys really have enriched my experience of the country further. They have brought me closer to the local people who struggle with such logistical challenges on a daily basis, allowing me to develop a fragment of the shared hardship that they endure regularly yet silently accept.

Travel here is definitely a challenge, but a very rewarding one worth every ounce of discomfort endured. Also, with no ATM’s in the country at all I have had to deal with a different type of challenge. One which requires sound financial planning and, more importantly, sticking to it said plan. Running out of cash would certainly leave me very far indeed up poop river without an oar. Burma is an incredibly cheap place though and so, even with a couple of cheeky flights, I came away with much of the money I carried in.

Overall though, Burma has certainly refreshed parts of me that other countries have never reached. It has touched me on so many levels that I am really quite in love with the place. It is a woefully rugged and raw place yet full of beauty, tradition and enchanting customs. This country contains an almost perfect blend of fabulous culture, incredible history and wonderful, wonderful people.

Despite the ancient old history, the gorgeous beaches, fabulous trekking and incredible scenery, the overwhelming highlight for me has been the aforementioned Burmese people that I have met in all cities, towns and villages of this country. Their infectious enthusiasm, courage in adversity, charm, strength and innocence has been a real source of inspiration for me along with their wonderfully endearing human spirit.

The Golden Land has certainly surpassed my wildest expectations, leaving me gloriously illuminated.

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Photos

Shwedagon by Night
The Wish-fulfilling area. I spent much time here!

Magic Moments
Shwedagon Paya at night.

Comments

[Andy Fitts]

Thanks for your stories
Good job. Really enjoyed your writing flow and felt the power of the place. I am going next month and you have help me clarify a few things about my trip. All the best....Andy

[Summer_Snow]

Thanks for all the posts
I almost cried when i read your review about Burma and the people. And on how u think and how they moved you. Really thanks for writing these posts. I hope you will visit again in future. It's too bad that you didn't get a chance to go to Golden Rock which is called "Kyite Htee Yoe Zedi". It's also a religious place with mountain. But you have to expect some difficulties and unprofessional service but they are considered not cheap. A lot of locals go there and like it. But I don't really find tourist as much as Bagan or Inle there. But I like Kyite Htee Yoe so much. The weather is cold and the nature is superb. Last time was much more better. I think you would go from the hiking route on foot. It is much more fun. I don't recommend you to go up the mountain by car which is dangerous and uncomfortable. Wish you come back to Myanmar again. :) .. Thanks for the post and all the photos... You are one great photographer too. I have same camera as you but I can't produce same picture as you. It is so tiring to bring the camera and go around too. I don't know what is the correct setting for certain picture. I wonder whether you use stand for the night shoot on Shwedagon Pagoda. I really wish to shoot just like you. I will try again when I visit back to Yangon in future.