Myanmar: Yangon

I relish the feel of cool tile under my bare feet, the warm sun on my face, a fresh morning breeze in my hair, the sound of chanting in my ears, as I circle a golden stupa.

This is Myanmar, and I am loving it.

***

My first morning in Yangon begins with a wander near The Strand, where I locate a bustling morning market – green mounds of fresh herbs, bright piles of shiny fruit, drippingly fresh meat. Fish scales fly from cleavers hitting slices of tree trunks; I almost step on a small carp as he slithers across the pavement in an attempted escape, looking desperate to leap evolutionary bounds in the next few seconds. Women of all ages, yellow thanaka smeared on their faces, sit cross-legged on the ground, chatting between transactions.

On the perpendicular block, small sidewalk restaurants are full of people  eating breakfast, perched on small stools, as hot oil spatters and cauldrons steam. Walking requires full attention: to avoid loose pavement, open gutters, random holes. The buildings look tattered and worn – and unique. Somehow the side streets appear to be leafy and green while jumbled with overhead power lines. Eventually I hail a trishaw for the trek back to the hotel, barely on time for my meeting with Myo, my tour guide for the day. We start off with a walking tour of the downtown area – Sule Paya gleams gold, sedate in the chaos of the roundabout is sits in the middle of, and the monument to independence rises from the green lawns of the park behind us. 

On December 27^th, the city will be holding its first-ever local elections. One representative per family is allowed to vote. The rest of the country is watching to see how it goes, says Myo. Much of what he mentions is about the positive changes being made by the government to better the country, from road repairs to foreign investments (there are still, to my delight, however, a lack of KFCs, McD’s, and Starbucks). For better or worse, the Myanmar of today sounds like it will be quite different from the Myanmar of five years from now.

We continue to walk, past crumbling colonial buildings, through the Strand Hotel, across the (brand new!) pedestrian overpass to the ferry terminal.  Long-boats cross the muddy water, the ferry (a gift from Japan) unloads a stream of people onto the wooden gangplank, some toting baskets of goods or pushing bicycles. As we walk back over the road, I learn that the Japanese occupied Burma for two years prior to WWII, committed crimes against the people… and yet. The Burmese hid Japanese soldiers to protect them from Allied troops. Then, years later, the Japanese forgave debts, and donated boats and trains to Myanmar. 

Back in the car, we headed out to the northern suburbs of the city to see the impressive reclining Buddha at Chaukhtatgyi Paya. This area is calmer, greener, with twisting roads and monasteries. The reclining Buddha has piercing blue eyes and lush lashes, the soles of his feet gilded with a grid of golden symbols (one of which was the telling sign that he was destined to be The Buddha). Worshippers kneel, chant, finger prayer beads, as we tourists circle and snap photos from various angles. The warm lights give an impression of candles, and out the back is a leafy vista punctuated by pagodas and wooden rooftops;  the vibe is peaceful, relaxed.

A few twisting streets later, we arrive at Ngahtagyi Paya, where a seated Buddha presides, in front of a ceiling-high intricately carved wooden backdrop. I learn that the 8 stations around the Buddha correspond with the days of the week (2 for Wednesday, both morning and afternoon, as this is the day that Buddha was born), and that worshippers give offerings at the station that corresponds with their birth day. The bells that gong intermittently in the background are rung when a person does a good deed – and some of that goodness extends to anyone who hears the bell ring. Some are light and sweet, some deep and resonant, and over the coming weeks I will hear them all.

Lunch is at a bustling establishment that caters to both locals and tourists, we jostle to the counter to get a look at the various curries on offer, make our choices, and then head to our table in a much calmer annex. The curries arrive, as do a pile of rice, a bowl of sour-spicy okra soup, and a plate of mystery greens. It is all delicious, and the plate of fruit delivered at the end of the meal is a perfectly sweet dessert. 

I’m feeling drowsy, so our next stop is Kandawgyi lake, where I spend an hour dozing in the shade, trying to tune out the city sounds floating over the water. Thus recharged, I am ready for Shwedagon Pagoda.

After passing though a metal detector and surrendering my shoes, we ride an elevator, cross a bridge, and emerge at the Southeast corner of the complex, where a large Bodhi tree casts shade. The pagoda sits on a hill with a commanding view of the city. The main stupa is currently covered in bamboo scaffolding, but my annoyance changes to interest when I learn that the people perched in the scaffolding are re-gilding the stupa. A small procession of people passes, two men bearing sheets of gold to be hammered onto the stupa. 

The stupa is 99 meters high and is the focal point of the complex, but it is surrounded by countless smaller stupas, temples, buddha statues…. Plenty of quiet places and shady locations, and indeed, plenty of people are just sitting, relaxing (even napping). I meander around, my bare feet feeling the difference between shaded marble and sun-heated tiles.

A group of volunteers moves through with a flurry of brooms, sweeping dust and debris from the floors, and washing the Buddha statues, scrubbing around garlands of jasmine.

A photo gallery showcases some of the details of the stupa that aren’t visible to the naked eye – at the top, above the ‘umbrella’ is a jewel-encrusted orb, hung with bells and fluttering ornaments.

I end my time sitting cross-legged on the floor, my back against a whitewashed stone building, watching flags and umbrellas flutter from above.

****

Food tour!

They say it’s a small world, and when I end up on the evening food tour with another American who is also residing in Tokyo, I believe it. James, our guide, leads us to our first stop:  a food cart on the sidewalk, where we are served Samosa Salad – part Indian, part Burmese: crunchy pieces of samosa sit on top of salad, doused with a sour-salty-sweet broth and sprinkled with garam masala and crunchy chickpeas. I am torn between wanting to devour every single morsel and wanting to save room for whatever is next.

Down the street, we squat over tiny stools and slurp mohinga: fish broth over rice noodles, crunchy chickpea cakes, and topped with coriander and crunchy bits of long bean. I devour the whole bowl and know I will need to eat this again. James tells us that they sell mohinga here every day, dished from the huge pot of steaming broth.

The next stop is a barely-lit lot with a smattering of the tiny tables, and a woman making salads from her food cart. Not a place I would normally consider on my own, especially given it was too dark to really see the food, but this is the benefit of being taken on a food tour, no?  The first salad was like nothing I had ever tasted,  with fermented tea leaves, teeny prawns, and crunchy peanuts making a pungent taste. The second salad – lime – was tart and crispy and spicy and made me reach for my sweaty bottle of water. On to the next location, and I was happy to be doing one of my favorite things – exploring the bustling streets of a new city on a beautiful, breezy evening.  And bustling streets they are – food carts, restaurants, stores selling everything and everything; cars, bikes, motorcycles all honking constantly.

I am already satisfactorily full when we reach our final destination – a well-known local restaurant with a selection of curries and a tourist crowd, but I manage to sample everything before turning down dessert at our final stop - a candy-colored concoction of ice-cream, tapioca, and various jellies.

*****

On day 2, I wake early after a deep sleep, and head off in a cab to Botataung Pagoda.  I enjoy the ride, watching the hustle and bustle of the Strand. The dirt street leading to the pagoda is lined with vendors selling offerings – bananas, green leaves, flowers, shiny bangles – and calling out to passerby. I pay my entrance fee to a man in a hut, who hands me an ‘I paid’ sticker and motions for me to leave my shoes there in the ‘foreigner pile’.  I may have had to pay a few dollars to enter, but at least both camera and toilet use are free, according to the hand-written sign.

Into the main zedi I go, stepping into the gilded passageway that zig-zags around the perimeter – a feature unique to this Pagoda, as zedi are usually solid. I stop to pay my respect to the Buddha relic (a tooth!) enshrined at the center, surrounding by heaping piles of cash. An expressive older woman, catching a glimpse of me, looks me in the eye and exclaims…. something. All I can do is smile, nod, and assume she was saying something positive. Off I go through the golden maze of gilded designs that flow down the walls, across the ceilings. Other visitors and monks meander with me, occasionally stopping to meditate. I am at first puzzled why they are doing this while facing into a corner, but then realize that all those corners are facing the center- and the Buddha relic they are worshipping.

I complete a circuit around the stupa and head off to the train station, where I purchase a ticket for the “circle line,” from the helpful man in the ticket office. When the train pulls up, I am surprised to see that despite the bright-green a paint job as advertisement for Myanmar beer, this is a JR train, still sporting the name of the Japanese train line, and all the signs about polite train behavior.  I am dismayed to see that it also happens to be air-conditioned, with inward-facing benches. Popping my head back into the office, I receive some surprised looks but discover that there is a non-air-conditioned train in about 40 minutes.

So I settle in to wait, leaning against the shady side of one of the pentagon-shaped pillars. People come and go, crossing the tracks between the trains that lumber in and out. Women sell cold drinks and snacks; some walk by with large plastic tubs of donuts balanced on their heads. I venture (twice) to the other side of the tracks, give the smiling attendant 100 Khyat to use the squatty-potties that are thoroughly splashed between each use.

By the time the train arrives, other foreigners dot the platform, and we settle into the rear cars, where the bench seats provide an excellent view out the window. I am soon joined by a trio of locals toting a box printer. As the train shudders into motion I realize I have made a tactical error and am facing backwards, but this does not seem to matter as this train is outfitted the The Fans – those magic oscillating wonders from the Chinese leg of the Trans-Siberian.

At first the scenery is uninteresting, but as we get farther from downtown, I am treated to interesting glimpses of daily life. Houses and dirt roads give way to farms and fields, green plants tended by people chest-high in water, clusters of huts sitting on dusty lanes, made from wooden boards or woven mats, laundry flapping in the breeze. We stop in a bustling market town – piles of produce and flowers under a ragtag line of umbrellas; on the platform, people wait with overflowing sacks of greenery. The train keeps rolling, turning slowly, my eyes drift closed as the sun burns just beyond me on the bench seat. I am joined by a jolly man with an empty birdcage, then a monk, and finally a talkative man who moves the birdcage to the aisle to make more room for his feet. The sun keeps moving, slanting now across my body as we roll back into the city, collecting more passengers. 

Next up: Mandalay!