The Road to Mandalay

The mismash of uninspired 70‘s buildings and bamboo and thatched huts and vendors crowding and littering the avenues, food stands cooking and washing pots and dishes right on the street and patrons scattered on low plastic stools and tables, appearing unwashed, ungroomed, and sweaty in the scorching 104 degree F, killed all the romantic nostalgia I have about this land I’ve read and dreamed about. The Irrawaddy, that great river that sprung from the Himalayas and cuts through the length of the country to empty into the Andaman Sea is wrapped in noise from motorboats and unable to claim back it’s tranquility. It’s banks are strewn with plastic bags and aluminum cans, and dolphins that played in its waters will soon be just a memory.

The road to Mandalay is a swirl of dust and careening Toyota pick-up trucks converted to buses groaning in the heap of passengers, produce, swine and fowl. Where the dawn burst out like thunder in the east now is a mellow red ball muted by the haze and smog of slash and burn agriculture and motorbike exhaust. But on Mandalay Hill you can still see the golden magnificence of the Mahamuni and the grandeur of the Kuthodaw. And a sweet Burmese lass, her cheeks painted with thanaka, still awaits her soldier to claim her and take her away to a land of milk and honey.

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