Myanmar, March 2012
Yangon
In spite of having all my papers in order, I had a delay in processing my visa in Yangon. The officer spoke very little English. He refused to accept my cash to pay for the $30 fee. I had to get my tour guide to interpret. The problem was that my money had a fold in it. It was a fresh bill without any blemish or tears at all, and still very crisp. I only folded it once to fit into my wallet, but apparently he wanted a pristine one just off the press. I had him go through all my bills to select what was acceptable. He reluctantly picked one, and stamped my visa. Later, when I tried to exchange for the local currency, the Myanmar Kyat, all my bills were refused because the serial number did not start with AB. Apparently it had something to do with counterfeit $100 bills. My tour guide said, not to worry, he could get my $ converted in the black market, but of course I’d get a lower exchange rate. I could not use my credit cards and my ATM debit card. The banking system we take for granted, easy loans, financial products, interbank operations, credit, bank cards, corporate banking, they’re non existent here. The country runs on cash basis. The locals just shrug it off. There's the black market that deal with it, and life goes on, why sweat the details. Aung San Suu Kyi is beloved and popular. People were holding their breath and preparing for the worst in anticipation of elections next month. News a few hours ago said she had fallen ill with vomiting, had to get IV drip, and that she had suspended her campaigning.
MOTORBIKES ARE BANNED IN YANGON! Nada, not a single one of these ubiquitous and affordable transport in Southeast Asia were on the streets. One version about the ban is that a person on a motorbike made a threatening gesture to a military general. Another is that a motorbike rider distributed pro-democracy leaflets, and yet another is that a general’s son was killed while riding a motorbike. And the official line, that they are used by criminals for their activities, and that they pose a public safety hazard. Yangon downtown looked half in ruins, from old decaying buildings and deteriorating unfinished new structures.There are high rise luxury condominium developments that are uncompleted because investors halted financing the project. They gave up rather than put up with the powers who keep on changing the rules. The military government however built an opulent new capital city, moving from Yangon to Naypyidaw in 2006. It is off limits to tourists and ordinary citizens. It is populated by government workers who can’t afford to live there, so it is abandoned at night and becomes a ghost city, according to my guide. It is rumored that bomb shelters are underground, reserved for the military. Facebook and many websites are blocked. But the people find ways to go around that, in fact I was able to log into Facebook at The Strand Hotel. However there are very few who own computers, internet cafes are sparse, and the country is not hooked up throughout except the major tourist cities, plus there are frequent blackouts, and pfft! There goes your email before you could send it. New cars are unaffordable, in the hundred thousand dollar range. So many cars are gasping along that go way back into the 50’s. Well, Myanmar was never a Havana so they don't have those colorful vintage beauties on the road, just clunkers. The people still wear traditional dress for everyday. The men wear the sarong-like longyi. The women wear no modern make-up but the pasty cream thanaka. It is made from the ground bark of the namesake tree, yellow-ochre in color. It cools their skin, tightens the pores, and controls oiliness. They paint it on their faces in circles or like a mask, and on their arms, and it also serves as a sunscreen. Many smiles feature red teeth, stained and decayed from chewing kun-ya, red areca nut laced with lime and folded in a heart-shaped betel leaf. The practice is said to be part of the culture for thousands of years, common in Southeast Asia. My paternal grandparents chewed nga-nga, as it is known in the Philippines. As children we vied with each other, to prepare the concoction for them. It is spicy hot, and produces a lot of saliva. Ptoo! You can hear the spit traveling in a precise trajectory, landing as a red stain on the pavement. I was careful to avoid stepping on a fresh one. Street food is everywhere, and very cheap. My favorite was mont lin ma yar, a crispy snack with a rice flour pastry base that is topped with a quail egg, green onions and tomato. Other toppings can also be requested.
Having said those, the people smile readily, are easy to approach, eager to help, children are happily playing, and the city has a bustle and vibe of energy. And the antiquities are spectacular, magical, stunning, priceless, really treasures. The 2500-year-old Shwedagon Pagoda complex easily tops all the pagodas I've visited, until I got to Bagan.
Breathtaking Bagan
It is beyond words. Even pictures do not do it justice. It is more impressive than the Ginza pyramids, Angkor Vat, or Machu Picchu. It overwhelms with its vastness and the sheer number of stupas and pagodas that cover the plains, all the way to the Irrawaddy. Ten thousand during its golden age, from the eleventh to the thirteenth centuries, were erected , and over two thousand survive today. From the humblest stupa to the opulent and gleaming golden Shwezigon Pagoda, each temple is a specimen of masterful craftsmanship. Even those that are in ruins retain a grandeur and elegance that stood the test of time.
I visited at sunset. Climbing on top of a pagoda, I was overcome by the encompassing perspective of a high perch. Around me was a boundless display of beauty that seemed like from a fairy tale. Just before the sun began to descend the plain was visible in broad daylight up to the Irrawaddy and under a cloudless blue sky. The temples are like conical mushrooms sprouting from the ground, in varying heights and sizes, with the patina of aged brick, reddish-brown to rose, peaches and ochre. From my view above they are surrounded by green grass, small shrubs, and a sprinkling of red hibiscus and multicolored bougainvillea. There are few trees and they are crowned with graceful spreading branches that let light through, like a lacy veil. My only company was my tour guide who was unobtrusive and allowed me solitude. As the sun began to touch the horizon, the light had become softer, and the distant mountains on the other bank of the Irrawaddy began to dim. In a moment the sky was no longer blue and the whole scene appeared washed in a hazy gray-green monochrome, obliterating the color of the stupas, and outlining them and the trees and shrubs in shadow. When the sun hit the mountains and sat on the horizon, balancing like a big red cherry, the sky burst in color. Bands of yellow, pink, peach, violet and magenta blended like watercolor, while the stupas, now in silhouette fringed the base. The air was warm, but there was a light breeze, and bird twitter can be heard from their roost on the trees, while a dog scurried beneath a shrub, as an ox cart ambled by. The hibiscus gave up its scent in the cooling night and wafted to where I sat, enthralled by the wonder of it all. Bagan is a Buddhist pilgrimage center. It is a spiritual place.
Inle Lake
I was met at the airport in HeHo by my Shan tour guide, an articulate young lady who is a member of one of the illustrious tribes in the Shan state. The Shan people are very proud with their long history and would like to restore their royalty to rule the region, which occupies about one-third of Myanmar’s area. There is a strong movement for independence. The military regime of Myanmar has difficulty suppressing armed resistance in the region. Myanmar has just opened up for tourism barely a year when I visited. For fifteen years it was closed to the world until sanctions began to be lifted in 2010. To experience this region in its unspoiled state, before tourism corrupts it, was a thrilling opportunity.
We took a motorboat to reach my accommodation, a resort hotel on the lake, with individual cottages on stilts, built with local materials and technique. The cottages are reached by meandering connecting bridges, and lit by candlelight at night. I have unobstructed views of the hills surrounding the lake and the expanse of the water. Inle is a highland fresh water lake, about 900 feet above sea level, and surrounded by mountains and villages of hill tribes. I arose at sunrise and saw the birds who call the lake their home, circling above, noisily squawking and trilling as they dove to catch their breakfast. Through the morning mist I watched fishermen throw their nets into the water, their graceful silhouette framed against the light. Their boats are slender and shallow, carved from teak. On one end the fisherman stands on a leg and paddles with the other wrapped around the oar, so that his hands are free. His net is inside a conical shaped frame made of bamboo, lining the inside with the opening on top. The frame has a wide base and tapering to the top, and about twice as tall as a man. The lake is shallow in most parts, so the net with the open bottom is lowered to trap the fish, then the fisherman takes a spear to haul the fish up. It is most enchanting to see these boatmen paddling one legged standing on their boats as they go about their occupation on the lake, fishing or gathering seaweed, or tending their floating gardens. Once a year, at the end of September or early October, there is an 18-day festival during which the five Buddha images of Paung Daw U Pagoda are ceremonially rowed around the Lake in a colorful barge towed by the Inle leg rowers. Accompanied by pomp and reverence, the barge with the Buddhas would visit fourteen villages. There is a fierce race competition of leg rowers held in conjunction with the festival.
Life on the lake is much as it was a century ago. It will not be for long.
The Road to Mandalay
Uninspired 70‘s buildings, bamboo and thatched huts, vendors crowding and littering the avenues, and food stands cooking and washing dishes right on the street, and patrons scattered around, eating on low plastic stools and tables, appearing unwashed, un-groomed, and sweaty in the scorching 104 degree F. This scene 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.
