The previous night, after having a light dinner with my new friend, he dropped me back off at the hotel I was staying at. I was wandering around with my headlamp and literally ran into Anneke and Kees, a couple in their early 60’s from the Netherlands. I went out again with them for dinner at a Chinese restaurant, and when walking back to the hotel we passed by Cordelia, the Swiss girl from MSF. We went to search for some amoxicillin for me, as I had this horrible chest infection from Inle Lake and it had been nearly two weeks and it wasn't going away at all. She was with an Italian co-worker, and we marveled at how crazy it was that I could buy a full dose of amoxicillin at a tiny vendor on the side of the road, but the Italian guy couldn't find any toothpaste or shampoo.
After dinner, Anneke and Kees stayed to chat on the balcony, and they shared some stories of when they traveled through Burma 20 years ago. We talked about if things had gotten better or worse, and I was really surprised and a bit ashamed when I learned that they had come from Yangon all the way overland, on the bus to Pyay which took 15 hours in a crammed bus where they were sitting on top of dried fish, and then taken the boat from Taunggok.
On the 7th, the hotel staff was kind enough to prepare me breakfast at 5.30am, still in the dark, and then I took a trishaw to the jetty, with the young boy from the hotel cycling next to us. It was really, really cold. He had managed to talk to the owner of the boat and get the price down a bit, for which I was really grateful. I got on the boat and sat. And waited. And waited. It was 2 hours before the boat made any movement at all – meanwhile, the sun had come up and it was warmer. I slept the majority of the way to Mrauk U. There was a mother with 3 small children on the boat, as well as a few men. When I was able to wake up during the boat ride, it was beautiful.
There was farmland on either side of us, with large haystacks, there were water buffalo wandering about, and the outline of the Chin hills behind us, in the distance. They looked foreboding and inviting at once. When we arrived at the jetty, there were a whole crowd of people working at various guesthouses. I actually saw a recommendation for the Golden Star Guesthouse on Thorntree forum, and since it hasn’t made it into any guidebooks yet, I decided to give it a try. The manager Than Htun is a great character; he’s really short with slightly large ears and his grin takes up half his face. I checked in and went for lunch.
I went to For You restaurant where I met the local schoolteacher who was a bit…off…and then the dentist who worked across the road came to say hi. He had been Mr. Rakhaing in 1976, and although he was getting older, he still had a very muscular build. He showed me his antiquated dentistry equipment, including a cleaning machine that had a foot pump – he showed me that it had been made in Japan in the 1930’s. The collection of fillings and surgical instruments was much more interesting than I had expected.
I headed off to the temples which I had come to see. Mrauk U was the ancient capital of Rakhaing State, and it’s often compared to a min-Bagan. In fact, it is completely different. The temples are smaller, and often more simple. The spherical, at times conical shape of the structures gives them the impression of being from outer space, or at least from a completely different era. I went by foot to Shittaung, Andaw Paya, Ratanabon, and continued down the path. There were beautiful small villages scatteres amongst the ruins. I saw another tourist in the distance; other than him, the only human beings to be seen were women carrying wood or water on their heads or hips, and children running around with their school bags. It was so…quiet.
At Pitaka Taik, a small, old (supposed) library, I needed a break from the hot sun, and found a group of kids and women with the same idea. The ever useful origami skills were used, and we walked back towards the village together.
I went to Haridaung for sunset, considered “the” sunset spot in Mrauk U, and sure enough, there was a group of Germans there handing out bonbons to children who were laughing and dancing and wanting to get in photographs. The children ran over to me and the instant they realized I wasn't going to give them sugar or writing utensils, skipped back towards the Europeans. It was a frightening foreshadowing of what may come to be in Myanmar, much like what Southeast Asia and Africa already is.
That evening, I went into town to see what was available. It was surprisingly lively, and rather than going to the 3 restaurants with English menus, I sat down at a street stall where a man was making fried rice, fried noodles, and soup in the same wok. It was really tasty and really greasy, and I was exhausted. The complete darkness of the town, the sky that was so heavy with stars it almost seemed to crash down, and the silence from the utter lack of vehicles meant I fell asleep instantly.
Showing posts with label Myanmar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Myanmar. Show all posts
Monday, August 20, 2007
Myanmar: Sittwe: 6 February 2007 (Written 17 August 2007)
At the airport in Thandwe, there were a few older sun-poisoned Europeans, and then there was one girl who stood out. She looked European, was tall, tanned, and athletic. We started chatting, and this was how I met Cordelia, a Swiss girl from MSF (Medecins Sans Frontieres, Doctors Without Borders). She was working in some really remote areas in Rakhaing State near the border with Bangladesh. Turned out she was exactly the kind of person I wanted to be speaking with.
Burma has had the grand majority of NGOs pull out of the country due to human rights abuses, and the ironic claim by the government that everything is ok and that they don’t need help. Perhaps this contributes to the difficulties in Burma; everything is presentation, and very little thought is given to what the actual situation is. People are told to smile, to put their best face forward, to make sure that nobody can tell that you are hungry, sick, and tired. There are entire propaganda speeches and publications on this topic of showing the West how developed and happy they are. So, NGOs come in, look around, and see that everything looks fine, and leave. According to Cordelia, the medical system is a disaster. There are numerous different strains of malaria, and people get infected all the time. They may build up resistance to it, often choosing to not get treatment due to financial issues, and instead stay mildly sick for weeks on end. When using antibiotics, even if a doctor tells people to use the full course, which would cost 1USD, people choose to stop taking the drug as soon as the symptoms subside, causing the sickness to recur and the body to build resistance to the drug.
We arrived in Sittwe, and as expected, Zaw Lin Oo was waiting at the airport. Lonely Planet mentions how there is one licensed guide in Sittwe who is taking commissions off every service provider (hotel, trishaw, taxi, boat) in BOTH Sittwe and Mrauk U. In Ngapali, I met a German couple who had been to Mrauk U the previous year and they mentioned that in Sittwe, I would find a wonderful guide waiting at the airport and I should definitely go with him. He takes you everywhere, he knows so much, and it’s free! I thought it sounded strange, but it didn't register with me. It was only when I was re-reading the section on Sittwe that I realized he must be the guide that LP talks about. And man, was he pushy. It surprised me that he was able to come all the way into the airport, past security and baggge claim. In fact, he was the only person that was able to do so – all other drivers, friends, family, hotel workers, and would-be guides were patiently waiting behind closed doors. It just so happened that I was the only tourist on board the plane. He went after Cordelia too but she said her MSF driver was there and so I was on my own. This increased the pressure because if he didn't get me for business that day, he’d go home empty-handed. I insisted that I had everything set up already, that I knew where I was going to stay, and kept walking past. He was relentless, demanding to know who had supposedly stepped in his territory. He suggested that we share a taxi together so that it would be cheaper, but it was obvious that he was doing that so he could find out where I was going to stay. Finally, he sped off in a taxi.
I had made quite a scene at the airport (or he made the scene and I was part of it) and by this time, everyone was just watching me, mildly interested. I wasn't sure whose side people were going to be on so I went over to the trishaws to try and get a ride into town. An English-speaking guide came over to me and I was really defensive. He showed me a piece of paper from the tourism board talking about Zaw Lin Oo and how they were trying to stop his monopoly. It’s really a horribly sad situation. There are so few independent tourists getting all the way out to Sittwe and Mrauk U (as my detour in Thandwe and Ngapali suggest, it’s not the easiest of trips to make), and for one person to be taking all the money from it, as well as being pushy about it, is just despicable. I explained to the man that I was quite comfortable without a guide and I was sorry for doubting him, and I think it was ok.
I found a trishaw driver who took me to the Prince Hotel. My first mission was to find out about boats to Mrauk U, as I had just missed the government ferry going upriver. I got a trishaw down to the jetty where a small crowd of men laughed gently at me, saying I had already missed the boat, so they said, tomorrow-tomorrow-tomorrow. Hmm, I would have to wait 3 days. I had read/heard that there were private boats usually going up everyday and I could probably get a ride on one. I asked around and did find someone who planned to go the next day, but he wanted about 8 times the price of the government boat. I tentatively told him I would be there at 6am, and left. I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around aimlessly, getting lost. Sittwe is very lived-in. It’s not a tourist city, and due to its stature as the capital of Rakhaing State, it has attracted a large variety of people, including a very large population from Bangladesh.
I went to find an internet place, and the man there told me that there was a man across the road who had lived in Tokyo for 7 years. I was curious, and really had nothing else to do, so I went over to chat with him. I was instantly invited to sit and chat. He has asked me not to reveal his name or profession, so unfortunately I cannot explain what he was doing while we spoke.
And speak he did. it was as if he had a whole fountain inside of him that was waiting to spurt out, and he had finally found a good outlet. He claimed confidently that although the government spies could understand terms in English, they didn't have a clue in Japanese. So it was that I spoke the most Japanese since I had left Japan a month earlier. I was interested in politics, and he was too, so he gave me a brief history of the political climate specifically in Rakhaing State. He was surprised at how much I knew of the political history of the past fifty years throughout the country as a whole. The Arakan League for Democracy used to exist, but it was made illegal in the 80’s, when the NLD was gaining too much popularity. There was an NLD office in Sittwe previously, with just two men working there, day in, day out. One of them was sent to jail for political dissent, and the other died (of old age or government intervention, no one was quite sure). Spies were everywhere; at one point in the 90’s it had gotten to a point where government would publicly announce their positions, threatening to tell report people to the government as dissidents unless they paid hefty fees.
Through all this, I was wondering, how did he get to Japan, and why was he back in Burma? Without asking, he told me that his mother was getting old and after 7 years in Japan, she was ready to see him again. He came back, essentially for her, and she passed away shortly thereafter. He is now married with a 3 year old daughter. When I asked whether or not he would rather still be in Japan, he said with a sad smile, “There is no point in thinking about things like that because it is not possible.”
Burma has had the grand majority of NGOs pull out of the country due to human rights abuses, and the ironic claim by the government that everything is ok and that they don’t need help. Perhaps this contributes to the difficulties in Burma; everything is presentation, and very little thought is given to what the actual situation is. People are told to smile, to put their best face forward, to make sure that nobody can tell that you are hungry, sick, and tired. There are entire propaganda speeches and publications on this topic of showing the West how developed and happy they are. So, NGOs come in, look around, and see that everything looks fine, and leave. According to Cordelia, the medical system is a disaster. There are numerous different strains of malaria, and people get infected all the time. They may build up resistance to it, often choosing to not get treatment due to financial issues, and instead stay mildly sick for weeks on end. When using antibiotics, even if a doctor tells people to use the full course, which would cost 1USD, people choose to stop taking the drug as soon as the symptoms subside, causing the sickness to recur and the body to build resistance to the drug.
We arrived in Sittwe, and as expected, Zaw Lin Oo was waiting at the airport. Lonely Planet mentions how there is one licensed guide in Sittwe who is taking commissions off every service provider (hotel, trishaw, taxi, boat) in BOTH Sittwe and Mrauk U. In Ngapali, I met a German couple who had been to Mrauk U the previous year and they mentioned that in Sittwe, I would find a wonderful guide waiting at the airport and I should definitely go with him. He takes you everywhere, he knows so much, and it’s free! I thought it sounded strange, but it didn't register with me. It was only when I was re-reading the section on Sittwe that I realized he must be the guide that LP talks about. And man, was he pushy. It surprised me that he was able to come all the way into the airport, past security and baggge claim. In fact, he was the only person that was able to do so – all other drivers, friends, family, hotel workers, and would-be guides were patiently waiting behind closed doors. It just so happened that I was the only tourist on board the plane. He went after Cordelia too but she said her MSF driver was there and so I was on my own. This increased the pressure because if he didn't get me for business that day, he’d go home empty-handed. I insisted that I had everything set up already, that I knew where I was going to stay, and kept walking past. He was relentless, demanding to know who had supposedly stepped in his territory. He suggested that we share a taxi together so that it would be cheaper, but it was obvious that he was doing that so he could find out where I was going to stay. Finally, he sped off in a taxi.
I had made quite a scene at the airport (or he made the scene and I was part of it) and by this time, everyone was just watching me, mildly interested. I wasn't sure whose side people were going to be on so I went over to the trishaws to try and get a ride into town. An English-speaking guide came over to me and I was really defensive. He showed me a piece of paper from the tourism board talking about Zaw Lin Oo and how they were trying to stop his monopoly. It’s really a horribly sad situation. There are so few independent tourists getting all the way out to Sittwe and Mrauk U (as my detour in Thandwe and Ngapali suggest, it’s not the easiest of trips to make), and for one person to be taking all the money from it, as well as being pushy about it, is just despicable. I explained to the man that I was quite comfortable without a guide and I was sorry for doubting him, and I think it was ok.
I found a trishaw driver who took me to the Prince Hotel. My first mission was to find out about boats to Mrauk U, as I had just missed the government ferry going upriver. I got a trishaw down to the jetty where a small crowd of men laughed gently at me, saying I had already missed the boat, so they said, tomorrow-tomorrow-tomorrow. Hmm, I would have to wait 3 days. I had read/heard that there were private boats usually going up everyday and I could probably get a ride on one. I asked around and did find someone who planned to go the next day, but he wanted about 8 times the price of the government boat. I tentatively told him I would be there at 6am, and left. I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around aimlessly, getting lost. Sittwe is very lived-in. It’s not a tourist city, and due to its stature as the capital of Rakhaing State, it has attracted a large variety of people, including a very large population from Bangladesh.
I went to find an internet place, and the man there told me that there was a man across the road who had lived in Tokyo for 7 years. I was curious, and really had nothing else to do, so I went over to chat with him. I was instantly invited to sit and chat. He has asked me not to reveal his name or profession, so unfortunately I cannot explain what he was doing while we spoke.
And speak he did. it was as if he had a whole fountain inside of him that was waiting to spurt out, and he had finally found a good outlet. He claimed confidently that although the government spies could understand terms in English, they didn't have a clue in Japanese. So it was that I spoke the most Japanese since I had left Japan a month earlier. I was interested in politics, and he was too, so he gave me a brief history of the political climate specifically in Rakhaing State. He was surprised at how much I knew of the political history of the past fifty years throughout the country as a whole. The Arakan League for Democracy used to exist, but it was made illegal in the 80’s, when the NLD was gaining too much popularity. There was an NLD office in Sittwe previously, with just two men working there, day in, day out. One of them was sent to jail for political dissent, and the other died (of old age or government intervention, no one was quite sure). Spies were everywhere; at one point in the 90’s it had gotten to a point where government would publicly announce their positions, threatening to tell report people to the government as dissidents unless they paid hefty fees.
Through all this, I was wondering, how did he get to Japan, and why was he back in Burma? Without asking, he told me that his mother was getting old and after 7 years in Japan, she was ready to see him again. He came back, essentially for her, and she passed away shortly thereafter. He is now married with a 3 year old daughter. When I asked whether or not he would rather still be in Japan, he said with a sad smile, “There is no point in thinking about things like that because it is not possible.”
Myanmar: Ngapali Beach: 5-6 February 2007: (Written 17 August 2007)
Well, I didn’t end up in Sittwe or Mrauk U like I had expected. The airport landed in Thandwe, a tiny airstrip in sweltering heat, and I exited, quite a bit disoriented actually. In the Lonely Planet, it says that to get from Thandwe to Sittwe, the jumping off point Mrauk U, you either go on a horrible overnight boat ride, or fly. But, I had enquired at several places in Bagan that insisted that I would be able to take a boat on the same day from Thandwe to Sittwe and it would only take a few hours. Optimist and willingly gullible, I decided to try my luck. So I landed, and within seconds, it seemed, the other tourists disappeared into fancy resort vehicles. A man wearing a Univeristy of Sittwe shirt came to the airport area, and I asked him if he was from Sittwe, hoping that he would say yes, and that he would be able to tell me how I could get to Sittwe that day. He laughed and said he was from Thandwe. He actually worked for a travel agency so I asked him for information about getting to Sittwe, and he tossed his head back laughing, saying there is no boat, it goes from Taunggok on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. So I would have to spend two nights, either in Taunggok or Thandwe, and the boat would be USD50. I checked about flights to Sittwe, and the one for the day had left 20 minutes prior, so the earliest I could go would be the next day. After much pitiful laughter and whining, I decided to stay in Ngapali for the night and fly to Sittwe the next day.
I’ve never been into beach holidays, and I’m always itching to get under the water if I am at the ocean. I also feel horrible if I’m laying in the sun doing nothing, so although many would have loved to have had this detour, I was not thrilled. But, you deal with the situation and make the best of it. I was fortunate to be able to stay in one of the cheaper places, which even then was about 5 times the price of what I had been paying for the past 2 weeks, but considering my situation, it wasn’t that bad. I decided to stop being grumpy and enjoy the day of rest and relaxation. It was my first taste of Rakhaing State, and the Arakan people.
Ngapali Beach was named as such (supposedly) by an Italian who claimed it resembled his hometown of Napoli (Naples) – Ngapali is the closest Burmese alliteration of it. Just as in many other countries, the feel of the place is so different when you’re right on the water. People are able to subsist partly on the sea, and the fishing villages have a lot less to worry about than some of the inland farmers. There is a slower, laid-back feel, and the gigantic palm trees rising out of the sand shooting into the deep blue sky were absolutely gorgeous. For years, the Burmese government has been trying to promote Ngapali Beach as an alternative to the high-end beach resorts in Thailand, luring in big-spending Europeans, mainly from Germany, Italy, and France, to spend a week soaking up rays, eating delicious fresh seafood, and generally not doing much else. They’re pretty successful, and I must have been the youngest person there by at least a decade, and there were plenty of pretty sarongs, bikinis (or not! The tops, at least) and scaly orange bronze skin that looked like orange peels that had been left out in the sun.
The Arakan people from Rakhaing State are one of the many dozens of ethnic groups in Myanmar. It is debated where they originate from, but it is believed that they are mixed with people from across the border in Bangladesh; the government has never really been able to control the Arakanese, and they are indeed different in their behavior – they are said to be more outspoken, more free-minded, and friendlier (is that even possible in Burma?!) It’s been written about that if you’re going to hear anybody defaming the government, it will be in Rakhaing State. They are still angry about losing power illegitimately centuries ago, and strongly believe that they should be granted independence from Burma. The Arakanese language is slightly different from Burmese, although they are written the same, the pronunciations are different.
So after lazing about, I started to speak with one of the girls working at the hotel where I was staying. Her English was very good, and in fact she had studied Japanese in both high school and university so she was quite eager to practice. I hadn’t spoken to anyone all day and was happy to have someone to speak to as well. She was, like all the staff at the hotel, beautifully dressed and made up. Her tamein was woven in a floral pink, yellow, and orange pattern, and her tanakha was carefully applied. Something about her set her aside from the others though; there was a raw fire, an energy that emanated in her. She seemed obedient and submissive but when she laughed, there was a sliver of mischievousness in her eyes that made you think you didn’t really know what was going on inside her head.
We chatted a bit then I went on the main road to get some dinner. The seafood in Ngapali is raved about by most tourists that have been there, especially considering the dire gastronomic situation elsewhere in the country. Government rice quotas, in which farmers must give up their livestock to the government if they don’t match the ridiculously high quotas, have drastically hurt the quotidian food of the general population. It is quite a conspicuous absence, walking into a market and not seeing any freshly butchered animals on sale. So, being on the water in Ngapali, the variety and availability were wonderfully refreshing. I had fire-grilled king prawns, and it was simply divine. I had forgotten my headlamp so walked back in the dark along the road with potholes everywhere.
When I arrived back at the resort, it was very quiet. The girl I had been speaking to earlier was still there and we started talking again. The news was on TV, and it seemed the perfect way to segue into what we both had on our minds. On the television screen, a military officer in a starched white collared shirt with a army green trousers and military boots entered a school classroom. The children looked to be about 7 or 8 years old, and they all wore starched white shirts, and dark green longyis and tameins. They had brand new shiny schoolbooks, sharpened pencils, and were all clean – in fact, everything about the scene was impeccable. The girl translated for me, that they were saying how this year they were reaching record highs in enrollment, and the reading and maths levels of children were significantly higher than previous years. I laughed at the absurdity, considering the schoolkids I had seen in the south and east of the country, and she giggled too, and said “only good news.” And in fact that’s how it is. There were images of a brand new shiny metal bridge that had been completed, suspiciously only saying that it was in the ‘north’ of the country – hmm, where? Marketplaces full of meat and fresh vegetables, new cars on the roads (due to the U.S. ban on trade with Burma, and other factors, it is rare to see a car in Burma that has been made within the last decade – except, of course, near military compounds).
I was cautious about what to say and how, because I really didn’t want this girl to get in trouble. In Burma, over the past 2 decades, since the 1988 popular uprising, hundreds of people have mysteriously disappeared at night, others have been incarcerated, and there is a general climate of fear. Who is watching, listening, telling?
It turned out, however, that my companion just wanted to let it all out. We talked about the education system – when she was in university, classes were held one month every year, and it cost somewhere between 70,000 and 100,000 kyat (currently the exchange rate is about 1200 kyat to 1USD). She was in university only 5 years ago, but now the price is 200,000 kyat. For children to go to school, it is technically free but only if you can provide the school supplies and pay for the uniforms. She told me that it is about 2500 kyat a month for supplies. Her father used to be the village leader, and in 2004 he was taken to Sittwe with other village leaders around Rakhaing State and forced to sign a document swearing that he wouldn't meet with Aung San Suu Kyi when she came to give talks. He went anyway. In the past few years, her father has had to have surgery twice, on his eyes and stomach. He had to pay for everything, right down to the cotton swabs, disinfectant, and bandages. At her hotel, it is required that a portion of her salary goes to the government, but she said that her boss pays it instead of taking it out of her salary. In Ngapali, at present there are no government owned enterprises. However, this new taxation of 10% or more on privately owned hotels and resorts means that the government can benefit from the tourist presence without directly investing. The girl’s starting salary was 10,000 kyat a month. Every year, she receives a raise of about 5,000 kyat a month – just over 4USD. She makes 60,000 kyat a month now, because her boss understands that the cost of living is rising due to inflation and so has added extra raises to help the staff. Just 5 years ago, the exchange rate was 500 kyat to 1USD. She remembers 1988 although she was just a child. Her father went in hiding for the whole period of time after August 8 when the large protests in Mandalay and Rangoon, now known as Yangon, took place. We talked about forced labor, where people get paid about 500 kyat a day for hard labor in treacherous conditions. She works 7am to 9pm everyday except in the rainy season, and she doesn’t get paid during this period lasting 6 months. This means that her annual income is 60,000 kyat for 6 months, which is about 300USD.
We talked until 9pm when her father came to pick her up. It was with reluctance that we separated, but it was excellent to have had that conversation with her. I had finally gotten a glimpse into the parallel reality that exists in Burma.
In the morning on the 6th, I was absolutely sick of being at the beach so instead I taught the girl from the previous night how to do some origami. Within minutes I had most of the staff gathered around me, anxiously looking around to see where their boss was. I told them they shouldn't worry, that they were taking care of me, a guest, so it was fine. Everyone laughed and agreed, and indeed the boss came down a few minutes afterwards and joined in for a few minutes. It amazes me how much the people of Myanmar love origami. It captivates them, and they sit there, unmoving, watching me, trying to memorize every fold. I suppose for a country where many have never seen anything on TV or have any sort of access to light-hearted entertainment, the act of making a crane or box out of a sheet of paper is something akin to magic.
I stayed until I had to leave for the airport, and realized that a day earlier, I was disappointed that I had had to go to Ngapali, and in less than 24 hours, I wished I could stay longer. That’s the thing about Myanmar – every place just sucks you in and makes you wish you could stay forever, or leave and take all the people with you.
I’ve never been into beach holidays, and I’m always itching to get under the water if I am at the ocean. I also feel horrible if I’m laying in the sun doing nothing, so although many would have loved to have had this detour, I was not thrilled. But, you deal with the situation and make the best of it. I was fortunate to be able to stay in one of the cheaper places, which even then was about 5 times the price of what I had been paying for the past 2 weeks, but considering my situation, it wasn’t that bad. I decided to stop being grumpy and enjoy the day of rest and relaxation. It was my first taste of Rakhaing State, and the Arakan people.
Ngapali Beach was named as such (supposedly) by an Italian who claimed it resembled his hometown of Napoli (Naples) – Ngapali is the closest Burmese alliteration of it. Just as in many other countries, the feel of the place is so different when you’re right on the water. People are able to subsist partly on the sea, and the fishing villages have a lot less to worry about than some of the inland farmers. There is a slower, laid-back feel, and the gigantic palm trees rising out of the sand shooting into the deep blue sky were absolutely gorgeous. For years, the Burmese government has been trying to promote Ngapali Beach as an alternative to the high-end beach resorts in Thailand, luring in big-spending Europeans, mainly from Germany, Italy, and France, to spend a week soaking up rays, eating delicious fresh seafood, and generally not doing much else. They’re pretty successful, and I must have been the youngest person there by at least a decade, and there were plenty of pretty sarongs, bikinis (or not! The tops, at least) and scaly orange bronze skin that looked like orange peels that had been left out in the sun.
The Arakan people from Rakhaing State are one of the many dozens of ethnic groups in Myanmar. It is debated where they originate from, but it is believed that they are mixed with people from across the border in Bangladesh; the government has never really been able to control the Arakanese, and they are indeed different in their behavior – they are said to be more outspoken, more free-minded, and friendlier (is that even possible in Burma?!) It’s been written about that if you’re going to hear anybody defaming the government, it will be in Rakhaing State. They are still angry about losing power illegitimately centuries ago, and strongly believe that they should be granted independence from Burma. The Arakanese language is slightly different from Burmese, although they are written the same, the pronunciations are different.
So after lazing about, I started to speak with one of the girls working at the hotel where I was staying. Her English was very good, and in fact she had studied Japanese in both high school and university so she was quite eager to practice. I hadn’t spoken to anyone all day and was happy to have someone to speak to as well. She was, like all the staff at the hotel, beautifully dressed and made up. Her tamein was woven in a floral pink, yellow, and orange pattern, and her tanakha was carefully applied. Something about her set her aside from the others though; there was a raw fire, an energy that emanated in her. She seemed obedient and submissive but when she laughed, there was a sliver of mischievousness in her eyes that made you think you didn’t really know what was going on inside her head.
We chatted a bit then I went on the main road to get some dinner. The seafood in Ngapali is raved about by most tourists that have been there, especially considering the dire gastronomic situation elsewhere in the country. Government rice quotas, in which farmers must give up their livestock to the government if they don’t match the ridiculously high quotas, have drastically hurt the quotidian food of the general population. It is quite a conspicuous absence, walking into a market and not seeing any freshly butchered animals on sale. So, being on the water in Ngapali, the variety and availability were wonderfully refreshing. I had fire-grilled king prawns, and it was simply divine. I had forgotten my headlamp so walked back in the dark along the road with potholes everywhere.
When I arrived back at the resort, it was very quiet. The girl I had been speaking to earlier was still there and we started talking again. The news was on TV, and it seemed the perfect way to segue into what we both had on our minds. On the television screen, a military officer in a starched white collared shirt with a army green trousers and military boots entered a school classroom. The children looked to be about 7 or 8 years old, and they all wore starched white shirts, and dark green longyis and tameins. They had brand new shiny schoolbooks, sharpened pencils, and were all clean – in fact, everything about the scene was impeccable. The girl translated for me, that they were saying how this year they were reaching record highs in enrollment, and the reading and maths levels of children were significantly higher than previous years. I laughed at the absurdity, considering the schoolkids I had seen in the south and east of the country, and she giggled too, and said “only good news.” And in fact that’s how it is. There were images of a brand new shiny metal bridge that had been completed, suspiciously only saying that it was in the ‘north’ of the country – hmm, where? Marketplaces full of meat and fresh vegetables, new cars on the roads (due to the U.S. ban on trade with Burma, and other factors, it is rare to see a car in Burma that has been made within the last decade – except, of course, near military compounds).
I was cautious about what to say and how, because I really didn’t want this girl to get in trouble. In Burma, over the past 2 decades, since the 1988 popular uprising, hundreds of people have mysteriously disappeared at night, others have been incarcerated, and there is a general climate of fear. Who is watching, listening, telling?
It turned out, however, that my companion just wanted to let it all out. We talked about the education system – when she was in university, classes were held one month every year, and it cost somewhere between 70,000 and 100,000 kyat (currently the exchange rate is about 1200 kyat to 1USD). She was in university only 5 years ago, but now the price is 200,000 kyat. For children to go to school, it is technically free but only if you can provide the school supplies and pay for the uniforms. She told me that it is about 2500 kyat a month for supplies. Her father used to be the village leader, and in 2004 he was taken to Sittwe with other village leaders around Rakhaing State and forced to sign a document swearing that he wouldn't meet with Aung San Suu Kyi when she came to give talks. He went anyway. In the past few years, her father has had to have surgery twice, on his eyes and stomach. He had to pay for everything, right down to the cotton swabs, disinfectant, and bandages. At her hotel, it is required that a portion of her salary goes to the government, but she said that her boss pays it instead of taking it out of her salary. In Ngapali, at present there are no government owned enterprises. However, this new taxation of 10% or more on privately owned hotels and resorts means that the government can benefit from the tourist presence without directly investing. The girl’s starting salary was 10,000 kyat a month. Every year, she receives a raise of about 5,000 kyat a month – just over 4USD. She makes 60,000 kyat a month now, because her boss understands that the cost of living is rising due to inflation and so has added extra raises to help the staff. Just 5 years ago, the exchange rate was 500 kyat to 1USD. She remembers 1988 although she was just a child. Her father went in hiding for the whole period of time after August 8 when the large protests in Mandalay and Rangoon, now known as Yangon, took place. We talked about forced labor, where people get paid about 500 kyat a day for hard labor in treacherous conditions. She works 7am to 9pm everyday except in the rainy season, and she doesn’t get paid during this period lasting 6 months. This means that her annual income is 60,000 kyat for 6 months, which is about 300USD.
We talked until 9pm when her father came to pick her up. It was with reluctance that we separated, but it was excellent to have had that conversation with her. I had finally gotten a glimpse into the parallel reality that exists in Burma.
In the morning on the 6th, I was absolutely sick of being at the beach so instead I taught the girl from the previous night how to do some origami. Within minutes I had most of the staff gathered around me, anxiously looking around to see where their boss was. I told them they shouldn't worry, that they were taking care of me, a guest, so it was fine. Everyone laughed and agreed, and indeed the boss came down a few minutes afterwards and joined in for a few minutes. It amazes me how much the people of Myanmar love origami. It captivates them, and they sit there, unmoving, watching me, trying to memorize every fold. I suppose for a country where many have never seen anything on TV or have any sort of access to light-hearted entertainment, the act of making a crane or box out of a sheet of paper is something akin to magic.
I stayed until I had to leave for the airport, and realized that a day earlier, I was disappointed that I had had to go to Ngapali, and in less than 24 hours, I wished I could stay longer. That’s the thing about Myanmar – every place just sucks you in and makes you wish you could stay forever, or leave and take all the people with you.
Myanmar: Bagan: 4 February 2007 (Written 29 March 2007)
It was 5:30am. I walked into the dark, unlit street, wondering if Kyaw Kyaw was going to show up like he had promised. Would his horse actually comply and walk after a long day with the German tourist?
“Hello!” the voice I had so quickly grown to recognize and feel reassured by called out, and I turned to see the horse cart, whose bright magenta cushions were black in the night. I saw a figure in the cart next to KK, and peered into the same huge smiling eyes of KK. It was his daughter, Bo Bo Wei. I had met an American living in Cambodia, Eric, at the guesthouse and we decided to go to the airport together. The horse struggled with the weight of 4 people and lots of luggage, but soon we were moving along the road as the horizon began to have a bright orange glow. The chill of night which made us wear fleeces and jackets transformed into a scorching heat.
We passed the Military Elementary School, with square glass windows that fitted neatly into the concrete exterior. There was a metal gate with a fresh paint job, and a neatly mowed field. Less than 100m past it was the normal Elementary School. The wooden shack had no windows, and the sea green paint was peeling.
As we continued down the road, minibuses full of European tourists zoomed by us, the sunburned passengers with documents and money around their neck, concealing the “Myanmar” or “Bagan” printed on their cheap, bright, silk-screen shirts, peered out at us.
Arriving at the airport, I had a few minutes with Kyaw Kyaw, and he asked me to write to him whenever I knew someone who was going to Myanmar. He insisted that on my next visit I come to eat at his house. I willed myself to remember everything about my warm experience in Bagan, and walked into the crowded airport.
It was the worst scene I had seen in Myanmar. Why do people wear high heels, mini-skirts, and carry Vuitton bags to see ancient temples? Why must tourists be loud, treat local people as furniture, and clown themselves with makeup and costumes? There is a reference in ASSK’s Letters from Burma about Myanmar being a “Fascist Disneyland.” As I looked around at the Burmese at the airport – all guides, or hotel or airport staff – I saw brand-new longyis, perfect black sandals, tidy tanakha on the women, purses and clipboards that were immaculate. Scurrying around much as you would expect children at Disneyland were Europeans, chattering to fellow tour group members about where they had been, where else they were going, how lovely the sunset at Shwe San Daw was, how Inle Lake is so beautiful. I listened to people speak of how friendly the people of Myanmar are, of how beautiful and undamaged the ruins of Bagan are, how high the quality of tourist infrastructure is, compared to what they had imagined. What they don’t know, what they don’t see, both because of themselves and the government, is what lies underneath – the medical and education system in tatters, the hungry and naked children.
“Hello!” the voice I had so quickly grown to recognize and feel reassured by called out, and I turned to see the horse cart, whose bright magenta cushions were black in the night. I saw a figure in the cart next to KK, and peered into the same huge smiling eyes of KK. It was his daughter, Bo Bo Wei. I had met an American living in Cambodia, Eric, at the guesthouse and we decided to go to the airport together. The horse struggled with the weight of 4 people and lots of luggage, but soon we were moving along the road as the horizon began to have a bright orange glow. The chill of night which made us wear fleeces and jackets transformed into a scorching heat.
We passed the Military Elementary School, with square glass windows that fitted neatly into the concrete exterior. There was a metal gate with a fresh paint job, and a neatly mowed field. Less than 100m past it was the normal Elementary School. The wooden shack had no windows, and the sea green paint was peeling.
As we continued down the road, minibuses full of European tourists zoomed by us, the sunburned passengers with documents and money around their neck, concealing the “Myanmar” or “Bagan” printed on their cheap, bright, silk-screen shirts, peered out at us.
Arriving at the airport, I had a few minutes with Kyaw Kyaw, and he asked me to write to him whenever I knew someone who was going to Myanmar. He insisted that on my next visit I come to eat at his house. I willed myself to remember everything about my warm experience in Bagan, and walked into the crowded airport.
It was the worst scene I had seen in Myanmar. Why do people wear high heels, mini-skirts, and carry Vuitton bags to see ancient temples? Why must tourists be loud, treat local people as furniture, and clown themselves with makeup and costumes? There is a reference in ASSK’s Letters from Burma about Myanmar being a “Fascist Disneyland.” As I looked around at the Burmese at the airport – all guides, or hotel or airport staff – I saw brand-new longyis, perfect black sandals, tidy tanakha on the women, purses and clipboards that were immaculate. Scurrying around much as you would expect children at Disneyland were Europeans, chattering to fellow tour group members about where they had been, where else they were going, how lovely the sunset at Shwe San Daw was, how Inle Lake is so beautiful. I listened to people speak of how friendly the people of Myanmar are, of how beautiful and undamaged the ruins of Bagan are, how high the quality of tourist infrastructure is, compared to what they had imagined. What they don’t know, what they don’t see, both because of themselves and the government, is what lies underneath – the medical and education system in tatters, the hungry and naked children.
Myanmar: Bagan: 3 February 2007 (Written 22 March 2007)
The next thing I knew, it was 8am on the 3rd. I was feeling more and more ill, so I decided that I would rest in the morning and hire a bike to go back to the ruins in the afternoon. I got some medicine, and as I returned back to the hotel, the woman was calling me over with the most animation I’d seen from her yet. She had a note for me, from my friends. I had no idea that I had friends in Myanmar that would know where I was staying and would write me a note, so I was rather suspicious when I took the sheet of paper. I opened it, and it was from Pascal! It said he had found out I was staying here, and he and Ricard were leaving that day to head southwest, and it would be nice if we could meet again. I was excited to hear from the boys who had shared my time from Yangon to Mandalay with me, and tried to find out where they were staying or how I could find them. The lady had no idea, so I basically walked around the street and asked every person who spoke English if they had seen a pair of European boys who were probably not dressed very well. It worked! I was told where they were staying.
I told the man at reception who I was looking for and he sent me to the roof, where my two favorite boys in Myanmar were chopping vegetables and tasting their salad. Ahh what joy! We chatted about the past several days that we were apart and ate guacamole and tomato salad and sat in the sun. We were indeed headed separate ways so I gave big hugs before we split.
In the afternoon, I took a bicycle from the hotel and headed to the ruins. The bike was in good condition, with a bell and basket and brakes. I am still precarious on two wheels, and I was hesitant but decided to give it a try. It went very well, except for the fact that to get to most of the actual temples you have to go on dirt roads which are often sand and the bike would skid and I would hover shakily before tipping over to one side, as I would laugh at how ridiculous I looked, and if anyone was witness, they would join in the laughter. My destination was San Thi Dar Restaurant. I had seen a posting in a guesthouse saying how friendly the family that ran it was, so I wanted to go see for myself; I had nothing else that I really wanted to see or do in Bagan, but I wanted to stay a bit longer to experience the feel of the place.
I found the food stall, and as soon as I parked my bike and approached the cool shaded tables, the man who owned the shop came and greeted me with the warmth that I had grown used to in Myanmar. I ordered lime juice, and before I even received my juice, I was given roasted peanuts, sliced banana, and tamarind flakes. I ordered a bottle of water and chatted to the man, and was given a lovely bamboo basket filled with toddy candy, a sweet made from the toddy tree.
The son, who was 10 years old, was playing checkers with a man at a table nearby, and he had a beautiful smile (seems to me most people in Myanmar who are smiling had remarkable smiles; more so than in most other countries I’ve been to). After the man left, the boy came to sit on a stool next to me. He said hello, and burst out laughing without me having said a single word. I asked why he was laughing, and he told me it was because I looked like a Burmese singer that was very famous. I decided to take this as a compliment and asked him if he wanted to play checkers with me. He beat me easily, then we chatted about Japan and did origami and his father showed me a Japanese/Burmese phrasebook that a Japanese tourist had given him. He asked me if I would be able to deliver a letter to this Japanese man and I agreed, so he asked me to go back the next day. I said ok, and asked for a recommendation of a good place to see the sunset. He told me of a temple just down the road, which would have a great view and not many people. I asked Pyi Sone, his son, to show me where it was and we sped off on our bikes.
When I arrived at the temple, Pyi Sone yelled out to a boy at the temple that I was coming, and I saw a figure race down the steps and run out of the temple, waiting for my arrival. The first thing he asked me was if I wanted postcards, but I tried out my phrases that my ‘kids’ the day before had taught me and he laughed and said, “Ok, but I’ll show you my temple anyway.” His name was Souzo, a 10 year old who came to this temple everyday for sunset. The view was magnificent. There were 4 tourists at the top, and the same number of Burmese children. Hot air balloons floated through the air, and the temples slowly faded into the mélange of purples, blues, and pinks that formed the sky and the land. As I left, I gave Souzo a crane and he told me, “Good luck Yuri. Always.” As I rode my bicycle back to Nyaung U, the sky turned a deep purple before transforming into a black velvet speckled with shimmering stars.
The next day, I arranged to take a trip to Mt Popa. A Japanese couple from my guesthouse and I shared a taxi and left at 7.30am on the bumpiest dirt road I think I had been on in Burma. I noticed the Orwellian aspect of the buildings we passed by, such as the Township Peace and Development Council. There were laborers on the roads, who did their best to protect themselves from the relentless sun but who looked to be struggling. They ranged in age from 6 to 80. We stopped to observe a village where a cow was directed to walk around in circles in order to have a piece of wood exert pressure on peanuts, where there was a strain and funnel to gather peanut oil. Our bums hurt significantly and we drank down palm wine to ease the pain, or just to get drunk at 8am.
The view of Mt Popa before you arrive at it is spectacular. This holy mountain is said to be home to the 37 nat spirits of the original Burmese religion. This mountain rises out of a flat plain, and is covered in green and has temples and pagodas at the top. Our driver let us off and told us he would wait at the bottom. There were stairs. Lots and lots of concrete stairways leading up the side of the mountain. And monkeys. Lots and lots of monkeys. They were active, jumping noisily on the tin roofs and looking to cause trouble. It was a steep uphill climb, passing plenty of people with brooms who claimed, “Sweeping clean donation.” At the top, the view was breathtaking. The flat green plan below spread out like a big carpet of emerald, palm trees and rice fields covering the rich brown earth. We were asked to be in a photograph with a family of pilgrims, and we descended quickly before the monkeys made us their next victims and harassed or robbed us.
Back at the bottom, our driver was slightly annoyed that we had returned so quickly because he was still eating his breakfast. We waited a few minutes and off we sped on the same road we had come on. We arrived back in Nyaung U and I decided to have a siesta to escape the midday heat before heading back to visit my friends in the afternoon.
I woke up, and asked the reception for a bicycle. “No more bicycle,” she said with a grave expression. I panicked – how was that possible? There were bikes EVERYWHERE in Myanmar…how was I going to get there to pick up the letter I had promised to take back with me to Japan? I went around to several guesthouses to inquire about bikes and finally found one that told me they could probably get me a bike but it wouldn’t be a good one. I decided to try my luck and followed the 12 year old girl down a small alleyway that led to a bike repair shop. I was given a very old bike with barely-working brakes, a small very hard seat, and no bell. I’m pathetic on good mountain bikes, and hopeless on bikes like these. I paid and got on. I realized 10 seconds after I started pedaling that I was exhausted from the strenuous physical activity of the past several days and the long travel I had done. I tried out the brakes and at the slightest touch, my bike would skid. The seat was so uncomfortable I considered putting my fleece on it to create some padding. I debated actually stopping to take a horse cart, but then decided against it. I continued on the road, finally getting into the rhythm, and passed a horse cart on its left. As I passed, the driver called out, “Hello!” Without looking (my bike-riding skills are such that I can’t turn my head too far), I cried out, “Hello!” The man replied, “Remember me from the other day? Kyaw Kyaw.” I was probably 30m ahead already when it registered and I braked, basically falling off the bike. Everyone laughed, and I turned around to see my lovely driver from two days before. We stopped at Upali Thein because his guest wanted to see the fantastic frescoes, and I chatted with Kyaw Kyaw. His guest, a German man named Klaus, agreed that we could put my bike on the rack behind the horse cart and I could get a lift to the Museum. KK’s horse was acting up, it was very tired from the day before, and we were all laughing. KK told us how a few months ago, he got drunk and fell asleep in the cart. He woke up as he was arriving home in the horse cart, because his horse was hungry and went home on his own accord!
Klaus and I ate together, and Pyi Sone and I spent the whole afternoon together. I ordered prawn curry, and I was served a meal that covered the wooden table for 4 with white ceramic plates filled to the brim with a variety of savory delights: pumpkin curry, bean curry, chicken curry, peanuts, tamarind flakes, papaya, pineapple, banana, rice, and fresh fruit juice. I was shocked, and they simply replied by saying that I was doing them a big favor by taking their letter for them, and that Pyi Sone was calling me big sister; I was therefore like family and would be treated and fed as such. I lingered at the small rickety shop until sunlight was fading, and there was a soft purple glow about the plain; Pyi Sone hugged me shyly and kissed each cheek, and his parents urged, “Daughter, come back and see us again.” I began to cycle on the flat road to Nyaung U, my legs aching, but feeling like they had accomplished something that made the sore muscles worth it.
I told the man at reception who I was looking for and he sent me to the roof, where my two favorite boys in Myanmar were chopping vegetables and tasting their salad. Ahh what joy! We chatted about the past several days that we were apart and ate guacamole and tomato salad and sat in the sun. We were indeed headed separate ways so I gave big hugs before we split.
In the afternoon, I took a bicycle from the hotel and headed to the ruins. The bike was in good condition, with a bell and basket and brakes. I am still precarious on two wheels, and I was hesitant but decided to give it a try. It went very well, except for the fact that to get to most of the actual temples you have to go on dirt roads which are often sand and the bike would skid and I would hover shakily before tipping over to one side, as I would laugh at how ridiculous I looked, and if anyone was witness, they would join in the laughter. My destination was San Thi Dar Restaurant. I had seen a posting in a guesthouse saying how friendly the family that ran it was, so I wanted to go see for myself; I had nothing else that I really wanted to see or do in Bagan, but I wanted to stay a bit longer to experience the feel of the place.
I found the food stall, and as soon as I parked my bike and approached the cool shaded tables, the man who owned the shop came and greeted me with the warmth that I had grown used to in Myanmar. I ordered lime juice, and before I even received my juice, I was given roasted peanuts, sliced banana, and tamarind flakes. I ordered a bottle of water and chatted to the man, and was given a lovely bamboo basket filled with toddy candy, a sweet made from the toddy tree.
The son, who was 10 years old, was playing checkers with a man at a table nearby, and he had a beautiful smile (seems to me most people in Myanmar who are smiling had remarkable smiles; more so than in most other countries I’ve been to). After the man left, the boy came to sit on a stool next to me. He said hello, and burst out laughing without me having said a single word. I asked why he was laughing, and he told me it was because I looked like a Burmese singer that was very famous. I decided to take this as a compliment and asked him if he wanted to play checkers with me. He beat me easily, then we chatted about Japan and did origami and his father showed me a Japanese/Burmese phrasebook that a Japanese tourist had given him. He asked me if I would be able to deliver a letter to this Japanese man and I agreed, so he asked me to go back the next day. I said ok, and asked for a recommendation of a good place to see the sunset. He told me of a temple just down the road, which would have a great view and not many people. I asked Pyi Sone, his son, to show me where it was and we sped off on our bikes.
When I arrived at the temple, Pyi Sone yelled out to a boy at the temple that I was coming, and I saw a figure race down the steps and run out of the temple, waiting for my arrival. The first thing he asked me was if I wanted postcards, but I tried out my phrases that my ‘kids’ the day before had taught me and he laughed and said, “Ok, but I’ll show you my temple anyway.” His name was Souzo, a 10 year old who came to this temple everyday for sunset. The view was magnificent. There were 4 tourists at the top, and the same number of Burmese children. Hot air balloons floated through the air, and the temples slowly faded into the mélange of purples, blues, and pinks that formed the sky and the land. As I left, I gave Souzo a crane and he told me, “Good luck Yuri. Always.” As I rode my bicycle back to Nyaung U, the sky turned a deep purple before transforming into a black velvet speckled with shimmering stars.
The next day, I arranged to take a trip to Mt Popa. A Japanese couple from my guesthouse and I shared a taxi and left at 7.30am on the bumpiest dirt road I think I had been on in Burma. I noticed the Orwellian aspect of the buildings we passed by, such as the Township Peace and Development Council. There were laborers on the roads, who did their best to protect themselves from the relentless sun but who looked to be struggling. They ranged in age from 6 to 80. We stopped to observe a village where a cow was directed to walk around in circles in order to have a piece of wood exert pressure on peanuts, where there was a strain and funnel to gather peanut oil. Our bums hurt significantly and we drank down palm wine to ease the pain, or just to get drunk at 8am.
The view of Mt Popa before you arrive at it is spectacular. This holy mountain is said to be home to the 37 nat spirits of the original Burmese religion. This mountain rises out of a flat plain, and is covered in green and has temples and pagodas at the top. Our driver let us off and told us he would wait at the bottom. There were stairs. Lots and lots of concrete stairways leading up the side of the mountain. And monkeys. Lots and lots of monkeys. They were active, jumping noisily on the tin roofs and looking to cause trouble. It was a steep uphill climb, passing plenty of people with brooms who claimed, “Sweeping clean donation.” At the top, the view was breathtaking. The flat green plan below spread out like a big carpet of emerald, palm trees and rice fields covering the rich brown earth. We were asked to be in a photograph with a family of pilgrims, and we descended quickly before the monkeys made us their next victims and harassed or robbed us.
Back at the bottom, our driver was slightly annoyed that we had returned so quickly because he was still eating his breakfast. We waited a few minutes and off we sped on the same road we had come on. We arrived back in Nyaung U and I decided to have a siesta to escape the midday heat before heading back to visit my friends in the afternoon.
I woke up, and asked the reception for a bicycle. “No more bicycle,” she said with a grave expression. I panicked – how was that possible? There were bikes EVERYWHERE in Myanmar…how was I going to get there to pick up the letter I had promised to take back with me to Japan? I went around to several guesthouses to inquire about bikes and finally found one that told me they could probably get me a bike but it wouldn’t be a good one. I decided to try my luck and followed the 12 year old girl down a small alleyway that led to a bike repair shop. I was given a very old bike with barely-working brakes, a small very hard seat, and no bell. I’m pathetic on good mountain bikes, and hopeless on bikes like these. I paid and got on. I realized 10 seconds after I started pedaling that I was exhausted from the strenuous physical activity of the past several days and the long travel I had done. I tried out the brakes and at the slightest touch, my bike would skid. The seat was so uncomfortable I considered putting my fleece on it to create some padding. I debated actually stopping to take a horse cart, but then decided against it. I continued on the road, finally getting into the rhythm, and passed a horse cart on its left. As I passed, the driver called out, “Hello!” Without looking (my bike-riding skills are such that I can’t turn my head too far), I cried out, “Hello!” The man replied, “Remember me from the other day? Kyaw Kyaw.” I was probably 30m ahead already when it registered and I braked, basically falling off the bike. Everyone laughed, and I turned around to see my lovely driver from two days before. We stopped at Upali Thein because his guest wanted to see the fantastic frescoes, and I chatted with Kyaw Kyaw. His guest, a German man named Klaus, agreed that we could put my bike on the rack behind the horse cart and I could get a lift to the Museum. KK’s horse was acting up, it was very tired from the day before, and we were all laughing. KK told us how a few months ago, he got drunk and fell asleep in the cart. He woke up as he was arriving home in the horse cart, because his horse was hungry and went home on his own accord!
Klaus and I ate together, and Pyi Sone and I spent the whole afternoon together. I ordered prawn curry, and I was served a meal that covered the wooden table for 4 with white ceramic plates filled to the brim with a variety of savory delights: pumpkin curry, bean curry, chicken curry, peanuts, tamarind flakes, papaya, pineapple, banana, rice, and fresh fruit juice. I was shocked, and they simply replied by saying that I was doing them a big favor by taking their letter for them, and that Pyi Sone was calling me big sister; I was therefore like family and would be treated and fed as such. I lingered at the small rickety shop until sunlight was fading, and there was a soft purple glow about the plain; Pyi Sone hugged me shyly and kissed each cheek, and his parents urged, “Daughter, come back and see us again.” I began to cycle on the flat road to Nyaung U, my legs aching, but feeling like they had accomplished something that made the sore muscles worth it.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Myanmar: Mingun/Sagaing: 30 January 2007 (Written 13 March 2007)
Many visitors stay in Mandalay for the primary purpose of being able to visit the four ancient cities nearby: Amarapura, Inwa, Sagaing, and Mingun.
Amarapura is most known for its teak bridge, being the longest in the world at over 1.2km, Inwa is an ancient city on an island, Sagaing has dozens of monasteries and pagodas scattered through its peaceful lanes, and Mingun has a beautiful unfinished pagoda which is 40m high, even whilst being only a third of its intended size. Both Amarapura and Inwa are included on the US$10 government ticket for Mandalay, which I was doing my best not to have to pay, so I opted to visit Mingun and Sagaing instead.
On the 30th, we awoke early and found, as one often does, that the one time we were looking for a taxi, we couldn’t find one. Whereas other mornings we would be approached by twenty taxis when we were just trying to take a stroll somewhere, the one day we really wanted a blue taxi, all we could find were trishaws and buses. We did find a trishaw driver who spoke some English and was determined for us to find his taxi driver friend. We followed the trishaw down a complicated array of twists and turns and did find his friend, who was seated in his old blue taxi, with the door open, legs hanging out, chewing heartily on a betel quid, red liquid oozing around his teeth. We quickly negotiated and off we went.
The early morning ride through Mandalay was fantastic; the soft golden light on hundreds of monks and nuns parading barefoot with their alms bowls, the trishaws still enjoying the cool morning air before the stifling heat of the high sun, and the city coming to life gave a sense of a land frozen in time. The road quickly deteriorated, and clouds of dust were blown into our faces as we passed through. The view of Sagaing Hill from across the river, with countless golden peaks jutting out of the lush green landscape was remarkable. Continuing on, we passed through the old dusty roads of Sagaing, winding up and down hills, with our trusty blue taxi stalling and choking at times, before arriving safely in Mingun.
Most visitors to Mingun take a government boat from Mandalay, which we had chosen not to do, and having arrived earlier than the boat, we were alone. Mingun Paya is certainly awe-inspiring, a white arch surrounded by perfectly arranged brick walls towering above. Its location on the bank of the river undoubtedly contributes to its ambiance as well.
I had actually started not feeling well, probably the cold nights in buses and Inle, and just overall exhaustion from the previous month’s travel through Cambodia and Laos, so I skipped the other sights in Mingun and we proceeded to Sagaing Hill. Seemingly interminable stairs through pagodas and statues led to the top, with fantastic views, and a beautiful colorful temple. As I circumambulated, a painter caught my eye, with lovely watercolors of countryside images, with monks and nuns amidst villagers in serene landscapes. He was a very shy man, and obviously passionate about his work. He was also a land-mine victim, with no arms, and painted with his mouth. I don’t know what specifically happened at the moment as I walked away from him with a painting in my hand, but I crumpled in defeat and the tears came. I think the combination of exhaustion, and the multitude of emotions I had been experiencing throughout the past week just brought me to a breaking point, which happened at that specific point in time. As I struggled to breathe regularly and not be obvious about my crying, a woman selling tanakha looked at me and she smiled, and her smile said a thousand words without even opening her mouth. It was such a sad look of understanding in her eyes, with an expression that told me, don’t worry, it’s ok, even when it’s not, and there was even a sense of gratitude in some way, or perhaps I imagined it.
I decided to go back down before Ricard and Pascal so I could gather myself, and as I slowly went down the stairs, two young girls came and linked arms with me, smiling, without saying a word. They took me to a pagoda so I could get some water, and indicated I should wash my face, then smiled gently and said goodbye. It’s these seemingly tiny actions of hospitality by the people of Myanmar that just went straight to my heart.
I was really finished with my sightseeing for the day, but we stopped in Amarapura so Pascal could go see the bridge, and I just hung out with the driver and his endless betel quids. We arrived back in Mandalay and I took a nap because I had plans for the evening.
Amarapura is most known for its teak bridge, being the longest in the world at over 1.2km, Inwa is an ancient city on an island, Sagaing has dozens of monasteries and pagodas scattered through its peaceful lanes, and Mingun has a beautiful unfinished pagoda which is 40m high, even whilst being only a third of its intended size. Both Amarapura and Inwa are included on the US$10 government ticket for Mandalay, which I was doing my best not to have to pay, so I opted to visit Mingun and Sagaing instead.
On the 30th, we awoke early and found, as one often does, that the one time we were looking for a taxi, we couldn’t find one. Whereas other mornings we would be approached by twenty taxis when we were just trying to take a stroll somewhere, the one day we really wanted a blue taxi, all we could find were trishaws and buses. We did find a trishaw driver who spoke some English and was determined for us to find his taxi driver friend. We followed the trishaw down a complicated array of twists and turns and did find his friend, who was seated in his old blue taxi, with the door open, legs hanging out, chewing heartily on a betel quid, red liquid oozing around his teeth. We quickly negotiated and off we went.
The early morning ride through Mandalay was fantastic; the soft golden light on hundreds of monks and nuns parading barefoot with their alms bowls, the trishaws still enjoying the cool morning air before the stifling heat of the high sun, and the city coming to life gave a sense of a land frozen in time. The road quickly deteriorated, and clouds of dust were blown into our faces as we passed through. The view of Sagaing Hill from across the river, with countless golden peaks jutting out of the lush green landscape was remarkable. Continuing on, we passed through the old dusty roads of Sagaing, winding up and down hills, with our trusty blue taxi stalling and choking at times, before arriving safely in Mingun.
Most visitors to Mingun take a government boat from Mandalay, which we had chosen not to do, and having arrived earlier than the boat, we were alone. Mingun Paya is certainly awe-inspiring, a white arch surrounded by perfectly arranged brick walls towering above. Its location on the bank of the river undoubtedly contributes to its ambiance as well.
I had actually started not feeling well, probably the cold nights in buses and Inle, and just overall exhaustion from the previous month’s travel through Cambodia and Laos, so I skipped the other sights in Mingun and we proceeded to Sagaing Hill. Seemingly interminable stairs through pagodas and statues led to the top, with fantastic views, and a beautiful colorful temple. As I circumambulated, a painter caught my eye, with lovely watercolors of countryside images, with monks and nuns amidst villagers in serene landscapes. He was a very shy man, and obviously passionate about his work. He was also a land-mine victim, with no arms, and painted with his mouth. I don’t know what specifically happened at the moment as I walked away from him with a painting in my hand, but I crumpled in defeat and the tears came. I think the combination of exhaustion, and the multitude of emotions I had been experiencing throughout the past week just brought me to a breaking point, which happened at that specific point in time. As I struggled to breathe regularly and not be obvious about my crying, a woman selling tanakha looked at me and she smiled, and her smile said a thousand words without even opening her mouth. It was such a sad look of understanding in her eyes, with an expression that told me, don’t worry, it’s ok, even when it’s not, and there was even a sense of gratitude in some way, or perhaps I imagined it.
I decided to go back down before Ricard and Pascal so I could gather myself, and as I slowly went down the stairs, two young girls came and linked arms with me, smiling, without saying a word. They took me to a pagoda so I could get some water, and indicated I should wash my face, then smiled gently and said goodbye. It’s these seemingly tiny actions of hospitality by the people of Myanmar that just went straight to my heart.
I was really finished with my sightseeing for the day, but we stopped in Amarapura so Pascal could go see the bridge, and I just hung out with the driver and his endless betel quids. We arrived back in Mandalay and I took a nap because I had plans for the evening.
Myanmar: Mandalay: 29 January 2007 (Written 12 March 2007)
Mandalay. Almost every piece of literature I’ve ever seen that has anything to do with Mandalay starts by commenting on how this city has somehow achieved a romantic, fantastical place in the minds and hearts of everyone who hears its name, whether or not they know anything about the place. And so it is.
I perhapshad a bit more background knowledge about Mandalay than the average Las Vegas gambler who stays at Mandalay Bay. I had been reading about Myanmar for months beforehand, both in novels and guidebooks, as well as poems and personal experiences of recent travelers to the country. So, I knew that it’s not a city that everyone falls in love with, that it’s been recently rebuilt in large part with Chinese- style impersonal concrete buildings, that there is nothing actually beautiful about it, and it was perfectly understandable to only stay a day.
I fell in love with it.
The bus journey from Shweyaung was better than I expected. Pascal had kindly taken care of the tickets with Ricard the previous day, trying to make sure that we had seats in the front of the bus. We did, and I sat next to Pascal, with all my warmest clothes close at hand, and Ricard sat in the window seat across from us. As soon as we were in the bus, a karaoke video blasted at full volume, and I turned to see all the Myanmar people fixated on the screen, watching the bright neon lights, the well-dressed, young beautiful singers with perfect hair and makeup. What you see on the screen and what you see in real life, the passengers in the bus with tattered clothes and sandals, plastic bags for suitcases and sitting in the aisle because there aren’t enough buses, makes you wonder how these parallel universes can coexist so easily, without any questioning, discontent, or clashes – or at least how they can keep it so hidden.
I quickly fell asleep as we headed into the mountains, and after our brief stop for a meal, I didn't wake until our arrival in Mandalay at 3am. The representative of our hotel was there, and we piled into a motorcycle taxi to go the 7km into town from the bus stop.
We had a leisurely morning and decided to walk to Shwe In Bin Monastery. Our hotel was very near Endawgyi Pagoda, and the morning prayers started by 4.30am. Stepping into the street downstairs, the golden dome loomed above us, a constant reminder of the land we were in. The first thing I realized was that despite its population of 2 million, being the second largest city in the country, it was just a big village. Monks by the dozen were walking around collecting alms, trishaws weaved through the streets lined with endless merchants selling onions, garlic, tomatoes, and potatoes alongside noodles, samosas, endless kettles of tea, and the ubiquitous betel nut stand was never out of sight.
Almost every person we passed called out Hello or Mingalaba to us, and huge smiles surrounded us. It was completely unexpected, given my conceptions of how the larger a city is, the more impersonal and unfriendly it becomes. When we were within 1km of Shwe In Bin, numerous people came out of their homes or shops to indicate that we were going in the right direction. They were so welcoming, and so proud that we had come all this way to visit their monasteries.
Shwe In Bin is certainly worth visiting. An old teak monastery, its dark wood is meticulously carved with such fine detail that you could easily spend hours walking around it continuously. Dozens of columns support the structure, and although it is not so astounding in its size, the atmosphere is so grounded that I found myself lingering there.
As we left and walked towards the river, I stopped to watch a group of monks playing a board game with cowrie shells in the shade of one of the many green, leafy trees in the area. We smiled and as I was walking away, one monk came to me and spoke to me in English.
He invited the 3 of us to accompany him to his monastery, New Monsangein. We obliged, and followed the deep red robes winding through the streets. He told us it was the largest monastery in Mandalay, but it didn’t really sink in until we entered the gate with the big clock tower, and all around me was a sea of maroon. Everywhere, only males, head to toe in crimson and brick colors, all turning their heads to unabashedly stare at us. Many were extremely shy and once they realized that we realized they were looking at us, they turned away, but others smiled brightly and waved. We wandered through, a bit flabbergasted by the 2700 monks surrounding us, and every step was surreal as we were led by 3 monks, one of whom spoke very good Japanese. They invited us to watch the Pali lesson which would take place at 1pm. 15 minutes before the lesson began, dozens and dozens of monks gathered in the classroom building, coming from all directions, a steady stream of these religious men. They were chatting or quiet, smiling or pensive, and all neatly discarded their shoes at the door of the classroom, which can hold 1000 students. They sat and immediately opened their books, chanting and murmuring, all the while sneaking glances our way. The energy that filled the room was unlike any I’ve ever experienced in any place of religious gathering that I’ve been to thus far.
We left the lesson and took refuge under the shade of a large tree in the courtyard, where we could have a good view of all the bustling activity of the monastery. More curious monks cam to say hello, and we discussed the tenets of Buddhism in Myanmar as opposed to in other countries, as best we could given our language difficulties. The young monks, between the ages of 20 and 25, were so eager to discuss and help us understand their belief system. We decided to move along, and a small crowd of monks followed us along to make sure we were on the right road to our next destination, Mahamuni Paya.
Mahamuni Paya is one of the country’s most important monuments, and probably the second most visited one by locals after Shwedagon Paya in Yangon. It is a Buddha image, which is covered in gold leaf, and every morning at 4.30am men brush its teeth, and throughout the day people come to cover the statue in more gold leaf. Women cannot approach the statue but instead stay in pathways leading up to the statue, kneeling and praying, or as often happens in Burma, chatting away with friends. Mahamuni Paya can be accessed by a variety of entrances. Walking barefoot, you pass through indoor chambers with vendors selling everything from photos of Aung San Suu Kyi (often as a child with her father, Aung San) to tanakha (yellow makeup/sunblock/lotion made from the tanakha tree) to pots and pans. You emerge to the central area, where the Buddha image is, along with plenty of exhibits of General Than Shwe making donations and being blessed by monks. There are several other things to visit in Mahamuni Paya, including tablets engraved with teachings of the Buddha, and a number of small temples.
Given that we had walked across the city and stayed on our feet the majority of the day, we took a moment to stay in the shade, then went to the exit, where I was first introduced to a formal chinlon event. Chinlon, known as sepatakuro in Thailand and other Southeast Asian countries, is played with a small woven wooden ball, and the ball is passed with the feet amongst the players, making sure not to touch the ground. I had seen the game played by children and men along the road, but I had not yet seen an organized event. There was a very small stage area, circular, with seats ringing the outside of it, where we sat, and to our left there were musicians with small drums, an instrument resembling a xylophone, and something like a tambourine. The players, with green and yellow uniforms, had sweat dripping down their faces as they ran around the circle in a frenzy. I marveled at the fact that this could be happening on the same grounds as where normal men laid sheets of gold on an ancient Buddha.
We then went to Mandalay Hill, well known for its views over Mandalay. As we descended from our motorcycle taxi, 5 novice nuns came walking in our direction. I hesitated with my camera, and one girl, probably 6 or 7 years old, with a cleanly shaved head and untainted pink robes, beckoned me with a solemnity and assuredness I have never seen in anyone that age, and urged me to take their photo. She looked into my lens with such determination I wondered what events had transpired in her life to make her this way at such an early age, or what deep convictions she already held.
As we approached the first set of stairs going up to the peak, a group of 15 or so locals sat, resting. As I went nearer, they were staring, and 2 of the youngest, novice monks around 7 years old, gaped with mouths wide open until I smiled, waved, and said Mingalaba. They smiled but immediately became shy. They were still staring, all of them, so I asked if I could take a photo, they nodded, and they instantly started squealing with delight and politely pushed each other aside to get a glimpse of themselves in my small LCD finder.
Mandalay Hill has several pagodas and temples on the way up, and the concrete stairs seem endless, especially after our overnight bus journey and many hours of walking during the day. From the top, a vista of the Ayeyarwady River, and behind it, the Shan Hills which melt into the distant skies, gives you a sense of how vast the expanse of this country, and how rich it is in natural resources. We stayed for the sunset then descended.
The corner of 27th and 82nd St. If there is one place I ate in Burma which breathed the people, place, and life of the country, it was this place. The Chapati Stand. A pair of women busily rolled out chapattis and passed them to the boy who had the grill, flipping the thin pancakes and acknowledging so subtly the orders that were being placed that you could hardly detect the nods or grunts of communication. The tables were along the entire corner of the two streets, low plastic tables with wooden stools, and on the other side of the corner, the tea station, with huge pots of hot tea, large cans of condensed milk, buckets of sugar, and the strong delightful scent of freshly brewed tea wafted over the whole scene. The waiters, young boys who paid attention to fine details of every customers’ request, whether it’s that the man wanted condensed milk but no sugar, the women wanted her tea not as strong, or the young couple wanted their biryani after the chapattis, nothing was forgotten.
We ordered a pretty standard meal of keema curry, chicken curry, biryani, lentils, and of course, chapattis. Both Pascal and Ricard had claimed not to be hungry just minutes before, and had only come along because I was hungry and vocal about it, but as soon as the food arrived they were consuming more speedily than I was. The food was fresh, hot, and absolutely delicious. And of course it was, by the sheer volume of people coming to eat there; as soon as a table paid and got up to leave, it was replaced by new people. People arrived by motorcycle or trishaw to take food home with them, and many of them also took tea, poured expertly into plastic bags that could then be emptied into teacups once safely home.
Feeling fully satisfied for the first time since I had left Japan, we slowly made our way back home, walking towards the golden dome visible from several blocks away, and I fell into a deep, sweet sleep with dreams of this land I had so quickly been captivated by.
I perhapshad a bit more background knowledge about Mandalay than the average Las Vegas gambler who stays at Mandalay Bay. I had been reading about Myanmar for months beforehand, both in novels and guidebooks, as well as poems and personal experiences of recent travelers to the country. So, I knew that it’s not a city that everyone falls in love with, that it’s been recently rebuilt in large part with Chinese- style impersonal concrete buildings, that there is nothing actually beautiful about it, and it was perfectly understandable to only stay a day.
I fell in love with it.
The bus journey from Shweyaung was better than I expected. Pascal had kindly taken care of the tickets with Ricard the previous day, trying to make sure that we had seats in the front of the bus. We did, and I sat next to Pascal, with all my warmest clothes close at hand, and Ricard sat in the window seat across from us. As soon as we were in the bus, a karaoke video blasted at full volume, and I turned to see all the Myanmar people fixated on the screen, watching the bright neon lights, the well-dressed, young beautiful singers with perfect hair and makeup. What you see on the screen and what you see in real life, the passengers in the bus with tattered clothes and sandals, plastic bags for suitcases and sitting in the aisle because there aren’t enough buses, makes you wonder how these parallel universes can coexist so easily, without any questioning, discontent, or clashes – or at least how they can keep it so hidden.
I quickly fell asleep as we headed into the mountains, and after our brief stop for a meal, I didn't wake until our arrival in Mandalay at 3am. The representative of our hotel was there, and we piled into a motorcycle taxi to go the 7km into town from the bus stop.
We had a leisurely morning and decided to walk to Shwe In Bin Monastery. Our hotel was very near Endawgyi Pagoda, and the morning prayers started by 4.30am. Stepping into the street downstairs, the golden dome loomed above us, a constant reminder of the land we were in. The first thing I realized was that despite its population of 2 million, being the second largest city in the country, it was just a big village. Monks by the dozen were walking around collecting alms, trishaws weaved through the streets lined with endless merchants selling onions, garlic, tomatoes, and potatoes alongside noodles, samosas, endless kettles of tea, and the ubiquitous betel nut stand was never out of sight.
Almost every person we passed called out Hello or Mingalaba to us, and huge smiles surrounded us. It was completely unexpected, given my conceptions of how the larger a city is, the more impersonal and unfriendly it becomes. When we were within 1km of Shwe In Bin, numerous people came out of their homes or shops to indicate that we were going in the right direction. They were so welcoming, and so proud that we had come all this way to visit their monasteries.
Shwe In Bin is certainly worth visiting. An old teak monastery, its dark wood is meticulously carved with such fine detail that you could easily spend hours walking around it continuously. Dozens of columns support the structure, and although it is not so astounding in its size, the atmosphere is so grounded that I found myself lingering there.
As we left and walked towards the river, I stopped to watch a group of monks playing a board game with cowrie shells in the shade of one of the many green, leafy trees in the area. We smiled and as I was walking away, one monk came to me and spoke to me in English.
He invited the 3 of us to accompany him to his monastery, New Monsangein. We obliged, and followed the deep red robes winding through the streets. He told us it was the largest monastery in Mandalay, but it didn’t really sink in until we entered the gate with the big clock tower, and all around me was a sea of maroon. Everywhere, only males, head to toe in crimson and brick colors, all turning their heads to unabashedly stare at us. Many were extremely shy and once they realized that we realized they were looking at us, they turned away, but others smiled brightly and waved. We wandered through, a bit flabbergasted by the 2700 monks surrounding us, and every step was surreal as we were led by 3 monks, one of whom spoke very good Japanese. They invited us to watch the Pali lesson which would take place at 1pm. 15 minutes before the lesson began, dozens and dozens of monks gathered in the classroom building, coming from all directions, a steady stream of these religious men. They were chatting or quiet, smiling or pensive, and all neatly discarded their shoes at the door of the classroom, which can hold 1000 students. They sat and immediately opened their books, chanting and murmuring, all the while sneaking glances our way. The energy that filled the room was unlike any I’ve ever experienced in any place of religious gathering that I’ve been to thus far.
We left the lesson and took refuge under the shade of a large tree in the courtyard, where we could have a good view of all the bustling activity of the monastery. More curious monks cam to say hello, and we discussed the tenets of Buddhism in Myanmar as opposed to in other countries, as best we could given our language difficulties. The young monks, between the ages of 20 and 25, were so eager to discuss and help us understand their belief system. We decided to move along, and a small crowd of monks followed us along to make sure we were on the right road to our next destination, Mahamuni Paya.
Mahamuni Paya is one of the country’s most important monuments, and probably the second most visited one by locals after Shwedagon Paya in Yangon. It is a Buddha image, which is covered in gold leaf, and every morning at 4.30am men brush its teeth, and throughout the day people come to cover the statue in more gold leaf. Women cannot approach the statue but instead stay in pathways leading up to the statue, kneeling and praying, or as often happens in Burma, chatting away with friends. Mahamuni Paya can be accessed by a variety of entrances. Walking barefoot, you pass through indoor chambers with vendors selling everything from photos of Aung San Suu Kyi (often as a child with her father, Aung San) to tanakha (yellow makeup/sunblock/lotion made from the tanakha tree) to pots and pans. You emerge to the central area, where the Buddha image is, along with plenty of exhibits of General Than Shwe making donations and being blessed by monks. There are several other things to visit in Mahamuni Paya, including tablets engraved with teachings of the Buddha, and a number of small temples.
Given that we had walked across the city and stayed on our feet the majority of the day, we took a moment to stay in the shade, then went to the exit, where I was first introduced to a formal chinlon event. Chinlon, known as sepatakuro in Thailand and other Southeast Asian countries, is played with a small woven wooden ball, and the ball is passed with the feet amongst the players, making sure not to touch the ground. I had seen the game played by children and men along the road, but I had not yet seen an organized event. There was a very small stage area, circular, with seats ringing the outside of it, where we sat, and to our left there were musicians with small drums, an instrument resembling a xylophone, and something like a tambourine. The players, with green and yellow uniforms, had sweat dripping down their faces as they ran around the circle in a frenzy. I marveled at the fact that this could be happening on the same grounds as where normal men laid sheets of gold on an ancient Buddha.
We then went to Mandalay Hill, well known for its views over Mandalay. As we descended from our motorcycle taxi, 5 novice nuns came walking in our direction. I hesitated with my camera, and one girl, probably 6 or 7 years old, with a cleanly shaved head and untainted pink robes, beckoned me with a solemnity and assuredness I have never seen in anyone that age, and urged me to take their photo. She looked into my lens with such determination I wondered what events had transpired in her life to make her this way at such an early age, or what deep convictions she already held.
As we approached the first set of stairs going up to the peak, a group of 15 or so locals sat, resting. As I went nearer, they were staring, and 2 of the youngest, novice monks around 7 years old, gaped with mouths wide open until I smiled, waved, and said Mingalaba. They smiled but immediately became shy. They were still staring, all of them, so I asked if I could take a photo, they nodded, and they instantly started squealing with delight and politely pushed each other aside to get a glimpse of themselves in my small LCD finder.
Mandalay Hill has several pagodas and temples on the way up, and the concrete stairs seem endless, especially after our overnight bus journey and many hours of walking during the day. From the top, a vista of the Ayeyarwady River, and behind it, the Shan Hills which melt into the distant skies, gives you a sense of how vast the expanse of this country, and how rich it is in natural resources. We stayed for the sunset then descended.
The corner of 27th and 82nd St. If there is one place I ate in Burma which breathed the people, place, and life of the country, it was this place. The Chapati Stand. A pair of women busily rolled out chapattis and passed them to the boy who had the grill, flipping the thin pancakes and acknowledging so subtly the orders that were being placed that you could hardly detect the nods or grunts of communication. The tables were along the entire corner of the two streets, low plastic tables with wooden stools, and on the other side of the corner, the tea station, with huge pots of hot tea, large cans of condensed milk, buckets of sugar, and the strong delightful scent of freshly brewed tea wafted over the whole scene. The waiters, young boys who paid attention to fine details of every customers’ request, whether it’s that the man wanted condensed milk but no sugar, the women wanted her tea not as strong, or the young couple wanted their biryani after the chapattis, nothing was forgotten.
We ordered a pretty standard meal of keema curry, chicken curry, biryani, lentils, and of course, chapattis. Both Pascal and Ricard had claimed not to be hungry just minutes before, and had only come along because I was hungry and vocal about it, but as soon as the food arrived they were consuming more speedily than I was. The food was fresh, hot, and absolutely delicious. And of course it was, by the sheer volume of people coming to eat there; as soon as a table paid and got up to leave, it was replaced by new people. People arrived by motorcycle or trishaw to take food home with them, and many of them also took tea, poured expertly into plastic bags that could then be emptied into teacups once safely home.
Feeling fully satisfied for the first time since I had left Japan, we slowly made our way back home, walking towards the golden dome visible from several blocks away, and I fell into a deep, sweet sleep with dreams of this land I had so quickly been captivated by.
Friday, March 9, 2007
Myanmar: Inle Lake: 27/28 January 2007 (Written 20 February 2007)
We were meeting our boatman at 6am. Which meant it was still dark, and very very cold. I walked with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, telling myself I was on a warm beach, and we climbed into the longboat. First light on the lake is magical. There is fog and mist everywhere, and the boundaries between the mist and the sky and the water and mountains simply blend, confusing the senses and playing their magic. I was captivated.
We proceeded out onto the big lake (22km) and stopped occasionally to watch some of the small boatmen. When we would go near them, and turn off our motor, it would be completely silent. The only thing you could hear was breathing, and the almost inaudible sound of the water moving under the one oar controlled by the boatman’s leg. Watching them move their vessels in the water is watching a being completely in harmony with its own environment; the fluidity of the movements, the muscles working in ways that they have been, day in and day out, for decades. It has a surreal quality that words and photos cannot do justice to.
At around 7:30am, we arrived in a village. The light was what struck me and will stay in my memory forever. The water is so clean and clear, producing startling reflections of the huts, the boats, and the people. The people come out of their houses to wave, shout Mingalaba!, and watch as you float your way away.
We visited a floating market, which I am sure over the years has grown increasingly to cater towards tourists, but still retains much of a local atmosphere, especially when visited at the right time; since many tourists head out of Nyaungshwe as the sun is beginning to warm the lake, we arrived early, and had the whole place to ourselves. The people from various tribes shopped, gossiped, chatted, drank tea, ate breakfast and snacks, and we wandered through the aisles.
We proceeded to the Jumping Cat Monastery; a bit bizarre, and also a different pagoda, and decided to head back to Nyaungshwe.
In the evening, we decided to eat on the street by the market; street vendors had set up little frying pans and pots, and we at delicious mini-pancake like things; fried dough with green onion and corn, with chili dipping sauce. There were children playing in the street, their faces bright with full smiles, dressed in rags, with no toys, yet their souls were intact. They would be playing games simply tagging and running, but their laughter and ability to play amazed me. As we walked back in the dark, we stopped to watch a group of children playing hopscotch in the street. Kids everywhere in the world are the same, aren’t they?
On the 28th, I was totally exhausted and lazed about in the morning before heading off into town with no direction whatsoever. I stopped to watch the watermelon seller play checkers. I asked if I could play and they were surprised but delighted, and even more delighted when I lost. The man, a thin, wiry man with an old fading purple longyi gave me a big slice of watermelon, and as I tried to pay, said present with a very firm look in his eyes, and I accepted. I strolled down the street with watermelon juice dripping down my face and hands, and entered a pagoda, where a family sat in the front with a thermos of tea. They immediately tried to sell me an offering to the Buddha, which I refused, but after my walk around the temple I accepted their invitation to sit and drink tea. I took photos of the family as well as their 3 year old son, and they ooh-ed and ahh-ed when I said I was from Japan. The woman that spoke the most English (really not much) said take me to Japan, I can teach Myanmar language. I smiled and said I would if I could. This was not the only time, by any means, that a person in Myanmar asked me to take them to Japan. I thanked them kindly for their tea and promised that if I visited Nyaungshwe again I would stop by the temple.
On my walk back I passed the watermelon stand and since I had no agenda, decided to make some cranes for my opponents who I had lost to. The group of 7 or 8 men were very pleased, and asked me to demonstrate again, giving them sheets to follow along with. A few of them also made me things they knew how to make, a boat (hle), an envelope, an airplane. They asked me to write their names in Japanese, and we sat around with my phrasebook, taking minutes to convey single-word thoughts. Lovely. Sateen, the original watermelon seller that had given me the juicy slice as a gift, now insisted that I eat his lunch. I was delighted to try some real local food, but also realized that this was a poor man and I didn’t want to take what little food he did have. I also didn’t want to refuse and offend him, so I decided I would take a few bites. He dismantled the stacked silver cylinders, and the first container had a lima bean curry. The next, plain rice. The last had plain rice and a few tablespoons of chili. Excuse me, but not a very nutritious and sustaining meal for a man that is presumably working on the street from daybreak to dusk. I did take a few bites, offered a few hundred kyat, at which he vehemently resisted and instead brought me tea. I drank, and explained that I should go and meet my friends, and we shook hands and waved with big smiles. I cried as I walked away.
Somehow the town had transformed, or I had transformed, or my role in the town had transformed, within the few short days that I was in Nyaungshwe. People that recognized me from the watermelon stand waved and smiled, whereas just a day before I had been stared at, I think mostly because people had no idea where I was from. I was in love with Nyaungshwe.
I met Ricard at the hotel, and he told me he had just eaten some delicious noodles, so I asked him to show me where it was. We walked back to the market, waving again to Sateen and Co., and sat at the tiny noodle stand with a very motherly woman with a grin covering more than half her face. She delighted in the fact that I was enjoying her Shan noodles and everyone within a 10m radius burst into laughter when I asked for a second bowl.
Sadly, it was time to go and we headed back to Joy Hotel to pack our things and take the pickup to Shweyaung where we would get the bus to Mandalay. We had a lot of time to kill at Shweyaung so we sat in a teashop, drinking delightfully sweet tea and munching on greasy samosas. The bus arrived after dark and I happily slept for the majority of the journey to Mandalay.
We proceeded out onto the big lake (22km) and stopped occasionally to watch some of the small boatmen. When we would go near them, and turn off our motor, it would be completely silent. The only thing you could hear was breathing, and the almost inaudible sound of the water moving under the one oar controlled by the boatman’s leg. Watching them move their vessels in the water is watching a being completely in harmony with its own environment; the fluidity of the movements, the muscles working in ways that they have been, day in and day out, for decades. It has a surreal quality that words and photos cannot do justice to.
At around 7:30am, we arrived in a village. The light was what struck me and will stay in my memory forever. The water is so clean and clear, producing startling reflections of the huts, the boats, and the people. The people come out of their houses to wave, shout Mingalaba!, and watch as you float your way away.
We visited a floating market, which I am sure over the years has grown increasingly to cater towards tourists, but still retains much of a local atmosphere, especially when visited at the right time; since many tourists head out of Nyaungshwe as the sun is beginning to warm the lake, we arrived early, and had the whole place to ourselves. The people from various tribes shopped, gossiped, chatted, drank tea, ate breakfast and snacks, and we wandered through the aisles.
We proceeded to the Jumping Cat Monastery; a bit bizarre, and also a different pagoda, and decided to head back to Nyaungshwe.
In the evening, we decided to eat on the street by the market; street vendors had set up little frying pans and pots, and we at delicious mini-pancake like things; fried dough with green onion and corn, with chili dipping sauce. There were children playing in the street, their faces bright with full smiles, dressed in rags, with no toys, yet their souls were intact. They would be playing games simply tagging and running, but their laughter and ability to play amazed me. As we walked back in the dark, we stopped to watch a group of children playing hopscotch in the street. Kids everywhere in the world are the same, aren’t they?
On the 28th, I was totally exhausted and lazed about in the morning before heading off into town with no direction whatsoever. I stopped to watch the watermelon seller play checkers. I asked if I could play and they were surprised but delighted, and even more delighted when I lost. The man, a thin, wiry man with an old fading purple longyi gave me a big slice of watermelon, and as I tried to pay, said present with a very firm look in his eyes, and I accepted. I strolled down the street with watermelon juice dripping down my face and hands, and entered a pagoda, where a family sat in the front with a thermos of tea. They immediately tried to sell me an offering to the Buddha, which I refused, but after my walk around the temple I accepted their invitation to sit and drink tea. I took photos of the family as well as their 3 year old son, and they ooh-ed and ahh-ed when I said I was from Japan. The woman that spoke the most English (really not much) said take me to Japan, I can teach Myanmar language. I smiled and said I would if I could. This was not the only time, by any means, that a person in Myanmar asked me to take them to Japan. I thanked them kindly for their tea and promised that if I visited Nyaungshwe again I would stop by the temple.
On my walk back I passed the watermelon stand and since I had no agenda, decided to make some cranes for my opponents who I had lost to. The group of 7 or 8 men were very pleased, and asked me to demonstrate again, giving them sheets to follow along with. A few of them also made me things they knew how to make, a boat (hle), an envelope, an airplane. They asked me to write their names in Japanese, and we sat around with my phrasebook, taking minutes to convey single-word thoughts. Lovely. Sateen, the original watermelon seller that had given me the juicy slice as a gift, now insisted that I eat his lunch. I was delighted to try some real local food, but also realized that this was a poor man and I didn’t want to take what little food he did have. I also didn’t want to refuse and offend him, so I decided I would take a few bites. He dismantled the stacked silver cylinders, and the first container had a lima bean curry. The next, plain rice. The last had plain rice and a few tablespoons of chili. Excuse me, but not a very nutritious and sustaining meal for a man that is presumably working on the street from daybreak to dusk. I did take a few bites, offered a few hundred kyat, at which he vehemently resisted and instead brought me tea. I drank, and explained that I should go and meet my friends, and we shook hands and waved with big smiles. I cried as I walked away.
Somehow the town had transformed, or I had transformed, or my role in the town had transformed, within the few short days that I was in Nyaungshwe. People that recognized me from the watermelon stand waved and smiled, whereas just a day before I had been stared at, I think mostly because people had no idea where I was from. I was in love with Nyaungshwe.
I met Ricard at the hotel, and he told me he had just eaten some delicious noodles, so I asked him to show me where it was. We walked back to the market, waving again to Sateen and Co., and sat at the tiny noodle stand with a very motherly woman with a grin covering more than half her face. She delighted in the fact that I was enjoying her Shan noodles and everyone within a 10m radius burst into laughter when I asked for a second bowl.
Sadly, it was time to go and we headed back to Joy Hotel to pack our things and take the pickup to Shweyaung where we would get the bus to Mandalay. We had a lot of time to kill at Shweyaung so we sat in a teashop, drinking delightfully sweet tea and munching on greasy samosas. The bus arrived after dark and I happily slept for the majority of the journey to Mandalay.
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