Better Late Than Never - Myanmar

Well here it is. Six months late, three more countries, a new job and a whole new city to write about. I suppose I only have myself to blame. And Hong Kong. At least a little bit of it is most definitely Hong Kong’s fault. But first I suppose I had better catch everyone up on what has been going on since I touched down in Yangon (insert self-conscious cough) in April 2015.

As you’d have gathered from my last post, I’d arrived riding a crest of spontaneity to the recently unlocked ‘Golden Kingdom’. Looking back on my journal notes, I’m a bit surprised at myself. While I suppose my whole journey and been a great step into the unknown, this was completely off course - even considering that there was only the faint outline of a course to begin with.

On the relatively short flight from Bangkok, I’d delved as deeply into the Lonely Planet version of this mysterious country as I could, and had even come up with a general plan. Starting with the sights and smells of Yangon (Rangoon), I’d head North West to Kalaw. In colonial times, it was built as a winter retreat from the British administrative officials and their various entourages. Built high in the hills, the promise of cooler climes were as tempting in 2015 as they must have been in the 19th century. The town’s construction drew Nepalese labour to the area, and a strong community persists. There was even a chance to hire a guide to hike three days across farmland to the must see Inle Lake. Feeling hot and missing the mountains, I knew this would be a good starting point.

I fought my way through the impressively adorned Yangon arrivals terminal and nervously joined the queue for immigration. After a short wait and a smile from the beautifully bored attendant, I was in. I’d rather hopefully booked an airport transfer on my hostel world booking, but given the very short notice (less than 24 hours in fact) I was pretty sure I’d be out of luck. Nevertheless, I hung around the near the entrance for a while and eyed the gathered throng of local taxi drivers with their handwritten collection signs. My attempts to appear like I knew what I was doing were obviously shambolic, and I was soon noticed by a friendly red-toothed Yangon-ian who ushered me into the middle of a gossiping gang. After a few minutes of confusion, it was obvious that none of them were here to collect me, so my would be rescuer introduced me to a friend, who spat some red juice onto the floor, grabbed my bag and threw it in the back of a taxi.

Everyone of the local men who I met while in Myanmar chewed a strange green leafed substance, which was wrapped around some kind of tobacco. It produced huge amounts of red saliva which they expelled from their mouths at annoyingly frequent intervals. It also left their teeth and gums horrid stained. I only met one traveller who’d tried it - a brave woman from Germany. It wasn’t her cup of tea.

Between us, my friendly driver and I worked out which street we needed and sped off into downtown Yangon. In its heyday of careful decision making, just law-giving and sensible policies, the military Junta that ruled Myanmar came up with a blinder. Overnight, they switched which side of the road it was legal to drive on. This glorious idea was carefully constructed to distance the country from its colonial past. Unfortunately, almost all cars in Yangong (that I could see) are designed for the old style left lane driving.

One traditionally terrifying South Asian car dive later, and I was at my hostel. After mistakenly entering a vegetable shop and being shown the actual entrance by a lovely elderly lady (“it happens all the time” - I’m pretty sure she was saying), I met the two owners. They settled me in to their beautiful hostel in the heart of Yangon, and I immediately fell asleep.

I stayed at the Shannkalay hostel on 49th street, and it was absolutely wonderful. The hosts are brilliant, and bent over backwards to help me plan my onwards jounry. I stayed there on my return to Yangon too, tempted back no doubt by the fatastic breakfast served on the balcony.

Waking up a few hours later, I headed for the most obvious site in the city. The majestic Swedagon Pagoda. Myanmar is a hugely devout country, and its numerous distinctive Buddhist pagoda’s are just everywhere. So much so that you almost stop seeing them after a while. The Sweden Pagoda, however, is just incredible. On climbing the steps to the top, I left a donation and was handed a ‘longi’ to wear. These garments are worn by a lot of the men in Myanmar. I saw more of these than jeans, shorts or any other kind of leg-covering attire. It gives the whole country a strangely authentic feel.

I donned the longi somewhat self-consciously, and began my first circuit of the pagoda. Within minutes my discomfort was forgotten (awkward eye contact with similarly dressed westerners aside). The burnished gold and gleaming statues battled with the mirrored temples and the onslaught of colour for my attention. Aligned to the points of the compass, the towering central pagoda is surrounded by smaller structures, temples and sculptures. All are breathtakingly beautiful.

I was lucky enough to watch a small procession begin their seven lap circuit of the monument. Upon their shoulders was carried a rather intimidated boy (I’d guess around eight years old). I was told by a helpful guide (or rather, I listened for free as the helpful guide told his customers) that he had been accepted into a monastery. This was a huge honour for the family, and they were completing the traditional circuits before his monastic life began. I looked at the boy’s face as he was carried past and wondered at the life he would lead. He would certainly be educated to a high monastic level, and would almost certainly have an easy life compared to the majority of the poor in this developing country. The colourful procession would its way around, and I departed, making my own final circuit on a lower, more peaceful level.

I stopped off at a Lonely Planet recommended eatery ….. at the foot of the Pagoda. The restaurant was inside a kind of garage, with the cutters thrown open to the street. The concrete floor was soaking wet, and the chairs and tables were garden furniture. The food was cooked behind a glass window and you got what you pointed at. While the presentation wasn’t the best, the food was excellent. Lots of oily curries, rice, and boiled vegetables. I ate my fill, and watched with bemusement as the floor was pressure washed around my table.

I got back to the hostel and found a large, sleepy Frenchman in the shared room. After some awkward conversation we fell upon the obvious ice breaker of football. An hour later and we were watching Arsenal at a local ex-pat haunt - the aptly named ‘51st street Bar and Grill’, located on 51st street. My new friend had been in the city for a week, and knew where to find such things. We ate some burgers, drank some beers and generally talked a lot of nonsense. I also had my first brush with a cockroach. It ran right across my elbow without me noticing, much to the amusement of my companion.

The next day I took my breakfast late on the hostel’s small balcony. The ever helpful owner and his wife had helped me arrange my onwards journey - a night bus to Kalaw departing that evening. I got chatting to a couple who had met at the airport. The woman (from the UK) was a nurse working in Cambodia, and we spent a nice morning walking around a nearby antiques market. On the way back, I found a photocopy of Burmese Days by George Orwell for less than a dollar on the street. Over the next few weeks it would inspire a kind of adventure.

So it was that I bade a fond farewell to Yangon. It really is a remarkable place. In some senses, the clothes, buildings and behaviours of the place give it a feeling of nostalgia. But nestled everywhere are signs of the waves of development sweeping through the newly opened country. Premier League billboards, huge housing developments and office buildings clawing their way into the sky. Since I have been in Hong Kong, the democratic party led by Yang Sun Su Ki have swept to power, further opening the doors to a brighter future.