Showing posts with label Myanmar/Burma-Yangon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Myanmar/Burma-Yangon. Show all posts

Thursday 15 November 2012

Across the Yangon River to Dala: Myanmar/Burma Part 3

A Semi-Rural Township on Yangon's Doorstep

Over the River


Myanmar
We were up early and at the Pansodan Ferry terminal before 8.30. It was already hot and our wander round the impromptu street market lasted just long enough to notice the huge piles of quails' eggs before the heat drove us into the shade of the terminal building.

The ferry ride to Dala was very brief but the boat, when it arrived, was surprisingly large. Several hundred people disembarked and we were part of a similar sized crowd waiting to board. The lower deck was full of people carrying heavy loads or pushing bicycles so we climbed to the upper deck. Here we found stacks of the small plastic stools that are only seen in infant schools at home. At their best they are flimsy but many were broken and held together with metal staples. I selected a couple of relatively intact stools, gave one to Lynne and carefully lowered my bulk on to the other. I have previous with cheap plastic chairs.

The crowd disembarks, Pansodan Jetty, Yangon

The Yangon River is a tidal estuary and has no natural connection with the Irrawaddy Delta (although it is linked by the 35km long Twante canal) and there is not a lot of river upstream. The fast flow was, I presume, largely tidal.

The river is deep enough for coasters to dock at Yangon, the ship nearest the camera being from Haiphong in northern Vietnam – not a huge distance as the crow flies, but a long sea voyage away round the southern tip of the Malayan peninsula.

Coasters docked at Yangon

Dala is directly opposite the ferry terminal so although we ended up less than a kilometre from our starting point the current required us first to chug upstream and then be carried downstream as we turned to make the crossing.

Dala, Trishaws and Two Contrasting Markets

We disembarked into a scene of chaos. People pushing bicycles and bearing burdens threaded themselves between motorbike taxis and trishaws, while minibus drivers stood on the edge of the crowd shouting out their destinations.

We walked a little way up the road until Swe lighted on three likely looking trishaw peddlers. After a brief negotiation we climbed into the seats, at least Swe and Lynne did, but the trishaws were poorly designed for the more generously built and I did not fit. My peddler laughed and folded down the back cushion. With two cushions below me, my backside was above the sidebars and the problem was solved – though it was not a particularly comfortable solution. Still, I was more comfortable than the poor sod doing the peddling.

Lardy-arsed foreigner almost fits on trishaw, Dala Township, Yangon

Although not actually in the delta country the land was still low lying with an abundance of drainage canals and ponds. Houses and shops were approached by footbridges, some over fishponds, others over waterways clogged with weeds.

Shop, Dala Township, Yangon

My peddler had little to say, but Lynne’s chatted away in a language he seemed to believe was English, pausing every so often to lean over the other side of his bike and spit a thin stream of red betel nut juice onto the road. Passing a building bearing the scarlet banner of the National League for Democracy even my taciturn peddler could not resist pointing and saying ‘Aung Sang Suu Kyi’ with the reverent tone that all Burmese seem to adopt when pronouncing her name.

Lynne proceeds in comfort, Dala Township, Yangon

We turned off the main road and followed a smaller and less well surfaced road, stopping where a crowd was milling around outside a market. ‘That,’ said Lynne’s peddler, pointing to a large and well-built house set back from the road ‘is the house of the man who owns these trishaws.’ I knew that rickshaw men were generally among the poorest of urban dwellers, but it had not previously occurred to me that they did not even own the battered bicycles they pilot for a living.

We wandered over to the market entrance. A policeman, or perhaps just a security guard, accosted Swe. ‘You may,’ Swe translated, ‘photograph market produce, but not any of the people.’ We shrugged and entered.

The crowd outside the market, Dala Township, Yangon

It was a small market, dirty and crowded, the produce laid out on rickety wooden tables. Lynne raised her camera at some decorously arranged betel leaves and immediately the security man was upon us. ‘No photograph!’ he shouted though whether because the image would steal the leaves’ souls or because betel leaves were the government’s secret weapon in the war against the northern insurgents we never discovered. The security man followed us, hovering on our shoulders past vegetables, fish and meat. Maybe nobody had told him about recent liberalisations, but he was clearly a man who relished his job – being angry is a vocation for some people. He amused us, bless him, even if we have no photographs to prove it.

Back on the trishaws we were peddled to the intersection marking the centre of Dala Township which, although administratively part of Yangon, is actually a series of straggling villages. The ‘town centre’ is no more than a rural crossroads with a tatty wooden tower.

Turning right we soon arrived at another market, where there was no irritating security man, indeed no security man at all. The market was larger and even busier, but nobody minded if we photographed the betel leaves......

Betel leaves, Dala Township, Yangon

....the herbs and vegetables.....

Herbs and vegetables, Dala Township, Yangon

......the dried fish.....

Dried fish, chilli, Dala Township, Yangon

.......or the thanakha logs.

Thanakha, Dala Township, Yangon

Thanakha is rubbed on a moistened abrasive stone to produce a clear oily liquid which women and girls smear onto their cheeks. To avoid a Crime Against Masculinity I could only put it on the back of my hand. It disappeared for a while, but then dried to leave the smooth ochre coloured swirls that can be seen on the faces of many local women. It does not look very pleasing but feels good and is supposed to nourish the skin and provide protection against the strong sun.

By the entrance I came across a stall selling an unfamiliar fruit - ‘Custard apples,’ Shwe told me. I bought a couple for a few pence. Green and roughly spherical they split open to reveal brown seeds surrounded by whitish pulp. They may not have looked much like apples, but the flesh did taste remarkably like custard and was very pleasant, though a lot of spitting out of pips was necessary. They have since arrived in our local Morrisons. We have not bought one fearing that, like much tropical fruit bought in England, it would be under-ripe and overpriced – a single custard apple costs considerably more than a kilo would in Myanmar

Lynne eats a custard apple, Dala Township, Yangon

Moe Goak: Carring for the Orphans of Cyclone Nargis

Continuing down the road, a pond lined with statues of the Buddha indicated that we had reached Moe Goak Monastry. The monastery runs an orphanage and a school and when the monks and novices go out begging, as they do every morning, they beg for food not just for themselves but for the children in their care.

The entrance to Moe Goak Monastery, Dala Township, Yangon

In April 2008 Cyclone Nargis cut a swathe across the Irrawaddy delta leaving at least 138,000 dead - the government stopped counting at this figure. The initial response by the then very secretive regime was seriously inadequate and they stubbornly refused international aid for over a week. As the authorities failed, Buddhists monasteries stepped in to provide most of the local relief efforts; the majority of those cared for at Moe Goak were orphaned by Cyclone Nargis.

We removed our shoes and walked (very carefully) over the rough concrete and gravel to the school block. It was not lesson time, but several children had jobs to do and were brushing the classroom floor, others played with toy cars and several small girls dedicated themselves to watching us. I am unsure if the school serves the village as well as the orphanage, or whether all the children were orphans, but they behaved like normal happy seven year olds.

There are no chairs - the children kneel on the floor (that is the Burmese way) and what appear to be benches are actually their desks. Several of the girls had thanakha on their cheeks and on the white board was an English lesson: “Where is the apple? The apple is on the plate….”

Classroom, Moe Goak Monastery, Dala Township, Yangon

The teacher arrived and after a few words with her we went off for our interview with the abbot.

A man in his late fifties in terracotta coloured robes, he was kneeling on the teak floor of his office, books stacked in piles behind him. Swe knelt down in obeisance, but we settled for a small bow with our hands together. Invited to sit, we folded our stiff western bodies down onto the hard floor.

After we had been provided with peanuts and water he wanted to know where we come from. Everyone from England is presumed to live in London, but we do not and, not expecting him to know Swynnerton (pop 600) or even Stafford, we mentioned places like Birmingham and Manchester. It is, of course, impossible to say ‘Manchester’ anywhere in the Far East without somebody, even the abbot of a monastery, adding ‘United’. As we have observed before, Manchester United have fans everywhere (except, of course, Manchester). We discussed Aung San Suu Kyi’s recent visit to England and he spoke of her with a combination of warmth and reverence. Then he turned and pulled a newspaper off a pile of books opening it at a full page photograph of Barak Obama who was due to visit in the next few days. If Aung San Suu Kyi is ‘The Lady’ and represents the hope for Myanmar, Barak Obama represents hope for the rest of the world.

When we had finished Swe made a pre-arranged donation on our behalf. Having been impressed by the abbot and his monastery we doubled it. ‘You don’t have to do that.” Swe said, but he seemed pleased. It was not a huge sum; a little money goes a long way in Myanmar, particularly when applied to the right place.

Peddling Across Dala

We were peddled back across Dala. Some of the road was new and smooth...

Following Swe on a smooth road, Dala Township, Yangon

....but in other places the metalled surface was broken up or non-existent and peddling was difficult despite the flat terrain. The houses were rural in character, some of them simply made of bamboo. Lynne’s peddler pointed out some new water pumps in one village; despite being surrounded by ponds and canals, a supply of clean drinking water was a new and welcome addition.

Rural dwellings, Dala Township, Yangon

We passed St Michael’s church(6% of the population self-identify as Christians) …..

St Michael's Church, Dala Township, Yangon

….and dropped in on the wholesale fish market, but it was a little late in the day and there were few fish and even fewer people.

Fish market, Dala Township, Yangon

The Shwe Sayan Pagoda

Eventually we reached Shwe Sayan Pagoda at the other end of the township. The pagoda is a place of bright colours, greens, blues and, of course, gold (some gold leaf but more gold paint), a place of stupas, spires and shrines, a place of geometric shapes over which organic forms loom or sometimes writhe.

The entrance to Shwe Sayan Pagoda, Dala Township, Yangon

A place of brilliant light, it feels like a fantasy land, but a fantasy founded in faith and reflecting a sincerely held view of the world, not some slick commercial Disneyland.

Shwe Sayan Pagoda, Dala Township, Yangon

Shwe Sayan's Remarkable Long Dead Monk

The prize exhibit is a monk who died 150 years ago. He clearly attained Nirvana as his body has not decayed, though we must take that on trust as he is covered in gold leaf. Ten years ago he opened one of his eyes to warn about a coming cyclone. The photographic evidence of this remarkable event is displayed beside the gold-swathed corpse. Call me an old cynic if you must, but the photographs were not wholly convincing.

The gold covered corpse, Shwe Sayan Pagoda, Dala Township, Yangon

There was a commotion as we were leaving and we had to step aside as the abbot returned from hospital. This required four people to carry the stretcher (three of them our trishaw pilots), one to carry the stand for his drip, another to carry his oxygen cylinder and a couple more to supervise. Our men returned clearly pleased, even honoured, to have been allowed to help such a holy man.

We returned to the ferry terminal and Swe paid off our peddlers. We tipped them 1000 Kyat each (80p), the recommended amount, but it seemed a paltry sum for so much hard work under an unrelenting sun. They, however, seemed pleased with the rewards of their morning’s endeavours.

Back to Yangon

Back over the river we drove to the city hall, …

City Hall, Yangon

…. which along with the rather forlorn independence monument, marks the traditional centre of Yangon. It was the rallying point for the pro-democracy demonstrations in 1988 and 2007.

Independence Monument, Yangon

The Monument and City Hall sit opposite the Sule Pagoda. Despite occupying a traffic island, Sule is of great antiquity; legend says it was built during the lifetime of the Buddha and enshrines one of his hairs. Over the years the pagoda has been rebuilt many times and in several diferent styles.The current octagonal stupa is in the style of the Mon people who live along the coast to the south. The stupa is surrounded by stalls, which is not unusual in Myanmar, but made it feel more commercial than spiritual. Despite its antiquity it lacked the magic of Shwedagon, or the exuberance of the relatively humble Shwe Sayan.

Octagonal Stupa, Sule Pagoda, Yangon

Yangon's Chinatown

We hid while the sun was at its hottest and then made the short journey to the packed grid of streets that form Yangon’s Chinatown. The street market sold flowers.....

Flower stall, Chinatown, Yangon

....and fruit and vegetables in great profusion and of high quality.

Fruit stall, Chinatown Yangon, (with custard apples nearest the camera)

The side streets were packed with Chinese food stalls and we stopped for a snack. We choose some skewers of tofu and mutton which were taken away to be cooked while we drank dark ABC beer, served on draught. Modelled on Guinness but rather lighter (in weight, not colour) it was refreshingly bitter and this was the only time we drank any brew other than Myanmar Beer.

A snack and a glass of black beer, Chinatown, Yangon

I consider myself an adventurous eater, but I have a blind spot. I cannot face eating insects, so although there were stalls piled high with fried grasshoppers, I did not indulge.[Update: I have snce become reconciled with grasshoppers, at least small ones. I would still ne wary of these whacking great locusts.]

Fried grasshoppers, Chinatown, Yangon

That evening Lynne at last gave way to the symptoms she had brought with her from home and retired to bed early. I went out and bought my dinner from a barrow; meat balls and little bits and pieces of this and that. It cost me pence and the knowledge that I was eating the least prized bits of the least valued animals was offset by watching it fry in a wok-full of boiling oil, a process guaranteed (I hoped) to see off all unwanted germs. The cold chilli dipping sauce, carried back in a small plastic bag, may have been more of a risk, but it all tasted fine when washed down with a can of beer in front of the telly.

With an early morning flight next day, I too retired early.

Wednesday 14 November 2012

Yangon, a Reclining Buddha and the Shwedagon Pagoda: Myanmar/Burma Part 2

Not to Mention a Lakeside Walk, Golden Spittoons and a Local Lunch

Bogyoke Aung San (or Scott's) Market and Non-functioning Moneychangers


Myanmar
Swe arrived at 9 o’clock and we had another run at Scott’s Market in search of a money changer.

Scott’s Market is a cluster of one and two storey halls on a grid of cobbled streets. Inside there are dozens, if not hundreds, of stalls selling antiques, handicrafts, cloth, jewellery and anything else non-perishable.

Built in 1926, it was probably named after James George Scott, journalist, colonial administrator, schoolmaster and the man who introduced football to Burma. It certainly is not named after him anymore, it is officially called Bogyoke Aung San Market, but Scott’s Market is easier for foreigners to say and has the advantage of brevity whatever your native tongue.

Not quite open yet, Bogyoke Aung San (Scott's) Market, Yangon

Bogyoke (General) Aung San is generally considered the father of modern Burma. He led the independence negotiations in 1946 but was assassinated by political rivals before the final handover of power. He was also the father of Aung San Suu Kyi who was two years old when he was killed. Today Bogyoke Aung San is often referred to as The Father of the Lady, while his daughter is simply The Lady.

Food markets in Myanmar may open at the crack of dawn, but not Scott’s market. At 9.30 stall-holders were beginning to fiddle with their shutters and although both money changers were theoretically open they shook their heads and told us to come back later when they knew the rate for the day. We were not that concerned, Swe had lent us the equivalent of £25, more than the monthly income for many of Yangon’s citizens, and after one night we still had well over half of it left.

The Lunghi

Like almost all men in Myanmar, Swe wore a lunghi, a tube of material encasing the lower half of the body like a long skirt. They seem to be one-size-fits-all and the excess material - and there is plenty of it - is knotted at the waist. Inevitably the knot slips and lunghis are forever being unfolded, shaken and re-knotting. Swe suggested I might like to buy one in the market, but although I have no objection to the garment as such – a nation of men in long skirts does not look as odd as it might sound – I declined. A westerner wearing a lunghi is either taking the piss or trying too hard; the few we saw stood out like cats at Crufts and looked just as comfortable.

Kandawgyi Lake

We drove the short distance to Kandawgyi Lake. The boardwalk running round its southern edge makes a pleasant morning stroll – though lack of shade means it is best avoided later in the day.

Ambling round the lake costs locals nothing, but for foreigners there is a $2 fee, payable in US currency only. There are many places in Myanmar - lakesides, archaeological areas, even whole towns - where foreigners must stump up 5, 10 or sometimes 20 dollars just to enter. Myanmar is a poor country and I do not begrudge the money, but I also know it goes straight to the ruling generals and, despite recent liberalisations (which are real and often commented upon by locals) I am not totally convinced the money will all be used for the benefit of the people.

The boardwalk provides an excellent view of Karaweik - the Sanskrit name of Garuda, the bird ridden by Vishnu (sometimes Hinduism seeps confusingly into Buddhism). This monstrosity is actually a reinforced concrete reproduction of a royal barge. Later, we would later see a smaller version that is still used for transporting statues of Buddha round Lake Inlay (or Inle) at festival time.

Karaweik, Kandawgyi Lake, Yangon

It also provides an impressive view of the Shwedagon Pagoda, but then most corners of Yangon do that.

Kandawgyi Lake and the Shwedagon Pagoda. Yangon

Half way along there is a small temple. We had little idea then how many temples we would see in Myanmar, but this was the first, and it was not a bad place to start. We would encounter show temples, ruined temples and ancient temples, but this was a small, everyday temple for local people.

Small temple by Kandawgyi Lake, Yangon

Chaukhtatgyi Temple and Reclining Buddha

Our walk over, we drove to the rather less modest Chaukhtatgyi Temple, home of a huge reclining Buddha.

The Chaukhtatgyi Buddha was built to replace a previous version that collapsed after the 1975 earthquake, which, in its turn, had been an early 20th century replacement for an even older Buddha. At 100m long it is twice the size of the better known – and still enormous - reclining Buddha at Wat Pho in Bangkok (which we saw a couple of weeks later) but, amazingly, it is not the largest in Myanmar. Down the coast near Mawlamyine a 170m long Buddha sprawls across a couple of low hills. The larger the statue the more ‘merit’ the builder gains, and ‘merit’ is important when it comes to re-incarnation.

Chaukhtatgyi Reclining Buddha, Yangon

Partly covered in gold leaf – some of the higher parts could do with dusting – and with a diamond encrusted crown, the Buddha looks benignly down on those who come to worship and those who just come to gawp. The effect is slightly spoilt by his eyelashes, apparently inspired by Lily Savage (non-British readers might need to click this link and scroll down). On his feet are the 108 Auspicious Symbols and Signs by which the Buddha can be recognised.

Chaukhtatgyi Reclining Buddha, Yangon

We gained some merit by making a small donation, and having done that it was necessary to strike a bell, not to say what good people we were, but to share our merit with all those who heard the sound.

Lynne shares our merit, Chaukhtatgyi Pagoda, Yangon

The National Museum

Leaving the Buddha we headed for the nearby national museum. Like most national museums, it goes on a bit but fortunately the major exhibits are on the first couple of floors so I do not feel too guilty that we never made it to the fourth and fifth.

The Prize exhibit is the Lion Throne, sole survivor of the 8 thrones of the king’s palace in Mandalay. Covered, inevitably, in gold, it looks more like an elevated gateway than a throne. Photography was forbidden so I have stolen this picture from the Myanmar tourist agency.

The Lion Throne from Mandalay Palace, Myanmar National Museum, Yangon
Picture credit Goldenlandpages

On a higher floor, among the display of imperial costumes, we saw a dress resembling samurai armour redesigned for a pixie and rendered in soft fabric. They have a photograph of Thibaw, the last king of independent Burma, and his wife, wearing that very dress, kneeling on the Lion Throne. Chairs arrived late in Burma and even now many people, monks in particular, seem comfortable kneeling on hard floors. To us, kneeling is a way of showing obeisance, but to show obeisance to a kneeling king requires serious grovelling. It is much easier for the king to kneel on a raised platform.

Mandalay Palace was destroyed in 1945 when the Japanese were forcibly evicted from the city. The Lion Throne survived because it had previously been stolen by the British, though it was ‘generously’ returned at independence

There are many other artefacts from the Palace including one chair - a rickety affair constructed entirely of ivory - numerous gold betel nut boxes and more golden spittoons then I had ever imagined existed. The very concept of a spittoon is somewhat disgusting and the idea of making one out of solid gold seems slightly weird. Owning more than a dozen such spittoons can only be described as weird and extravagant.

Lunch in a Yangon Tea Shop

There's a tea shop down this road somewhere

Exotissimo Travel treated us to lunch at a city centre tea shop. We sat inside the open fronted building while on the pavement a girl was dipping vegetables in tempura batter and frying them in a large wok, while her friend cooked pancakes in clay pots.

Cooking pancakes in clay pots, Yangon

We ate a thick brown soup, flavoured with fish sauce and delicately and sweetly spiced, tempura prawns and vegetables, dried fish, spiced beans and, of course, rice. We finished with a ginger cookie from the clay pots and a couple of heavy, oily pancakes made from rice flour. We tried the strong, black tea thickened and sweetened with condensed milk - like in an Indian teahouse – but it was not much to our taste. Fortunately a bottomless thermos of Chinese tea featured on every table.

Lynne and Swe have lunch, Yangon

Changing Money, at Last

From the humble teahouse we went on to a five star hotel where we were at last able to acquire some local money and repay our loan from Swe.

The Shwedagon Pagoda

After resting during the hottest part of the day we headed for the Swedagon Pagoda at 4.30. As in Vietnam the word ‘pagoda’ means a temple complex, not a tower.

The hundred metre high stupa sits on a low hill. It is reputedly 2500 years old and enshrines a hair of the Buddha. Archaeology suggests the first stupa was actually built here by the Mon people – who now live in southern Myanmar – between the 6th and 10th century AD. In such an earthquake prone region it has inevitably been rebuilt several times and the earliest parts of the present structure date from 1769.

The great golden stupa is visible from almost everywhere in Yangon, including our hotel room, so I was not sure what else there was to see. It can be approached from each point of the compass by covered walkways which climb the hill in a series of gentle staircases. We took the fifth route; we drove to the base of the hill and used the lift.

Stepping out onto the marble flagged promenade that surrounds the central stupa both of us halted, blinked and looked again. The stupa is encircled by a ring of smaller gold spires interspersed with statues of the Buddha and of spirits and animals real and mythical. The promenade’s outer edge is flanked by chapels, meeting rooms and halls housing huge bronze bells all set among yet more towering golden spires. Gold can look garish and ostentatious (particularly if made into spittoons) but we found ourselves staring at a scene of great delicacy, sublime harmony and outstanding beauty.

The Shwedagon Pagoda, Yangon

We had not walked far before we realised that despite the large numbers of people - monks, tourists and local citizens going about their devotions - there was also an atmosphere of intense calm, even serenity. Lynne uses words like ‘spirituality’ which I find problematic so I will merely say we felt like we were in an enchanted place. Whether people have come to pray......

Praying at the Shwedagon Pagoda, Yagon

..... to meditate,

Meditating monk, Shwedagon Pagoda, Yangon

.... or merely to walk round, all seemed to feel the power of this special place.

Walking round the Shwedagon Pagoda, Yangon

The days of the week are each represented by an animal, and their statues can be found at 45º intervals around the stupa (that makes eight statues - Buddha achieved enlightenment on a Wednesday so it has two animals, one for the morning, one for the afternoon). To make merit and to concentrate the mind it is wise to honour the statue representing the day of your birth. Water is poured three times over the Buddha, three times over his supporter behind and three times over the dragon – I was born on a Saturday - ……

Tending to my dragon, Shwedagon Pagoda, Yangon

….. or the tuskless elephant – Lynne was a Wednesday afternoon baby.

Lynne with her tuskless elephant, Shwedagon Pagoda, Yangon

Before we had completed our circuit night began to fall. As the light faded the gold glowed almost crimson and then, as the floodlights were turned up, it becomes a rich orange and magic seemed to float in the warm night air. There is no twilight in tropical latitudes and in fifteen minutes the sky had turned from cerulean blue to inky blackness. A large diamond is set in the stupa’s crown, and if you stand in just the right place, the floodlighting makes it twinkle like a star. By small changes of position you can make it sparkle red or green or any other colour of the rainbow.

The light starts to fade

A group of devotees filling one of the assembly halls started chanting. We stayed to listen as others started to drift away. When they had finished, we too went, slowly descending one of the walkways into the embrace of the secular world outside, still a little dazed and awestruck by the whole experience.

And 15 minutes later it is dark, Shwedagon Pagoda, Yangon

The Shwedagon Pagoda may be the major pilgrimage site in Myanmar but it is not well known in the rest of the world. For me, dusk at the Shwedagon Pagoda must be counted as one of the world’s greatest sights, just ahead of the Grand Canyon and the Great Wall of China and a little behind the Pyramids. I need to slot 'dawn at the Taj Mahal' into that list somewhere. Insha’Allah, as the Moghul Emperor would have said, we will see that in February 2013 [update: We did indeed and it was magnificent. Here is the link.]


Myanmar, Land of Gold

Tuesday 13 November 2012

Arriving in Yangon (or is that Rangoon?), the former capital of Burma (or should that be Myanmar?): Myanmar/Burma Part 1

Burma/Myanmar: Some Choices and Impressions

Burma v Myanmar

If I am going to write about it, I need to decide what to call it.

In 1989 the military government changed the name of the country hitherto known as Burma to Myanmar. The United Nations recognised the change, but ‘Burma’ is still used by the British, American and Canadian governments, among others. When Aung San Suu Kyi (whose name will turn up time and again in these posts) visited England recently she also used ‘Burma’ explaining the name had been changed without consulting the people. There is, then, a strong case for ‘Burma’, but I am going to use ‘Myanmar’. Firstly because the Bamar (hence 'Burma') may be the largest ethnic group, but they make up only 70% of the population so ‘Union of Myanmar’ seems more inclusive, and secondly because everybody we spoke to in the country called it ‘Myanmar’. They spoke freely enough on other issues, so I can only presume it was their preference. I will, however, use 'Burma' when talking about the country in a historical context and similarly ‘Burmese’, which can also refer to people, food etc of specifically Bamar ethnicity.

The new flag of Myanmar, adopted 2010

Rangoon v Yangon

The Rangoon/Yangon decision is easier. The city was founded as ‘Dagon’ in the 11th century. It became ‘Yangon’ in 1755, Dagon remaining the name of a central district. Rangoon was a British mishearing of Yangon, and has about as much validity as ‘Wipers’, as British troops called the Belgian town of Ypres in the First World War. For aesthetic reasons I would love to call it Rangoon - it is a wonderful name and it carries a rich whiff of colonial history – but although the airport code is still RGN, the truth is that ‘Rangoon’ is just plain wrong.

The pre-2010 flag of Myanmar

First Impressions and Driving Style

Our first sight of Yangon, like that of several other cities, was with jet-lagged eyes through the window of a car.

First Impression? Yangon is the least urban of cities, there are few high-rise buildings and parkland, even countryside, seems to break out in the most unlikely places. The driving is calm by East Asian standards. The horn is used sparingly, drivers do not crowd forward into any available space and cars in side roads wait for a gap in the traffic rather than pushing out; indeed drivers on the main road will often leave a space and wave them out. Myanmar changed to driving on the right in 1970 on the advice of an astrologer. Most vehicles, though, are imported second hand from Japan, Thailand or Malaysia, all of which drive on the left so 90% of vehicles are right hand drive. This seems to cause fewer problems than you might imagine.

Aung San Suu Kyi

On the northern edge of central Yangon we passed Inya Lake. Our guide Swe pointed across the water to a red roofed house on the far side. ‘That’s Aung San Suu Kyi’s house,’ he told us. We had been warned not to discuss politics but soon discovered everyone we met whether guides, drivers, trishaw peddlers, horse cart charioteers or waiters all wanted to talk politics, or at least talk about one person. The huge weight of expectation placed on President Obama when he was elected in 2008 inevitably led to some disappointment. It was nothing compared to the expectation that will be heaped on Aung San Suu Kyi should she ever become president of Myanmar. [Update: She became 'State Counsellor', roughly Prime Minister, in 2016. Her handling of the Rohingya problem has been a major disappointment to most foreign observers.]

Aung San Suu Kyi, (Picture borrowed from Wikipedia)

We passed the immense gold bulk of the Shwedagon Pagoda – of which much more later – and drove on to our hotel in the Dagon township area. Here our bleary eyed condition persuaded the receptionist that we should be allowed an early check-in.

Cash Problems

After a quick freshen-up we set off with Swe for the nearby Scott’s market to change some money, but the market was closed, or at least the footbridge over the railway was closed which amounted to the same thing from our point of view. Swe lent us 30,000 Kyats (about £25) and left us alone to deal with our jetlag.

There are a few (very few) ATMs in Myanmar, but they are not linked into the international system and do not recognise Visa or Mastercard. Before leaving home we had guessed how much we would spend and taken what we hoped would be enough cash in US dollars, going to some trouble to acquire new, unmarked bills. In such a poor country people can be surprisingly picky about which dollar bills they choose to accept. There are not many money changers either, so our failure had been half expected. Swe was well used to subbing his clients for their first day or two.

Dragon Fruit

Our recently reset watches told us that lunchtime was approaching and although our bodies remained unconvinced we wanted to show willing, so with our newly acquired wealth we bought a dragon fruit from a street trader.

Dragon Fruit

We have often eaten dragon fruit in the Far East, though it is, I learn, a native of south and central America. Later, driving to Mandalay we saw dragon fruit plantations, the cactus trained on a trellis like a vine. Dragon fruit look exciting, even sitting on our cheap plastic plate, and look even better cut open. The sad truth is the flesh of the dragon fruit is slightly sweet, pleasant enough but really rather dull.[Update:This Dragon fruit looks a little tired. We had the privilege of eating a very fresh dragon fruit in the Mekong delta in 2014 It was a revelation.]

Dragon Fruit cut open and ready to eat

Dull, however, was appropriate to our state and we retired to our air-conditioned room with its view of the Shwedagon Pagoda, ate our dragon fruit and had a much needed nap.

An Expedition up Shwedagon Pagoda Road in Search of Beer.

A couple of hours later we woke up and decided to take a walk. We were soon in Shwedagon Pagoda Road heading directly for the huge golden stupa. The air was hot and damp with a slight smell of decay. Occasionally the breeze would waft the scent of an aromatic shrub over us. Traffic fumes were relatively rare for such a large city.

It was a long, largely straight road, the size of the pagoda had made it look nearer than it was. The road was quiet and the buildings were mainly colonial, some of them somewhat dilapidated. We passed a language school, a church, a Buddhist temple, a monastery and a building flying the national flag with a bored looking armed soldier on guard in the entrance.

Small Temple, Shwedagon Pagoda Road

Around the pagoda the road was busier. There was a small park opposite with a café on the corner of the main road. It was a hot afternoon and we both heard the call of beer.

Myanmar Beer, overwhelmingly the best-selling brand, is bland, fizzy and unlikely to win many prizes, but it was cold and wet which was all we required. At around £2.50 for a 0.75 litre bottle, it was cheap by British standards, but expensive enough to be out of the reach of the average Yangon citizen, though draft beer is much cheaper where it is available. We were drinking beer, we realised, at 9 o’clock in the morning British time, clearly we were becoming attuned to local time.

Responding to the call of the beer, Myanmar Beer opposite the Shwedagon Pagoda

Shan Noodles

The long walk home was followed by another nap. We ate dinner in a Shan noodle shop a 100m from our hotel recommended by Swe, himself a Shan. The Shan homeland is in the mountains of Eastern Myanmar but Shan restaurants are widespread, their noodle dishes being similar to those found over the border in China’s Yunnan province. Shan food is generally eaten with chopsticks, while a spoon and fork are the usual implements for Burmese food.

Despite its size – it has some 4 million inhabitants - Yangon is hardly a centre of metropolitan sophistication and sizzling nightlife. Everything closes up around 9 pm, but by then we were already back in our hotel room, taking one last look at the now floodlit pagoda before turning in for an early night.

The floodlit Shwedagon Pagoda