A Semi-Rural Township on Yangon's Doorstep
Over the River
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| Myanmar |
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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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......
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| Betel leaves, Dala Township, Yangon |
....the herbs and vegetables.....
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| Herbs and vegetables, Dala Township, Yangon |
......the dried fish.....
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| Dried fish, chilli, Dala Township, Yangon |
.......or the thanakha logs.
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| 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
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| 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.
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| 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….”
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| 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...
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| 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.
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| Rural dwellings, Dala Township, Yangon |
We passed St Michael’s church(6% of the population self-identify as Christians) …..
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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, …
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.....
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| Flower stall, Chinatown, Yangon |
....and fruit and vegetables in great profusion and of high quality.
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| 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.
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| 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.]
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| 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.
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