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| Sule Pagoda Circle, Yangon's Center Point |
The neighbors across our street are already in full swing. The tri-shaw repair shop is open. Banging hammers and snarling grinders are the soundtrack for the impossibly overloaded tri-shaws pedaling past. They are called "saiq-Ka," a transliteration of side-car; old Mao bikes with a flimsy two-seat sidecar welded to the questionable bike frame. I saw one of these contraptions loaded down with 200 kilos of rice, the pilot standing on the pedals to force the thing down the baking roadway. Anything can be transported by tri-shaw: thirty-foot bamboo poles, steel pipe, families; anything.
In front of the tri-shaw shop, life is going on. Hair is tended to, babies are washed, games are played. City buses lumber by only a few meters away and no one dies. I am mesmerized by the scene, but the city is calling and it is time to go walkabout.
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| Yangon versus Nature |
Yes, what can I tell you of Yangon? `It is not Bangkok, nor is it Colombo. Yangon feels like a synthesis of SE Asia and the subcontinent, yet separate from both. It is a city under siege, not from armies of the past, but rather from time and the elements. Water and humidity eat into concrete, into brick. Concrete sprouts bands of black mold. Cornices crack under assault from the probing roots of clinging vines. The water seeps in, slowly, cracking façades, nibbling away stucco. Tiny ants attack any wood that is not teak. The wood is bored, eaten, digested; miniature pyramids of fine dust are left behind. Trees grow inside buildings with no roofs. The tree roots topple walls. There is a dream-like surrealism at work here, a feeling of being inside a Gabriel García Márquez novel.
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| Colonial Spiral... |
When this city was known as Rangoon, it was the main port for the British colony of Burma, part of the larger Raj of India. Burma was considered a hardship post, the furthest-flung corner of the Raj. The legacy of the colonial era can be seen throughout the center of the city. Colonial buildings, many of them in danger of tumbling down, are cheek-by-jowl with more modern concrete shophouses. The British laid out the main avenues east-to-west along the confluence of the Thwante and Pegu rivers. The goods extracted by the colonialists were shipped down the river to the Andaman Sea. Yangon fell to the Japanese in WW2 and was not recaptured until late in the war. The British tried to reinstate their colonial control, but Burma became an independent country as the British Raj fell apart.
We walk and we sweat, exploring the narrow north-south streets that form the grid between the few larger boulevards. Along the riverfront, warehouses block the view. Colonial edifices line the Strand: the Strand Hotel, the Post Office, the Police Courts. A night at the Strand Hotel will set you back about 400 Euro, in case you were feeling posh. Our modest guesthouse is about $30 per night, just for reference.
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| Myanmar Curry |
After a first round of walkabout, it is time for a shady street and food. The centerpieces of Myanmar cuisine are rice and curry. The curry here is not as fiery as Thai curries, nor as creamy as Indian curries. The Myanmar curries are cooked "until the oil comes," a separation of the oil used to make the curry paste. The curry and rice are accompanied by soup, a platter of fresh vege and greens, and an ever-changing variety of condiments served as small side dishes. A full meal of curry with all the fixings will set a hungry traveler back about 3000 Kyat, or a bit less than two dollars.
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| Turtles, Sky, Clouds |
There is shade in the colonial park, near the bustling traffic circle that girds the Sule Pagoda. People sprawl in whatever shade there is. There are birds, turtles, and the occasional rat wandering along. Yangon rats do not run. I believe that they know that the majority of folks here are Buddhists. The Indian folks are mostly Hindu. I guess the rats figure their odds are pretty good; there is no need to scurry.
The ubiquitous chai, the milk tea of India, is a staple at the many tea-shops. The sweet, thick tea is served alongside all of the oolong tea one can drink. Hot afternoons are spent in the open-air tea shops, squatting on rickety plastic stools, smoking and talking. Coffee drinkers are at a disadvantage here. Aside from a few trendy coffee houses, most of what is on offer is vile instant.
Men crowd around the low tables, watching the afternoon go by. They pull up their longhi, or longyi, wrapping it around their knees. A longhi is a type of sarong, an ankle length tube of cotton that is gathered and tucked at the wearer's waist. The majority of men wear the longhi. This makes for an interesting societal observation: Myanmar is a society without pockets. Thus, cellphones, wallets, etc, are tucked into the upper fold of the longhi, exposed and in plain view to all. This city would be a pickpockets paradise except there do not seem to be any pickpockets. It may be one of the safest cities in the world, at least from petty theft.
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| Bogyoke Aung San Market |
We thread our way through the city, past the colonial center and into the teeming Indian and Islamic quarter. The narrow streets are packed with three- and four-storey shop-houses, their goods spilling out onto the sidewalk. Sidewalks are not for walking; they are an extension of whatever business they front, be it a shop of a café. One walks in the street, making room for tiny delivery vans, tri-shaws, and scooters.
Our furthest stop of the day was the teeming warren of the Bogyoke Aung San market. Every Asian city worth its salt has at least one huge covered market. In Yangon, this is it. Flip-flops by the bale, cheap jewelry in gleaming displays, side aisles so narrow you have to turn sideways to allow a fellow shopper to pass. It is shaded from the sun, yet the heat is amplified by the metal roof high overhead. It is a bit like shopping in a giant toaster oven.
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| Train tracks pressed by city and jungle... |
Done in from our first Yangon walkabout, we turn our steps back to the guesthouse. Not far from our digs, we have to cross what looks like an abandoned train line. As I was to learn late in the night, these tracks are not abandoned, despite all the evidence to the contrary. The tracks lead to a locomotive yard on the far side of our street. I was awakened from a dream by the moaning horn of a locomotive picking its slow route along these very tracks. I cannot explain the how of it, only that it happened.
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| Halal Chinese, a new delight... |
After a long rest, we ventured out for our evening meal. Both of the places I had researched were closed, but we were rewarded for rolling with adversity. We found a small joint on a narrow side street, a Halal Chinese place. I did not know that such a combination existed, yet here we were. The food was so good we went a little crazy, spending the princely sum of ten dollars for dinner for two. Everything was exquisite, from the prawn salad to the fish stew.
Back at the guesthouse, it was time to enjoy the gloaming of the day. We sat in the street-side outdoor bar, watching the local folks party it up. The drinks were tepid, the night was sultry, and my cigar was well-earned. Our first full day in Yangon had been a great introduction to Myanmar.
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