The sun beats down on the wide-flung grid of streets. We are bound for Mandalay Hill, the geographic feature from which the city took its name. It is a long walk, so we are aboard a Tuk-tuk, whizzing past the endless moats that surround the Mya Nan San Kyaw, the last palace. This was the seat of the Burmese king from 1859 until Burma fell to the British colonizers in 1887. Times got a lot harder for the palace after that, of which more later.
But we are not here for the palace. A pox on palaces! We are on our way to climb Mandalay Hill, to make merit, to grab the Oh-So-Important Mandalay sunset photo. Therein lies the two reasons to walk up the hill.
Most local folk who climb the hill do so to make merit. One climbs barefoot to the top of this 240 meter hill, stopping along the way to pay respect to the many Buddha statues along the stairs. Walking barefoot up a great many unevenly spaced stairs whilst dodging the occasional offering left by the temple dogs does require a certain heightened awareness. Think of making merit as acquiring karma through good acts, not unlike counting out Hail Marys on a rosary.
Tourists flock to the top of the hill for the panoramic view. At the very tippy-top of the hill are the wide terraces that surround the Sutaungpyei Pagoda. Mandalay is spread out far and wide below the hilltop, and the summit has become THE spot for a sunset photo. In my ignorance, I thought the steep climb would keep the number of tourists to a minimum; ignorance being the operative word.
So, where were we? Sorry, we were whizzing along the sun-baked streets of Mandalay in our trusty Tuk-tuk. A long, hot block from our hotel is an odd tower, a gangling bolted-up metal thing that juts above the shop-houses. Of course I had to inquire. It turns out that the structure is a fire watch for the main fire department. During the time we spent in Mandalay, I walked by the fire station many times. The men at the station took to laughing and waving. I suppose they thought some poor village in the USA was missing an idiot.
Before we could whizz by the palace, we had to whizz past the market. There is always a market. To answer the oft-asked question: Yes, the meaty bits sit out in the heat. And yes, the locals eat the meaty bits that have been sitting out in the heat, as do we when we go to the BBQ joint. And, yes again, most everyone seems to survive. My only advice is this: At a certain point it is best not to know.
There are a great many places in the world that are not so obsessed with refrigeration. Take eggs, for example. Tall stacks of eggs are a common sight in any Southeast Asia market; great honking stacks devoid of any mechanical cooling. Shocked Western visitors stop to photograph the deadly food peril. And yet I remember open trays of eggs sitting atop the counter of my local store. My Grandmothers would devil the eggs by the dozen, making huge trays of the things. Rafts of deviled-eggs would sit outside for hours amongst the jello-molds and pigs-in-blanket; all of it washed in the mid-summer Kansas City heat.
Somehow we kids all survived, including myself, and now I am whizzing across Mandalay in a Tuk-tuk...
We finally arrived at the foot of the Mandalay Hill, paid the Tuk-tuk driver, and dodged the local shills who offered to guide us up the hill. The process is simple: remove your shoes and socks and start climbing. The main route to the top of the hill is the southern stairway. The stairways are covered to protect pilgrims from the sun. While the stairways are indeed shaded, they are also hot as hell. Any merit acquired during the climb will be well-earned.
We climbed, we dodged doggie landmines, and we climbed some more. There were local folks going up, local folk coming down, and a lot of monks sitting here and there. There were a very few Farrang sweating their way up the long stairways. In fact, there were only a very few Farrang in Mandalay, or at least that was my impression. They certainly were not out walking around the streets. But they must be here somewhere?
There are small monasteries, satellite temples, and large pagodas scattered all over the hillside. The stairway runs back and forth between them, and always there is another incarnation of the Buddha. This particular Buddha was urging us on, pointing the way to the top of the hill.
The steep stairway climbs to a plaza, an open temple area, another small pagoda. The legs say "This is it!" The brain knows that it is a lie. And then there is the sign, put there for the benefit of the Farrang: You ain't there yet, Bubba. There is a lot more merit to make before you see the summit.
And... the joke got stale about two signs below. But wait, the punch line is still to come.
Then we are at the top, unmistakably the top; the summit, the end of the stairs. I know this to be a fact because I can now see the elevator, and the punch line to the joke.
"Well, gee, Bob, where are all the tourists at? I don't see hardly none of them on these purty stairs!"
"You're a fool, Edgar, as Mama always said. Them tourists ride a Tuk-tuk to the top, right up that twisty road yonder. Then they pays a bit and rides up the rest of the way in that there elevator, the one that's made to look like a pagoda."
Bob and Edgar are both less fools than I. There was a mere half-hour left in the day, give or take. The door of the elevator opened, disgorged another load of tourists, then hurried back down for more. The terraces surrounding the Sutaungpyei Pagoda were teeming with tourists, both local and foreign. A gentle jostling had already started along the railings as folks positioned themselves for the sunset selfie.
More folks were arriving by the minute. The Sunset Race was on. Pretty quick, they would be packed in tighter than green Mara on the march.
The name Sutaungpyei translates to "Wish-fulfilling," more or less. I was wishing for a little elbow room and far fewer people. We fled down a small stairway and found a nearly abandoned terrace perched below the mob scene. This little ledge offered the twin benefits of relative peace and an absence of no smoking signs. The view was not greatly lessened by the loss of three meters in elevation.
I savored the merit I had acquired on the long, sweaty climb. I discovered that my savored merit paired nicely with a local cheroot.
The sun did set over the town, and over the mighty Ayeyarwady to the West. We good pilgrims gave out with the usual sunset exclamations: "Oooooooo... Aaaaaaaaahhh." All was well in the world, and peace reigned over the land. It was time to head down the stairs.
The ghostly glow of fluorescent lights cast weird shadows down the stairways. The shadows made it more difficult to see the dog poop. Take your awareness with you, Pilgrim! The descent of the stairs was lonely and delightfully spooky. As few people walked down as had climbed up. We finally reached the end of the many stairways without anything squishy between our toes. A few Tuk-tuk guys swarmed us as we donned out shoes, but they were disappointed. We set out on foot into the glow of the evening.
The walls of the former royal palace are two kilometers on a side, and the entire thing is encircled by a wide moat. Broad sidewalks run along the outside of the moat, a rarity in SE Asian cities. By day, these sidewalks are a baking inferno, but at night they become the city's promenade. Folks in athletic gear do their fitness walking in the relative cool. Young couples canoodle in the dark shadows of banyan trees. Traffic sputters by on the four boulevards that complete the huge square.
The palace looks better by night than by day, and better from the outside any time of day. The walled compound once held the last teak palace of the king, but that was bombed and burned during World War II. During the Battle for Myanmar, this walled fort was a bastion for the Japanese forces, with the British besieging them. The Brits blasted and bombed the huge walls, trying to force a breach, but with little success. Finally, the British decided to invade the fort through the sewers. They did so, only to find that the Japanese had escaped using the very same sewer tunnels.
We navigated the darkened grid of streets until we accidentally came across the BBQ joint I had been trying to find the night before. Full of acquired merit, and knowing that everything tastes better when served on a skewer, it was high time to acquire some dinner.
Plates of food appeared, and kept appearing, until our table was a litter of charred skewers and crumpled napkins. When we could finally eat no more, we sat and watched the evening unfold.
The BBQ joint was also a happening little bar, and there was a promotion of a sort going on. A nearby table was festooned with a plaid table cloth and many bottles of the local version of Scots whisky. A pretty young woman was presiding over the display, clad in a plaid longhi and a matching plaid tam o' shanter. It was an epic collision of cultures. A fifth of this fine whisky was going for about eight bucks the bottle, and that is how the Myanmar men drink it. The bottle is plopped on the table along with the requisite number of glasses. The whisky is accompanied by tepid cola or water, and the gentlemen get down to it.
The festivities were still going strong when we rose to take our leave. Our small army of cheerful servers wished us well into the night. With our bellies full, and whatever merit we had left, we made our way home. Mandalay may lack the immediate picture post card appeal of other Asian cities, but given time, this city can work its way into a traveler's heart. So it had been today.
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