Here we are in Bagan, Myanmar, were it is hot and sunny and wonderful... and then the fabric of the false-time narrative tears. The reality, unsupported by the shredded net of travel memory, is that I am not basking in heat and sun. I am in the cold and grey of Vienna, and a virus is running amok in my head and lungs. When I came to this morning, my lungs sounded like a couple of junk-store cheese graters being used in the back chorus of a Tom Wait's song. So... fair warning; things may become a bit disoriented.
Let's give it another go: Here we are in Bagan, packed and ready, yet there is no sign of the bus, minivan, or any other form of conveyance. We did out part. We went to the bus guy, forked over the kyat for two tickets aboard the VIP bus, and were assured of a pickup at our hotel. Our friendly desk guy calls the bus company. Nope, they have no Farrang to pick up at the Gold Star. And so Nyaung U ends at it began, in confusion and uncertainty. I trot down the hill to the bus guy's kiosk while My One guards the bags. Trotting in the tropics produces some sweating (good sweating, not the fever sweats I have right now). Then come the phone calls. Yes Sir, all is well, the bus company is running behind, they will meet you at the guesthouse. So... more trotting, this time uphill, knowing that there will be a pickup waiting when I arrive and, sure enough, there it is.
Of all the phrases bandied about on Southeast Asian travel posters, the term 'VIP Bus' is the most fantastically chimerical. Somewhere, in some alternate universe, they must exist; giant, air-conditioned behemoths gliding down smooth highways, whilst sarong-clad beauties serve delicious treats from bamboo trays. People keep buying tickets for VIP buses, so there must be hope, however misplaced and groundless I believe it to be.
I was under no such delusion, therefore I was not disappointed. We rolled into the shabby bus park and boarded the typical Chinese half-bus. Our assigned seats were the worst of the lot: back row, behind the rear axle. This is the seating zone where the basic laws of physics multiply every road dip and bump to the magnitude of amusement park rides you never liked in the first place.
But who cares? We are on the road to Mandalay. How romantic is that? Those were the very words of Rudyard Kipling; the title of his poem. It is also the title of a few films, a few songs, and probably two hundred blog posts. Oops, there is the fever again... focus... focus... where are my drugs?
The bus ride was five hours along the East bank of the Ayeyarwady River valley, heading north along the hot bottom lands. Not far out of Nyaung U was the site of a major attack and river crossing during the 1944 campaign to retake Burma from the Japanese. The British kept the attention of the Japanese focused on diversions directly across the Ayeyarwady at Mandalay. Meanwhile, the Brits snuck an entire army down from the Northwest and crossed the huge river at Nyaung U. That crossing opened the route to the battle of Meiktila, and the eventual encirclement and capture of Mandalay.
Less than an hour out of Nyaung U, we crossed a lowland area along a tributary river. The shoulder of the road was lined with people begging at the line of buses and trucks that lumbered by. Clouds of dust rolled over the poor families with their arms held out, imploring. As best as I could ascertain, these desperate folks were Rohingya people, displaced from the nearby state of Rakihine.
To quote from a UN independent investigator:
Yanghee Lee said in a
report to the General Assembly circulated Friday that living conditions
for the remaining Rohingya in northern Rakihine State “remain
dreadful.”
The
Rohingya can’t leave their villages and earn a living, she said, making
them dependent on humanitarian aid whose access “has been so heavily
diminished that their basic means for survival has been affected.”
Sources: UN Report, AP News, October 4, 2019
Mandalay, so exotic as to be the title of a Kipling poem and the name of a Las Vegas casino. Unlike the casino, there is no 'Bay' in the real Mandalay. The wide-flung city sits alongside the banks of the muddy Ayeyarwady River. There are lots of sandbars, and a big, marshy lake, but no bays.
This is the part of the story where I cut exotic notions to shreds. Mandalay is not an exotic, mysterious city. On first inspection, Mandalay may be the most boring Southeast Asian city that I have ever visited. But, as Treebeard says, 'Let's not be hasty..."
Okay, yes, the first thing one notices is the giant, orderly grid. Imagine you could magically appear in Bangkok, Phnom Penh, or Saigon; then take three steps in any direction. Guess where you would be? Lost, that's where. Most SW Asian cities are a labyrinthine maze of tangled lanes bisected by huge, noisy boulevards. They are wonderfully impossible to navigate.
Mandalay, on the other hand, is more like a very hot version of Manhattan. The north-south streets are numbered 1st Street to 49th, and the east-west streets are 50th to 90th. There are no avenues, so you will just have to take it in stride. The other thing that is remarkable about the Mandalay streets is that they are very wide, very straight, and easily walkable. This ain't Yangon, bubba.
The explanation for all of this is very simple, and very tragic. During World War II, Mandalay was flattened by aerial bombing, and not just once. The Japanese army was forcing the British to retreat from the length of Burma. The most horrific onslaught on Mandalay came in April of 1942. Japanese planes bombed the city with incendiary bombs, killing thousands of people and burning down tow-thirds of the buildings in the city. As an oft-cited quote states: "A city that had taken a thousand years to build was destroyed in an hour." It was the worst attack, but far from the only one. The British bombed the city as they pushed south in 1944.
The war ended in 1945, the British recaptured Mandalay, and the rebuilding process was begun. The rubble was cleared away, the charred teak skeletons carted off, and a modern city grid was laid out. British colonial control would last only three years after the end of World War II, but the colonists left their stamp on modern Mandalay.
Any Walkabout in Mandalay is likely to be a long trek. The city blocks are really big, so a perceived jaunt of ten blocks is a substantial walk. So it was that I led My One on a walkabout too far. Mandalay has few Farrang, and those few are mostly contained in the small tourist zone north of the old palace grounds. If you want to experience being 'The Other,' take a hike in Mandalay.
There were pagodas, of course. This is Myanmar, after all. But the architectural style was completely different to anything we had seen thus far. We walked until we did not find the silly place I was looking for. It was no more than an excuse, a phony destination to justify a walkabout. My One reminded me that it was long we had walked, long since we had eaten, and time to rectify both.
The gloaming of the day finds us deep on the streets of Mandalay, with the Buddha watching over us, and the Naga watching over the Buddha.
What Mandalay may lack in twisty lanes and confusing streets, it makes up for in a solid and varied food scene. We stumbled onto a Burmese-Chinese joint, over ordered, and settled into a feast starting with dumplings. Who doesn't love dumplings? Forget the fact that about four more platters of food followed the phalanx of tasty dumplings. Yes, I admit it, I overdid it just a bit.
No matter the town, My One and I will invariably walk to or through the local night market, without any foreknowledge of where it might be. It's true: Drop us blind-folded into the dark streets of, say, Ubon Ratchathani, and one of us will lead the other directly to the food stalls of the closest night market. So it was this sultry Mandalay night.
Tired, fed, walked-out, it was time for smokes and drinks on the rooftop bar. There were insects of course, and geckos skittering after them. A huge moth landed above our table and would move no further. I believe he was as tired as I was.
In any good traveler tale, the fever sufferer would be laid out in a hammock under a banyan tree. "Quinine, quinine..." a rasping whisper, an outstretched and trembling hand. The truth is, I was as healthy as a horse in Mandalay. I had to come home to Vienna to get really sick. Hooray for Northern Europe and easily-acquired viruses. Hopefully the false-time narrative will be restored, allowing me to acquaint you with the real Mandalay, a city that is not easy to love at first sight. But that will have to be the work of tomorrow's post. I think I've done enough damage for one day.
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