World of Wonders - Memories of Myanmar

Well we have been home nearly two weeks now – and as they say, “there’s no place like home.” This part of the world is vibrant and beautiful – a hidden paradise – but we always knew that! The community web is as strong as ever, and we have slipped right back in. We were surprised by the friendliness and helpfulness of everyone in Perth and love the efficiency! But after all, this is our culture!

Felix has arrived for his three-month stay in Australia and so now he is learning all about life in a country so very different than his.

To answer the question, “How was your trip?” It was great – but life changing in many ways. We have seen so much poverty and it seems that everyone in Australia is rich, whether they know it or not. The luxurious lifestyle we have (hot showers, three delicious meals a day, and a car) seems almost overboard… but all too soon it will become the norm and Myanmar will become a faded memory. So here it is, the last travelogue of the series – so I made it the longest yet!

Farewell to India
A spate of "pushing in" and general lack of consideration by the Indian passengers at Calcutta’s International Airport ignited a conversation with an upper class man, working for a well known international company. We expressed to him that our time had been shortened in India by our inability to cope with various aspects of Indian society.

Our fellow passenger expressed shocked surprise at our sentiments, and proceeded, "But madam, I am telling you that Indian people are friendly and so very helpful." He continues talking without listening, brushing our thoughts off dismissively, "of course, women are helpless so we give them special seats on the bus." Our furious expressions lead him to defend himself: "I don't mean that women are helpless, not at all, but as the weaker sex they need special assistance." His eyes light up, having hit upon the solution to our problem, "Next time you come to India, you should take an escort. That's it, you should take a man."

Landing at Yangon (Rangoon) airport in Myanmar, women manned the immigration, customs, and duty free shops. Only when we saw women working in public, did we realise how completely absent women were from our daily life in India. You never saw any women working in shops, hotels or doing anything… except hard manual labour. And then we realised that we had, in two months, never had a “real” conversation with an Indian woman.

Welcome to Myanmar
So we had arrived in Myanmar, which until 15 years ago was known as Burma. It’s always been Myanmar in the Bamar language, but the military dictatorship wanted to make a point about western influence and so changed the name from Burma to Myanmar!

Having heard so much about Myanmar’s authoritarian oppressive regime, with deeply ingrained human rights abuses one is, understandably, a little cautious upon arrival. Especially as Myanmar is among the poorest nations on earth, we wondered, “What will this place look like?”

Yangon, luxurious and leafy, with ordered traffic (right hand drive driving down right hand side of the road because an astrologer said the country should move to the right!) seemed devoid of rubbish and more importantly, silent. It took us two days to realise that compared to the headache causing cacophony of India, not one driver used his horn.

There are two things you immediately notice about Myanmar. One is that the men wear skirts –the longyi – a national dress not unlike the Thai sarong. Unbelievably about 75% of men wear this wrap around cloth. At first it looks kind of weird, but then as time goes on we get used to it, begin to admire the different cloths and finally appreciate a well tied longyi! After India, where so many young men wore spray on skin-tight pants its delightful that young men in Myanmar chose to wear their national dress.

The second thing you notice is that many people have some kind of pale yellow dirt or paint rubbed on their faces. Our first reaction was, “they’ve got shit on their face.” It then becomes evident that nearly all women and most children (girls and boys) go about with this substance painted on their faces. Sometimes it’s in a thick paste like a mud mask, other times in pretty flowers or shapes. Thanakah, is a wood extract, and is considered the number one beauty secret in Burma, and used as a sunscreen, skin lightener and toner. No one would consider leaving their house without it on! A young man in a village showed me his wedding photos, and I double take at a beautiful picture of the bride… “thanakah?” Yes, even on your wedding day!

Myanmar is known as the Golden Land – the reason becomes apparent quickly for the incredible number of painted pagodas and stupas that dot the countryside, emerging golden and richly incongruous from people’s backyards. A couple hours out of the capital we cram onto the back of a truck – us, a Frenchman and about 40 Burmese - to visit a huge rock that miraculously balances on a cliff face. The faithful paste the rock with gold leaf but Kyaitiyo, (the rock) continues to balance uncertainly because of a hair of the Buddha inside!

Inle Lake
The first we knew our overnight bus to Inle Lake was somewhat delayed was when the driver cut the engine at around 4 am. The humidity increased, men lit up - the air so thick you could hardly breathe. Like Indian and Chinese men, the Burmese have considerable skill in hoicking, a unique ability to gather all their phlegm in their throat. Irritating as a snowstorm on the TV (ie no signal), it sounds like starting a lawn mower, increasing in crescendo until the fat, juicy spit, lands with a dull thud.

Dawn revealed other buses and trucks, like us, immobile because single, enormous rock had fallen smack bang in the middle of the road. Clearing began with men chipping away at the monolith, wielding metal implements not really resembling picks. Enough rock was removed that a few cars were able to sneak through. Buoyed by their success a truck gave it a go. As if in slow motion replay, it rolled 50 metres down the cliff to be caught unceremoniously by the thick green jungle. We don’t know what happened to the driver but the jungle was littered with wooden crates and other cargo.

Several hours later a dilapidated compressor and a few charges of dynamite replaced the rock chippers. Much to the disappointment of the gathered crowd, now numbering around 500, the dynamite sprayed a few rocks around. Finally, an excavator was brought in and did the job. After an eight-hour wait, which probably had around 1000 people trapped on the road – we headed off to the village of Nyaungswhe, near Inle Lake, a 30-hour bus ride in all.

While we were, ostensibly, on holiday – there is not much relaxing about it - you need your wits about you at all times. Arriving in places is no relief, bargaining with taxi drivers, deciphering a barrage of information from touts, and then getting the best value room for your budget. Some people say, “Why bother?” with all the negotiations – they only ever amount to a few dollars here and there. But then, you get to the point where you know you are always being outrageously ripped off and want to stand your ground.

We’d arrived in Inle Lake in time for their most important festival, where a group of four golden Buddhas make an annual pilgrimage from their home monastery to various points around Inle Lake. They are drawn in an elaborate Golden Pavilion pulled by hundreds of men in long canoe like boats. It makes for quite a display, as do the crowds of villagers who come in from the hills to pay their respects. The Buddha images that are being venerated aren’t much to look at, they resemble gold blobs, a bit squat and shapeless. They’ve lost their figures through the adoration of devotees who each paste on a bit of gold leaf.

The spectacle really is the worshippers – dressed in different types of ethnic dress – my favourite being the Pa-Oh (Black Karen) people – who wear a distinctive black tunic, and a bright coloured bath towel on their heads. One can only imagine their delight some years ago when some trendsetting Pa-Oh encountered the bright terry towelling of a bath towel and thought it a very groovy alternative to their traditional headdress. So now, they get about town with a towel wrapped around their head, like we do when we wash our hair!

Dal Lake in Kashmir was paradise, a dreamy ethereal place that transfixed one by its magic untouchability. Inle Lake was paradise too – but it was a bold, bright, place that transfixed with its freshness – reds, greens, blues of the most vibrant nature that reached out and filled your heart with the joy of nature. The waterways are filled with traffic – loud engines that spray water behind them like a peacock spreading its tail. It’s like a speedboat road across Nornalup Inlet, wind in your hair, and fresh air in your lungs. But more boats and more exotic. Bamboo houses perch perilously on stilts in the water and washing flaps colourfully from the verandas. Burmese almost leap from their boats in enthusiasm, waving effusively, and unrestrained with their bright white smiles.

The final stop in our Inle Lake tour was the Jumping Cat Monastery – like the many other monasteries on stilts in the lake area, it’s wooden with a faded air. I suppose one day a bunch of monks sat down and were scratching their heads at what they could do to attract just a smidgin of the tourist dollar that enticingly motored past their place of worship. So one bright spark taught the resident monastery cats to jump through hoops!

An evening paddle amongst the canals on the edge of the lake gives us an up close glimpse into people’s lives on the water. Sunset is reflected in lotus ponds, powerful and profound. We float past another dilapidated monastery where an old monk waves us in. Bent and ancient he gives us a toothless grin, “Welcome.” We follow him in, as he explains, “Only two monks in monastery now. I am the junior monk, the senior monk is upstairs.” We falter a moment, imagining a wizened, cobweb covered creature. Thankfully, it turns out that the senior monk is just 65 while the junior monk is 80, having only entered the monastery on the death of his wife.

He is an interesting old guy who explains he speaks good English because he was educated by the Brits in the thirties. The senior monk doesn’t have the same grip on the English language, having donned the robes 53 years ago, at just 12 years of age. When he can’t quite remember an English word he taps the back of his head ferociously and screws his face up like a child. “Australia” he says, “Your Prime Minister – Iraq” raps on head several times, “soldier to Iraq. People in Australia crying.” Some pounding on his chest to emphasise the point. “People very sad.”

Stunned by his knowledge in a country with severe censorship he explains, “I listen, radio BBC”. The two old monks in the creaking, but lovingly swept monastery are just a short heart-warming interlude – but we feel like we have communicated, learnt about their lives, their country, and them as two human beings.

Not just from the smiles freely given in the street, the small gestures, or the gaily offered “Ming-Ah-Lah-BAH” greeting, we feel the Burmese are an intelligent, considered people. Restaurant owners often come out to ask how your meal was – a genuine question – and you find yourself in a conversation. These people have stores to tell and opinions to share, but they don’t barrage them with you like in India. We remember fondly a young Burmese couple who make great pizza – and just happened to be physics graduates. Seeing the perplexion in our eyes they explain that, in Myanmar, to graduate from a degree is “for the learning, not for a job”. A job in their profession would probably be in the government and earn them around US$35 a month.

Having been in Inle for the arrival of the Golden Buddhas, we decide to accompany them to the next village. As a traveller there are very few sights that bring a lump to your throat and tears to your eyes with their sheer marvellousness. Turns out that this was one of them 13 long canoes, hitched to one another, drew the Golden Pavillion (with the Buddhas safely inside) across the lake – stretching out for about one kilometre – brightly coloured with music and dancers. With up to 100 costumed men in each canoe, they paddled in Inle style using one foot to wield the paddle rather than their hands. We were amongst a flotilla of boats moving from spot to spot on the lake to get the best viewpoints. As the Buddhas passed by boats, boats filled with Burmese families bowed their heads in prayer.

Its ironic that the Burmese people seem so honest, and friendly because a military regime needs supporters and informers, indicating there must be another side to their nature. We left a plastic bag with blankets and sarongs in a taxi – not worth much – but useful to us. We told the hotel, which assured us they would call the taxi company based in another town and organise the bag to be returned. We doubted – as one does – and in Peru it would never happen, in India neither, but in Inle Lake the next morning the bag was returned without fuss or bother to us.

Arie & Judy with the Moustache
Brothers comedy troupe, Mandalay

Bagan Temples

Festival, Nyuang Shwe (Inle Lake)

The Golden Buddhas

Black Karen lady at the Inle Lake Festival.

Novice Monk, near Mandalay

Nun at Mingun, near Mandalay

Food on offer to the many festival goers, Mandalay Hill

Food vendor offers her
wares on the train
from Hsipaw
.

Urchin, Inwa, near Mandalay .

Drying Chillis, on a hike near Kalaw

Mother and child, near Hsipaw

Silver Palaung lady near Hsipaw

Images from Inle Lake

Hike to Kalaw
We hiked for 3 days from Inle Lake over the mountains to the British Hill station of Kalaw. The trek led us through a vibrant coloured patchwork of crops, soil and people. These are Pa-Oh and though they are classed as “extremely poor” their fields are rich and abundant, and all about us are the signs of an industrious, hardworking people. Its as if time stopped a century ago – wagons drawn by oxen rumble by, people plough fields using old fashioned implements while laughing children tend buffaloes, riding on their backs through rice fields.

In the evenings we stopped at old wooden monasteries where, faced by modern necessity, they give up floor space to foreign travellers. Though our bodies ached, sleep didn’t come easy on the floorboards, and the haunting chanting of 12 novice monks for the evening prayer session of two hours was sadly beautiful, but not conducive to sleep. The same little boys, aged between 7 and 12 years were up chanting again at 5.30am in the pre-dawn darkness. I had always viewed the cute and babylike novice monks, with their shaven heads and voluminous robes, with a deal of romanticism. Instead I learned how hard, and difficult the monastic life could be for these children, offered by their families to the Buddha, at a young age.

These ancient monasteries would be condemned as unfit for human habitation in our society, but served as “drop in” centres for the community and weren’t “religious” in the way we view the solemn and serious church.   In each monastery serene golden Buddhas looked over their disciples - we were served up a banquet style Burmese meal on mats in the prayer hall – and we engaged in cross cultural exchange based on mimes with the senior monks.

Thadingyut
The road to Mandalay holds some kind of folkloric position in our language… we still aren’t sure why. But we followed the potholed road to find ourselves in this dusty, kind of charming, big country town in the geographical centre of Myanmar.

It never ceases to amaze me how people, the world over, take religious holidays and turn them into a three ring circus… we’ve done it to Christmas and Easter after all! The Burmese were no different for the holiday of Thadingyut, (the Festival of Lights).

This festival is celebrated with particular enthusiasm in Mandalay, where we joined the people climbing to various pagodas on Mandalay Hill. Shops lined the way, as did balloons, offerings of gold and silver, musicians, jugglers, gamblers and all types of delicacies including fried locust! The “best clothes” for the kids were what we would call pyjamas and parents seemed to delight in dressing siblings in matching lightweight cotton versions. I felt for the two kids whose mother had got it a bit wrong – they climbed the mountain in the humid tropical heat in matching wincey Star Wars Pj’s.

A festival atmosphere filled the air as we whipped through the streets on our cycle trishaw. Families lit hundreds of candles outside their houses while others hung pretty lanterns on their balconies. The balmy air was filled with the excitement of firecrackers going off on all sides. And above all of this, the full moon, calm, and almost translucent, presided majestically.

The streets around the pagoda of Mahamuni were packed and we headed in to see what our trishaw driver called, “the most beautiful Buddha in Myanmar… perhaps even the world.”

There were reputed to be 10,000 candles, and every space was filled with their golden glow as families prayed or chatted. Ear splitting cracks filled the air as youth lit and threw the crackers under the feet of unsuspecting maidens as they went by. Seconds later the cracker would explode, causing the girls to leap and scream. It soon become evident that two foreigners were even more rewarding targets - seeing an incoming firecracker we would try to run away. We headed towards groups of young novice monks for safety, only to see firecrackers being thrown surreptitiously from behind red robes!

Our ears ringing painfully, the firecrackers exploding around us, we got out of the pagoda by running a gauntlet of hundreds misbehaving novice monks. Sparklers were trailed from motorbikes, rocker launchers propelled mini-fireworks skyward and the air was filled with smoke and excited screams. The inky night sky was dotted with the orange glow of lanterns that were released as part of the festival, which is the first time the Buddhists can celebrate in the first of three lent like months.

Going barefoot is respectful in consecrated places – unlike in India where soft footed tourists tread around the Taj in socks – and no foot covering is allowed in most temples. Sightseeing around Myanmar we feel as we have our sandals more off than on – sometimes the cool marble caresses our soles, while at other sites the sun baked cement sears. We flinchingly skip over the sacred ground when we are supposed to be soaking in the enormity of the World’s Biggest Book at the Kuthudaw Pagoda. It would take one person 450 days to read it non-stop!

By this stage, we’re up in the mountains of Shan State in Hsipaw, where they are celebrating the Thadingyut festival complete with everyone’s favourite ride - the Ferris wheel. Perhaps half the size of the Ferris wheel at our shows, this one was human powered. 8 or 10 boys would climb to the top of the wheel, making it turn by swinging like monkeys to the carriages below. Reaching the ground, they would catch a ride back up as the wheel spun faster and faster – like trapeze artists the boys span, turned and twisted between the carriages and rapidly spinning apparatus. Our hearts pounded – incredible skill, awesome thrill.

Mandalay
In Mingun we polished off two other “records” visiting the world’s second largest bell which was about as interesting as visiting the World’s biggest bell a few years ago in Moscow! We also had the privilege of trudging over the blisteringly hot, earthquake split, Mingun Paya (stupa) whose base leans 50 metres precariously into the sky. If the Pachamama hadn’t had other plans, this would have been the world’s largest stupa. Instead, it is a trial for its shoeless visitors who leap it’s large cracks hoping that the edifice isn’t going to break open once and for all. Then what’s life without a walk on the wildside? In Australia, such a place would be so hand-railed you would lose any sense of the dizzy height.

Mandalay marked the half way point of our Myanmar stay - and though the people were lovely, with big smiles and hearty laughs, we were no closer to knowing about their views on the oppressive regime that rules them.

The Moustache Brothers comedy troupe were the first people to ever mention the name of democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi – until then we had only heard vague, riddle-like references “my leader… I cannot say her name.” But then two members of the Comedy show had already spent time, “in the slammer, in the clink” for telling jokes that could be regarding as poking fun in the military. Number Two Moustache Brother Lu Maw held the fort while his brother and cousin served five years of seven year terms – they were released in 2001 due to international pressure. The troupe is now forbidden to perform – “we are like a hot potato”– anywhere but in their modest Mandalay home.

“You know the K.G.Bee?” asks Number 2 Moustache, “Well here we have the M.I. (Military Intelligence). My dads out the front on the lookout.” Its all a bit of fun but you can sense the seriousness and the frustration of this family of professional performers who are literally gagged. Pictures of Aung San Suu Kyi adorn the walls and we are told, “You tourists… you are like our Trojan horse.”

The Government
Our experiences in Mandalay begin to expose a deeply religious, traditional culture – that is far more complicated than it first seems. They ARE a friendly people – they ride up behind you as we travel the streets in our trishaw, want to wave and say hello. One guy on a bike explains, “Yes, we have happy faces but crying hearts.”

The Burmese have a saying, “don’t trust anyone higher than your knee” that has emerged since the British left Burma. They seem like they desperately want to communicate their situation but just don’t know how.
A dear old man in a farmer’s hat manoeuvres in the back of a pickup truck so that he is sitting on a tyre near us. He whispers, in barely intelligible English, negatives about the government. We understand vaguely that if someone refers to “Burma” (as opposed to Myanmar) they support democracy.

Details of the Military regime begin to filter through – the exemplary rice plots we see festooned with flags by the roadside are supposedly the best rice grown in the district. We learn that it is owned by the local police, or military who force peasants to tend their fields, and grow Chinese rice. The Rice Issue is a sticky one – it seems to be the people’s biggest gripe – and why not in a country where it is the number one food staple? Compared to the local breed of Shan Rice, Chinese rice doesn’t yield as much, leaves poor stubble for buffaloes, and among other heaps of failures, goes hard after cooking.   Yet if the farmers don’t grow this rice, they will have their land taken away.

By this stage, we’re up in the mountains of Shan State in Hsipaw, where they are celebrating the Thadingyut festival complete with everyone’s favourite ride - the Ferris wheel. Perhaps half the size of the Ferris wheel at our shows, this one was human powered. 8 or 10 boys would climb to the top of the wheel, making it turn by swinging like monkeys to the carriages below. Reaching the ground, they would catch a ride back up as the wheel spun faster and faster – like trapeze artists the boys span, turned and twisted between the carriages and rapidly spinning apparatus. Our hearts pounded – incredible skill, awesome thrill.

Boat trip to Bagan
Our boat trip to Bagan is memorable in that we travel in the tourist boat with about 100 other tourists – of these about 90 were on package tours, with only 10 independent travellers. This is the norm in Myanmar where the military government wants group tourism and discourages backpackers. Our entire trip in Myanmar is blissfully free of hassle apart from where these group tours have hit in large numbers. At a small village our express boat pulls in to take on board a couple of tardy tourists – fruitsellers balancing oranges, watermelon and bananas wade into the water selling their wares – it is tranquil and picturesque. A small girl up to her waist in the water asks me for treats. Getting no joy from me, she moves on to a group of plump French women, squeezed into tight shorts and striped sailor singlets, their chubby wrists and necks encased in heavy gold chains. The kids are asking for shampoo and pens, and well intentioned, the women delve into their pre-prepared stash of goodies.

Chaos erupts in the water, wails and screams, as the peaceful Burmese people shove, scream, and scratch one another in an effort to get these western handouts. Members of a grey haired German tour group, not to be outdone, hand out toy cars and pencils. The communal wail gets louder, half the boat is perpetrating the crime while the other half are in another world, engrossed in their books. Our hearts are wrenched out as these animals act for tidbits. Judging by a carefully packaged parcel dropped over by another well-meaning tourist, these visitors are meaning to help. What they can’t see, in their rich, white superiority, is that they are killing with their kindness, shredding these people’s dignity. I realise had been snapping away photos like I was in a zoo. I wondered what the hell we were doing there?

Farewell to Burma
We head back to Yangon, the capital where men wear skirts and there are so few neon lights. With few buses on the roads we had been lucky to snag the back seats on a bus (never good… they propel their passengers like rockets at the slightest bump). Consoling ourselves this was to be the last “hard” bus trip of a 15-month journey, we settled in for a long night, A few hours on, we hit a particularly hard bump, a crack ripped through the seat in front of us, and the seat and its’ passengers landed in our laps.   The bolts holding the seat onto the floor had been ripped out and we spent the next few hours cross legged supporting the seat and 3 people in front of us. Thankfully though, with Burmese efficiency, the driver and assistant did a fair job of fixing the seat in the dinner break.

We wonder, whether it is the military rule, or just the essence of “Burmese-ness” that makes such an well-ordered place. Certainly India is no advertisement for democracy with its almost anarchous roads, uncontrolled people, unreliable power and back-jarring, rutted and potholed roads. In our experience (and no, Bo, we haven’t been to Africa) India has the worst roads in the world – once they were bitumen, and now… In Kristel’s words, “That’s not a pothole, that’s a crater!”

Courteous, polite, hardworking, resourceful, happy and humorous – just a few of the positive adjectives that can be used to describe the Burmese. While undoubtably their culture is peaceful and understated, we began to understand the role that the military had played in keeping Myanmar traditional, and just a little bit backward. How Ironic! The things that made Myanmar so attractive to a foreigner – its unspoiled nature, basic services, and traditional lifestyle – had been enforced by an oppressive regime. But then who wants the destruction, four lane freeways and indifference of Thailand?

After 15 months abroad, and recent elections, I find myself questioning democracy. How, in democratic nations like Australia, the US or UK do we only get to choose between 2 options? Half the people are happy while the other half wish there was another option! And does ever increasing regulation bring us freedom?

I spent nearly 10 months in Peru, where they have a democracy – many political parties, lots of choice, and plenty of freedom because nobody obeys the rules and no-one enforces them. (My favourite memory of Peruvian students is during exams: “Teacher, what’s the answer to this one?) So Peru has democracy, and they haven’t got happiness. Myanmar has a military junta and they aren’t happy… and for the rest of the world? I guess that’s for another trip!

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