The Man of the Market - A Yangon Short Story

PANZUNDAUNG MARKETS, YANGON 2017

Sauntered? Swaggered? Sidled? 

Nope, none of these come even close to an iota of his approach. It was as though this old tiger got a whiff of foreigner from the other side of the market, catapulted himself over roaming chickens, stray dogs, and merchants to get to me in order to both ask me some very pressing questions, and practice his English.  

This is not the man of that market, but surely of another.

It was 0730 on a weekday morning, and peak hour at the Panzundaung Markets on the edge of Downtown Yangon. Located on the first bend of the Panzundaung Creek, it’s a hive of activity — even by Yangon standards — and adding an extra chaotic layer are the boats spluttering back and forth from No. 3 Ward in the searing heat or torrential rain: it tends to be one, the other, or both. Even after all this time I still get lost in these markets, but there is a routine once I find my starting point which is my flower lady. She has the best lilies, and in peak season they come in a kaleidoscope of colours: reds, oranges, yellows and pinks. Saying that, I always buy too few as I feel disloyal to my other flower lady on Maha Bandula Road who practices my Burmese with me, so I also pay her bi-weekly visits. Neither of them know about the other: there is no need to learn how to articulate that in Burmese. 

Following that, I go and get a cup of tea in one of the sheds where groups of old men play games with beer bottle caps, and it is quite a serious business. If they are not playing then they are reading papers and arguing about the contents with great passion. As soon as you get in there you are deprived of circulating air, and the sweat starts pouring as though you had entered a European sauna. Although mildly uncomfortable and not aesthetically gratifying, it is one on the feelings that is always at the forefront of my mind when I am away from Yangon and dreaming. You may be wondering why I get the flowers first? Well, it is my attempt to “blend in” as much as one can in my situation, and allude to going about my daily business as normal. I then go for breakfast at a stand perched on the edge of the sidecar thoroughfare as not only are their noodles delicious, but it is the perfect place to watch this world go by.

On this particular morning in 2017,  I was quietly trying to learn about noodles — if “quietly” is such a thing given that I am a 6’ white woman with a booming yet husky voice, well  out of the tourist area, wearing a tailor made Longyi (off the rack do not fit me for a plethora of reasons), and trying to learn Burmese — whilst attempting to order them . It had become quite interactive and A-Ma was helping me by waiting patiently for me to read the Burmese word and was then lifting up the corresponding noodles from big barrels which would surely be empty in the next few hours. Many people were coming and going, mostly getting bags of takeaway as they were laden with all sorts of ingredients, and this was the last stop before heading home from work. However, many lingered, and even though they pretended to not be interested, their shyness gradually dissipated and  the furtive sideways glances gave way eventually to sweetness and giggles. After a purposefully prolonged dance, I ordered my soup and she went about making it with the dexterity that comes from the volumes she prepares daily: as if in one fluid movement, the noodles, followed by the broth and the dried fish cut with blunt scissors, were prepared and in front of me. 

Almost out of breath, he arrived at the same time as the soup, wearing a wonderfully bright Hawaiian shirt atop a well worn Longyi: he had obviously made quite the effort, and it was reinforced by a whiff of an unfamiliar cologne which hit me squarely on my snout. His two remaining front teeth were a testament to his love for the Betel Quid, but instead of having the parcel circulating on his gums, he was munching on what appeared to be a cookie. 

“Where is your husband”? he partly demanded, as this knowledge is often imperative for Burmese men of a certain vintage. 

“Oh, I don’t have a husband”. 

Simultaneously perplexed and flabbergasted. 

“But who is going to look after you when you’re old”? 

“I have no need for a husband, and I like to look after myself”. 

Pure shock, then a small monologue — doused in pride —  about how he had a son in Singapore who was going to look after him when he was old. He then declared, to me and all the ladies, with a double layer of suaveness and community spirit which is rife in Myanmar,  that he was going to have to buy me breakfast as he was very worried that I didn’t have a husband. 

Whilst this was all going on, something quite frightful happened. You see, I have mentioned that I had my fresh soup, and that he had two teeth and was munching a cookie right?  Well, as he was talking at me, I saw, as if in slow motion, I saw a morsel of the cookie project itself out of his mouth and into the air, and then watched it land in my soup with a small gerplonk. That left me in a bit of a predicament as I did not want to offend the beautiful lady that had been helping me, nor did I think my exotic eating habits could stretch that far. So whilst he was moderately gently educating me on the merits of having a husband and children, I was trying to navigate the situation without offending anyone. 

Eventually he left (after so nicely paying for my breakfast) and I went through my books and found out how to ask to take it away. Whilst searching for this my eyes skipped over “Long time no see” in my notes. 

A certain amount of time passed, anywhere between three and five minutes is my guess, but who knows as the cookie projectile itself seemed to last about 15 seconds. My noodles were ready to go, I had my fresh lilies in hand, and I was about to stand up when he approached again with what appeared to be even more surprised at my lack of having a husband. It was as though he had gone away, thought about it, shaken his head, taken the last bite on his cookie (as his hands were now empty), and simply decided that it could not be true. 

Upon his return, I said, “Ma Twe Da Jabi Naw” and every single delightful lady in my proximity, young and old could not hold back the laughter. I am not as sure now as I was then that it was my attempt at sarcasm which elicited this reaction, as since that occasion, a strong majority of the time, when I say, “long time no see” the reaction is often puzzlement as they have just seen me the day before. Whether it was the sarcasm, or my rudimentary attempts at Burmese, it will always remain a mystery, but they were definitely laughing at something.  

He then said, “I still can’t believe you don’t have a lover”. 

“Oh, I never said that. I have no shortage of lovers”, and with that got up, took my now redundant breakfast and thirsty lilies, politely bade farewell, and left him gasping for words and grabbing for a Betel Quid. 

Where to stay in Mandalay? Ned Kelly Hotel is the clear answer.

I am not normally one to do “hotel” reviews. and I think it is best I iterate before I start that I was in no means compensated for this endorsement. Ok, that is slightly fabricated. I was given a beer on the house in the rooftop bar before I returned to life in Yangon. Or maybe I stole it, ‘cause that’s what Aussies do. Bushranger Style.

But the Ned Kelly is not an Australian Hotel, actually, nor is it a hotel. It is both a beautiful mix of Australian and Irish as well as being a hybrid of a hotel and a hostel.

But potatoes, gold mining, whatever, “to be sure “ it was definitely not a “welcome to the backpacker jungle scenario” like Ostello Bello down the road. Look, I have nothing against beer pong, karaoke and buckets of beer drunk by 23 year olds called Chad and Tiffany who are on their first solo voyage (which they did not have to steal a loaf if bread for). But at my vintage, it may be slightly fair to say that I have missed that fleet, and am a little more, um diverse in my nocturnal activity choice. Especially as many of the guests were young enough to be me when I still had hopes and dreams.

Not to say that there was anything wrong with Ostello Bello (aside from the wristband I was given which served the purpose for returning me home if I was lost and inebriated): the rooms were clean, the staff adorable, and the breakfast digestible.

On the second night, my stay in Mandalay took on a criminal angle. No, I did not steal a cheroot from the front counter, but discovered Ned Kelly. Even better, the friend who introduced me to Ned Kelly is an Irish Barrister working in Myanmar for an NGO training young criminal lawyers, so I followed the cases and even got to go to a court hearing and I must say, the legal system is so outdated that I may as well have been in Australia in colonial times.

Fuelling this theme was the fact that the very congenial French-Canadian manager called Leif had a hipster beard, a trend which I reckon was based on Ned Kelly himself. Fair dinkum.

But issues with an Irish Pub being called Ned Kelly aside, I enjoyed my food and beers up there so much that I asked to see the rooms (even though the hotel was not open yet). They were clean, elegant and comfortable so I decided to stay there when I returned three weeks later from a trip around Kachin State: and I gotta say, boy did I need that hot shower which was provided.

The Ned Kelly is the perfect place for someone like me to be based whilst they discover Mandalay. It is well designed, comfortable, and has excellent common areas which allows one to be as social or private as they like. Not only that, but it has a spacious rooftop bar which is the ideal place to catch up on emails or do some work if you are a digital nomad like myself. Hotels can be too isolating, and hostels leave me wondering if I am a geriatric wanderer.

Having been to many lands in many continents, I have to say that Ned Kelly is in my top 5 places that I have stayed, The decor, the comfort, the hospitality (5 star service at a budget price), and the breakfasts all led me to actually wanting to write something about it. I cannot wait to return later in the year to see more of Mandalay and steal more beers.

Australian Bushranger style.

*All photos in this article were stolen by me without permission.

For more info, click here. or here for website.

Adding to this all of my bookings were made through Unlock Myanmar, who also work with both Ostello Bello and Ned Kelly. Highly recommended.

Yangon to Mandalay by Bus

The thumbnail picture of this ramshackle, broken-down bus in Southern Myanmar is by no means related to or indicative of my luxurious JJ's "Joyous Journey" bus trip from Yangon to Mandalay, but basically the opposite, which saddens me ever so slightly. 

After being based in Myanmar on and off for three years, I have come to find that the dodgier the experience, the more memorable it is. I take boats, trains and buses (in that order) at every available opportunity.

Two years ago I took a bus from Kawthaung to Myeik in Southern Myanmar, and whilst I thought it was the trip from hell at the time, it is a story I have often regaled with just a smattering of embellishment. On that particular bus trip they handed out sick bags to all the passengers on the packed bus. I thought that was hilarious.

But it wasn’t.

As soon as the bus started moving the oddest symphony of regurgitation began. At first I was somewhat amused, but when all 7 people on the back seat were simultaneously hurling to different degrees, I started to feel slightly nauseous myself. Of course this had a knock-on effect, and maybe sixty percent of the bus passengers were not in good shape.

But as soon as the bus stopped the barfing stopped. By stopped I mean the bus broke down in the middle of the highway for two hours. But as soon as it was “repaired” and the engines started, the symphony resumed.

There were also two half hour stops for people to eat and go to the bathroom. At this stage I was still petrified of travelling alone and was repulsed by the toilets. Later in the journey the bus stopped again for a few hours, but they would not let anyone get off the bus. In hindsight, I think that a bridge may have collapsed.

Then there was “bus” guy. Bus guys are awesome. They know who everyone is, where they are getting off, and are always on the phone to pick up passengers on the highway. They are like executive administrations, and they do an admirable job.

Fast forward two years later, and I have come to thoroughly enjoy these journeys. The dodgier the toilets and food stops are the happier I am. 10 points if the bathroom is adjacent to the kitchen.

But JJ’s busses are nothing like this, They are akin to flying business class on a reputable airline. The hostesses are dressed to the nines, there are reclining seats, video screens and they provide a snack when you get on. There are only two toilet stops, and at these it is not compulsory to get off the bus. There is absolutely nothing dodgy about it, and the upside is that you may get a good enough sleep to ensure that the next day is not a total write off.

I booked my bus trips through the wonderful staff at “Unlock Myanmar”

http://www.unlockmyanmar.com/

Body Imaging by Abby Robinson @ Pansuriya, Yangon

“There’s a really nice eye over there next to the boobs…. No, no, under the knobbly knee. Yep, that’s the one, above the crooked teeth.” 

It was 8pm on Saturday night and I was seated in Pansuriya (a stunning gallery and restaurant located in a colonial building downtown Yangon), trying to explain to an English couple what was going on. After a week of watching this performance and photography installation called “Body Imaging” I was starting to get a picture of the idea (or an idea for a picture), but until I went into the “Doctor’s Office” I would not know for sure. 

Abby Robinson is based in New York, and has the theory that there are only two professions that get close to body parts: doctors and photographers. Abby is a photographer, but claims to be “doctor adjacent” as her sister is a doctor. I concur with “doctor adjacent” as clearly there is no doctor/patient confidentiality agreement, even though people choose to think there is. Through this scenario she creates, people seem compelled to divulge the most extraordinary things: I have heard unique stories from her “clinic” which she has facilitated seven times in cities including New York, Shanghai, Las Vegas, Budapest and now Yangon. 

An area of Pansuriya is cornered off with curtains, and as people sit in the “waiting room” they fill out a form (naturally on a clipboard), and after the requisite waiting period she calls on them, inviting them with doctorly precision (white coat and all) into her “office” for their consultation, during which time they choose which body part they would like photographed. The “patient” gets one copy. 

And the other? 

Adorning a large wall in the gallery are shots of tits, pits, nips, lips, lobes, fingers, knees and toes. I did query about hoo-hahs and ding-dongs, of which there have been many, but only one hoo-hah this week, which Abby agreed to photograph (she has never declined a request), but stated it would not be hung on the wall. 

Watching this unfold in Pansuriya has been an experience, both as a spectator and in my own mind. Seeing people’s choices and being ever so curious as to the inspiration behind them led me to go down some rabbit holes of my own. Was this exercise in interaction? vanity? therapy? memory collection? liberation? demon confrontation? acceptance? memory liberation? demonic vanity? interactive acceptance? 

My conclusion is that it is whatever you individually choose it to be. In my case it was therapeutic acceptance.  

What to Expect From Yangon, Myanmar

Betel Nut Stains on the pavement

When I saw the first stain I thought someone had had a blood nose on the pavement, but learnt that it is a result of mainly the local men sucking betel nuts wrapped in a leaf with other ingredients depending on one’s personal preferences. Lime stone, tobacco, herbs… There are stations everywhere, and not only do these things give you a high, but they give your teeth a wonderful red bloody glow. At first it is quite confronting, but you get used to it. 

Kamikaze Driving

Merrily high on the betel nut, drivers of all vehicles honk. Whether it be in lieu of indicators, rounding a corner, or alerting pedestrians, cyclists and potholes to their presence, it is a constant. Even at night on a bus.

Crossing a road

Ever played Frogger? The only fool proof system I have discovered is to throw caution to the wind, latch onto locals and follow them in. Once you get the hang of it though, you don’t even notice the honking. Just one lane at a time, stand in the middle of the road, be aware that you don’t have right of way, or basically, splat. 

Riding a bus

A chaotic adventure. If you are lucky you will jump on when it is moving as they may not want to miss the green light. But it is ok, there is a guy to help you. Each bus has a “guy” or two who collect the money, yell out the stop names and keep things running in systematic chaos. 

Trains 

Whether it be within Yangon or around the country it is not an experience to be missed. The old English trains go at a snails pace and it is a perfect way to watch Burmese people go around their daily business. The vendors come through selling fruit, drinks, snacks and toys. The Yangon circular train costs 200 Kyat (about 20c) for three hours. Economic to say the least, and not to mention the beauty of the colonial train station. 

Overgrown buildings

Sigh. I can sit on the balcony and watch the buildings all day long. The colonial building are beautifully overgrown: you can imagine a tree growing through the centre of the house. It can’t be good for the structure, but the aesthetics are divinely unique.  

Business names

The business names, especially those of travel agents and guesthouses leave little open to interpretation. Many of both are along the lines “OK”,  “So so”,  “Mediocre”, “It’ll do”, “Why Not”? “Give it a shot”, “Where else ya gonna look”? 

Wiring 

You could almost make a skipping rope out of some of the low hanging wires. 

Stray dogs

I have found the dogs to be docile (their behaviour may be different towards those of marginal character) and they generally chill out during the day. Come night time it is their land. Time to assert some authority, cruise the block and howl just to make their presence known. 

Pavements

Potholes, cracks, loose slabs… It is a whole lot of “oopsy daisy” waiting to happen, especially when you are diligently dodging the dogs and the wires whilst looking at the buildings and schniffing out something to eat. 

Moving vendors (food choices) 

There is such a delicious cross section of food in Myanmar (and especially the big cities) that one’s foraging is never done. Even when you find something aligned to your taste you have to be sure to go at the right time of the day. 

Chairs at tea houses

Like a child’s tea party where you must be somewhat svelte to perch in these tiny seats, normally located in the gutter. 

Child waiters 

It is only apt that at these tea party set ups there are child waiters serving you. Actually, they may not be children: the age of the Myanmar people is impossible to tell. I am almost never right. 

Kissing noises 

If you want service at tea houses and beer stations you need to make two kissing noises into the air, which makes you feel a little rude, but hey, it’s the way that it is done. Just don’t do it when you return to your home land as it may get you in trouble. 

Toilets: the seedier the better

At first I hated the toilets, but after spending so much time in the country when I go to a bathroom in a restaurant I am slightly disappointed if it is a Western design. Even more so when I find that the toilet is not located right next to the food preparation area. 

Toilet paper for everything

Wiping is a given, but also as tissues, napkins, business cards, and tea towels. 

Food containers

People walking along the street will often have one of those ingenious multi compartment metal containers where the rice is separate normally from the curries or other delicious meals that they have in there. They are called tiffins 

Home Delivery Systems

For weeks I wondered what the long pieces of string hanging from the apartment blocks were. Basically, the vendors will go past, you will send down your money on the rope, and then they will attach your food to the clip and you pull it back up. 

Monks

I used to imagine monks being these ultimately serene creatures, but apparently they go about daily life like normal. They eat, they smoke, they talk on their mobiles and watch tv. Sometimes simultaneously. 

Manual Labour

They don’t like to do things the easy way here, or maybe they are unaware of an easier way, but everything seems to be done by hand. Whether it be food preparation, building sites or farming.

Chinlone

The Myanmar males are buffed. Some of this can be attributed to the amount of manual labour, but more so to the national sport of “chinlone” which to me appears to be the love child of hacky sack and volleyball. With a cane ball they will either stand around in a circle or on either side of a net and play for hours. 

Longyis

The way that the burmese dress is so very sophisticated. Especially the women. The wear fitted sarongs with matching tops, and whilst they are fully covered they look feminine, classy and sophisticated. Normally made of cotton they are comfortable, whether it be one that simply ties or is fitted. The men also wear these (called a pasol) and the really dextrous ones tie the knot loosely at the front. Men are constantly readjusting as there is a fear of it falling down. That I would like to see. 

Thanaka

Thanaka is bark of certain trees used as make-up and sunscreen on everyone. Men and babies use it as sunscreen, but women use it as makeup. I felt like a clown when I wore it, but the Myanmar people see it as very beautiful. 

A baby and mother both wearing thanaka. 

Velvet flip flops

Flip-flops. The national shoe. Everyone everywhere wears them. Many of the men wear velvet flip flops, and when the women are dressing up they wear platformed flip flops. I am yet to find some in my size. 

Safe, but metal detectors

As a tourist I have seen no crime in this wonderful land, however you know it exists somewhere as when you go into the movie theatre or cinema you often pass through a metal detector. 

Getting caught in the rain

Being in Myanmar in the rainy season it is bound to happen, and I always make a deliberate b-line for somewhere the locals are huddled. It always provides a beautiful interaction. 

When you adapt and put it all together

The ideal way to experience this country is to learn a few words of Burmese, put yourself in a longyi, thanaka and velvet flip flops and just cruise and interact. The people are kind, generous and boast the most beautiful smiles. 

Anti-Social guest houses

After all this overload you can go back to your guesthouse and not worry about loud music, or irritating guests as the guest houses seem to be designed for little interaction. There may be a small common area at the reception and a balcony for smoking here and there, but after all the stimulation you get from going outside the quiet time is a welcome comfort. 

Enjoy your time!!

Yangon, Myanmar (Burma): A Sensory Overload

She came out of nowhere, gently took me by the arm and said, “Dirty”. 

My initial thought was, “You know it sister!”, But then I remembered where I was, and was certain I was to be led out of the market by this wonderfully weathered Burmese woman as I had no place there.  This Yangon market was not for postcards and trinkets, and I doubt they saw many foreigners, let alone towering ones in bright red dresses. She must have read my thoughts, as she pointed to my legs before she started steering me through the market. Under low-hanging makeshift tarpaulins we went, stepping over stray dogs and chickens gone rogue, whilst dodging piles of long forgotten rubbish. I almost tripped over a merchant sitting cross legged on the ground whilst I contemplated why the ravenous dogs chose to let those chooks roam.  

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A woman at the market wearing thanaka

She was right, I was dirty. Not only were my legs were flecked with mud, but my shirt was sticking to my dress, which in turn was sticking to my back (the two layers were not for warmth but for modesty) and even more perspiration was trickling into my eyes, as my sunglasses had been abandoned out of respect. 

She guided me to an oil barrel filled with water in the confines of a shack. Whilst my eyes adjusted she took a small tin bowl and started bathing the back of my legs in a motherly manner. From the cool darkness I could see my American companion looking for me, but I didn’t know what to say, nor did I want to yell out, for fear of fracturing the moment. I only knew that she was finished when she gave me a gentle double tap, like you would to congratulate a mare whose hooves you have just cleaned, and then she stood up, coming up not much further that my ribs. She gave me a warm look, and sent me on my way.  I just wish I had known how to say thank you at that stage. 

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The street outside my hotel 

I had only been in Yangon for a day, maybe two, but I was already learning that this magical place was more about interactions and quirks than the Pagodas and the streets featured heavily in The Lonely Planet. I would love to say this was by my own volition, but did I not have someone immersed in the culture to show me the beauty, it is most likely I would have spent two days on 19th street sitting around in well documented “off the beaten track” restaurants with other travellers having a pissing contest about who was more intrepid. 

Instead I stayed six. And then six more at the end of my trip. Not on 19th street, but on the 9th floor of a hotel on the periphery of downtown looking down onto a chaotic intersection. Long beautiful neglected streets, an abundance of street food and a birds eye view on a hive of chastity. Yes. That’s right I was a solo female traveller overlooking a monastery. So much spirituality. So many questions answered. Monks wear boxer shorts. 

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Monk's washing 

But a woman’s got to eat, and each time I left the room (at first reluctantly) I had an adventure which was an unmitigated attack on one, some, and all of my senses. As soon as I stepped outside I would be blasted with humid air and chaos, which got me to stand back, have a cigarette, readjust and observe. Oddly the chaos brought me comfort. I don’t know if it was because I had just spent five months in the overly pristine and manicured Oslo, or simply that there was so much going on that I had no time to indulge my inner voices, but I felt calm, brave, and compelled to extend the perimeters of my comfort zone. 

I cannot say that pigs innards in broth (pork doto) were the most succulent morsels, but for me prior, adventurous eating in Thailand had consisted of switching (on rare occasion) from chicken Pad Thai to chicken fried rice for fear of food poisoning. The fact that the broth was washed down with a bottle of $1.50 whisky whilst sitting on tiny chairs, in the gutter of a bar (where I was the only woman) with all eyes on me made me feel like a princess. Screw the tiara, this was living. It did not take me long to get up the gumption to not only get the waitresses attention, but to ask to pay, and to hand over the cash which was a three tier ritual (assisted by the whiskey and my companion). First you have to make kissing noises, and not of the half assed Soccer mum variety. Nope, two full smooches into the air is the only way to get the waitress (or waiters) attention. Then when she came over, I requested the bill (shin-mey). I didn’t understand the amount, but handed over the equivalent of five dollars for the whole meal and drinks (which may as well have been a $100 or €100 note). As I delivered it, I placed my left hand gently on my inner elbow, and handed her the money palm up. The waitress did the same manoeuvre to both receive the money and hand me my sufficient change as it is a sign of respect (on both parts). The bemusement and smiles made me hanker for more: it was a novelty for both sides. 

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Shan noodles I ate at the end of a three day trek in Shan State 

The first time I went out for dinner myself, I chose an innocent looking Shan noodle stand that I had seen from my hotel room at night (again with the child’s tea party set up in the gutter) run by children no older than 14. As I approached they gathered together, and started giggling. I pointed to a dish that a local customer was eating, and then gestured nervously to a table where I was going to attempt to sit. They delivered my hot tea and noodles and watched me from a safe distance with much curiosity. Here I was, inches from the kamikaze traffic, sipping hot tea and eating spicy noodles with an audience. Yes, I feel the need to repeat the hot and spicy factor as clearly it was noticeable. A young girl cautiously approached and from a safe distance whilst her brothers and sisters looked on, and politely asked if she could sit. She could actually fit on the tiny seats, and she daintily held out a box of tissues (again with the left arm on the inner elbow) for me to wipe my brow. Over the next five minutes (whilst she handed me tissue after tissue) I managed to express that it was delicious, but I was not used to the food as where I come from it is very cold, and I showed her a photo on my phone of the Austrian Alps. Again I left wishing I could communicate more. 

Like my companion could. 

Learning the language and about the people had given him a strut. As I followed behind him each afternoon in his longyi (which is the traditional dress of the Burmese men) I got to see the reactions of these wonderful people when he spoke to them in Burmese. Women and men would comment on his attire, unaware that he could understand, and he would reply, “La-dey no?” translated as, “Pretty, isn’t it”? and then engage in conversation. Invariably the reaction was undiluted delight, and I wanted in on it. 

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The Betel leaves used to wrap the ingredients 

It started with me asking if I could have a turn. As he strutted I saw some men admiring, so I looked at them, smiled, and said, “La-dey no”? And nailed it. They laughed, and shook their heads as though they could not believe it. They probably couldn’t. Their smiles were huge, red stained toothy smiles. At first I had thought that the red stains were blood, and that there was a serious shortage of dentists in Yangon, but these smiles were too prevalent and unabashed for that. Instead they are the result of chewing –or more accurately sucking and spitting– betel leaves with tobacco and other ingredients inside such as lime paste, tobacco, betel nut and other spices depending on personal taste. It is not just a nicotine fix, but as a taxi driver said to me, “Eat but no sleep. My teeth are walking, my brain is walking, no sleeping”. I did eventually try it, with an elderly nun in a home stay on day two of a three day trek in the Shan State, but I don’t think it was the strong stuff. 

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People wearing traditional dress at Shwedagon Pagoda 

The women held a different kind of admiration for the Westerner in the longyi.  It was not so much, “Check out the white guy rocking the longyi” but more tilted towards, “Oh my!”. As they appreciated, I found myself in turn appreciating their dress. The women also wear longyis made of beautiful silks and cottons which reach the ankles, but on top they wear matching tailored shirts covering the shoulders, often with intricate patterns. Accentuated sophistication without a muffin top, camel toe or VPL in sight. Their make-up is also understated, if they wear any at all, aside from thanaka, which is a fragrant whitish yellow paste doubling as sunscreen. Burmese women are the pinnacle of class, yet they still responded in the same way to a little, “Ladey-no?”. 

The next phrase I learnt was sa-bi-bi-la? which doubles as a colloquial, “hello” as well as asking somebody if they have eaten. It is a little but cute, and to be used when greeting groups of children or people younger than you. They will giggle, and tell you not whether or not they have eaten, which is also the equivalent of saying hello back. Apparently, it is not appropriate to say it in a bar to a rather intoxicated man as he leers at you. Oops. 

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Shwedagon Pagoda 

It was the perfect training ground for what followed. Armed with some phrases that I now said with confidence, I went travelling for two weeks, and whether I was on a slow boat down the Irrawaddy, trekking to Lake Inlay or at a home-stay in the Shan State the reaction was always the same, and by the time I returned to Yangon I had my own prance. This time I did go to the markets, so I too could start donning a longyi, and I did explore the majestic Shwedagon Pagoda, but three months later it is still my senses that have been most impacted. 

The touch of the woman, the taste of the wildly exotic street food, the sight of the beautiful yet neglected buildings, the sound of laughter and the smell of the streets all together create a beautiful symphony in my mind. 

The second part of this adventure will begin next month when I use the crumpled Kyats still tucked neatly in my passport to pay for my taxi from the airport. 

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The sun setting on the beautiful buildings during my last night. 

Myanmar (Burma): Alternative Top 5

Yangon: treat it like more than just a launch pad 

During my travels, so many people I met only stayed in Yangon (the former capital) for one night before moving on. What a shame. I spent six days there, and found it to be the perfect introduction to this beautiful land. I discovered the quirks, tasted the street food, learnt a few words, and adored the city. So much so that I spent six more days there before flying out, bought myself a longyi (traditional dress) and my cab fare is already tucked into my passport for my anticipated return.  Sure, go to the Schwedagon Pagoda, and Bogyoke Market, but more importantly abandon your sunglasses, get lost, taste the street food, always look up, and don't forget to smile. 

One of the views from my hotel room. 

 

Go trekking 

"Would you like to see buffalo swimming"? Would I what!! I could hear the majestic beasts huffing and puffing as they submerged themselves in the water. Months later I can still hear the sound and remember every moment of the hike. I went on two three day treks. One from Kalaw to Inle Lake, and one in Shan State, around Hsipaw. If you can only do one of those I would suggest the Kalaw to Inle Lake, as the scenery is a little more intense, although the latter is more authentic (and challenging). My advice is to make some friends before booking the hike (which is easy to do as so many people are walking around each afternoon trying to find the right trekking company). Ensure that your group is not larger than five, and that your guide speaks English as there is so much you are going to want to ask. I used A1 trekking, and they were amazing. 

As i was eating my breakfast on the third day of the Kalaw to Inle Lake hike. 

Morning fog on the third day from Kalaw to Inle Lake. 

This wonderful lady at our lunch on the first day of the trek in Shan State 

Swimming buffalo !! 

Cutest children ever, standing by the road waiting to say hello to Flurina and I. Pretty adept in swiping the iPhone too :) 

 

Experience a festival 

The Balloon Festival in Taunggyi in November is a once in a lifetime experience. Thousands upon thousands of people watch and revel as hot air balloons are released into the air. 

My Taylor Swift moment 

Upon our arrival, we were approached for a photo, and thought nothing of it. But as we got further into the dance area hysteria ensued. At one stage I had thirty cameras in my face, which I welcomed after a Summer in Scandinavia amongst the world's most beautiful people. One girl stared at us, screamed and started crying with sheer happiness. 

But then it was my turn to start nearly crying with joy when I saw that there was a human powered ferris wheel. It was on my list. Basically, the motor is eight Burmese boys resembling smoking spider monkeys in flip-flops who use the momentum to turn the wheel. 

Take at least one train

The Gokteik Viaduct. 

Many blogs and sites suggest flying within Myanmar, but I beg to differ. Sure, some of the train rides are downright uncomfortable, especially the overnight ones, but you have to pick your battles. My intention was to get the train from Thazi to Kalaw, but that went pear shaped as I was dropped off in Thazi at 4am, did not manage to find the train station five minutes walk away, and ended up on a shuttle instead with what seemed like a twelve year old kamikaze driver (i would advise against such transport). Luckily I got another opportunity to go from Hsipaw to Pyin Oo Lwin.

What better way is there to spend a day on a rickety train with locals watching the scenery, and feasting on 30 cent noodles from the vendors at the stops? 

An added bonus was going over the Gokteik Viaduct which was completed in 1900. Scary as hell, especially when everyone moves to one side to get photos. 

Surprisingly comfortable, 

Take the slow boat from Mandalay to Bagan 

I repeat the slow boat. There are a few options, costing up to forty dollars, but we took the one that can take anywhere between fourteen hours and two days, depending on the water levels. It didn't bother me. 

It departs incredibly early, and as you arrive there are families sleeping. Take a seat, and settle in for the day. No need to bring food, as at every stop there are merchants vying for your business. One woman saw me eyeing off her samosas, and was by my side in no time. Please remember to bargain, as the, "Shuddup and take my money" approach might see you paying triple what the person next to you paid. Did I say might? 

Floating down the Irrawaddy taking in the scenery, seeing a glimpse of every day Myanmar, and the simplicity of these beautiful people going about their business gives you a sense of calm. 

I kinda wish it had taken two days, and the next day at Bagan paled in comparison.