Yangon, contrary to my preconception, is not the capital of Myanmar. The government had moved the capital to Naypyidaw in 2006, but this city on the peninsula remains Myanmar’s main hub for commercialism, and is the entry port for most tourists. I arrived in Yangon via domestic flight, so rather than the newly renovated halls of the international terminal, I was ushered into a small waiting room where luggage was being thrown into a pile on the floor because there is no conveyor belt. Nor was there need for one due to the lack of multiple flights landing at the same time. There was also no money exchange counter, but the taxi counter will offer you a rate that’s as good as any hotel.
My taxi driver lost interest in me after I told him I didn’t need a car the next day, and proceeded to pick up his girlfriend along the way to my hotel. They fed each other some delicious looking snacks (I wasn’t offered any). After dropping the girlfriend at work, he finally got me to my hotel, a nice looking building among ones that appear to have not been repaired for years. He smiled with anticipation as he got my luggage out of the trunk. I didn’t give him a tip (still bitter about not being offered any snacks).
The SF gang arrived later that afternoon. Even though I had seen Jeannie and Dru’s smiling faces during Christmas break, I ran into the elevator in my PJs so I can give them bear hugs as soon as the elevator door opened. Okay, so I didn’t exactly plan it that way, and in the case of Jori it was more of an awkward handshake since we just met, but the point is, I was ecstatic to see them!
Since we are only in town for 24 hours, there was no time to waste. Our first stop was the market, which was a disappointment as it was nothing like Chatuchak in Bangkok, and we did not manage to get longyi’s (traditional Burmese dress worn by both men and women) for the boys.
We then decided to take a walk to the station to ride the circular train, a local commuter train built in in the colonial times by the British. The train runs in a 3 hour loop around the city and the surrounding areas, and according to Lonely Planet, it was the way to meet the locals. The ticket office was on the platform, where a handwritten sign detailed the train times in English. We paid $1.5 each for a handwritten ticket, then hopped on the train during its brief 1 minute stop. Without a map or Internet, we had no idea where the train would take us, and after brief attempts to chat up a couple of monks (it didn’t work too well as the only Burmese we knew was “mingalabar”), we got off at a random stop.
The station exited to a quiet street by a stream. I’m not quite sure whether it could be called a stream, more like a moat filled with trash. A lonely Pooh bobbed up and down in the still grey liquid. We gave him a moment of silence.
After an intense cab ride where we all screamed for our lives (and the lives of little children the cab driver seemed to have been aiming to run over), we arrived at Kandawgyi Park, famous for its artificial lake and sunset. Neither were impressive after the gorgeous sunset I saw over U-Bain Bridge, but I enjoyed watching kids dance in the square and teenage couples hold hands, oblivious to the world like they would be anywhere else.
After a brief stop for dinner, we reached Shwedagon shortly after nightfall. Having visited temples all over Asia, we were skeptical of the wonderful claims hailed by guidebooks. We stood corrected as we looked up in awe at the grandeur built to hold 8 strands of Buddha’s hair. The pagoda did not stand by itself, but sprawled out into a giant compound on Singuttara Hill. Stores selling everything from souvenirs to flowers for worship line the stairs leading up to the chinthe (mythical lions) that guard the entrance to the pagoda. When we are finally granted entrance, we were greeted by what Dru called “disco Buddhas,” a curious dichotomy of serene Buddha statues surrounded by colorful flashing neon lights. These are probably the most decked out Buddhas I’ve seen, anywhere.
It was here where we first noticed the curious weekday signs that actually exist in most temples. The pagoda had an octagonal base with eight corners, each representing a day of the week with Wednesday split into AM and PM. The day of the week when a person is born is extremely important in Myanmar culture, as this is the basis for their astrology as well as name. For example, since I was born on a Saturday, my name would likely start with the characters Ta, Hta, Da, or Na. When I go visit a pagoda, I would visit the Southwest corner, ruled by the planet Saturn with Naga (a giant snake) as my sign. This ritual is quite particular to Myanmar versus other parts of Southeast Asia, and quite fascinating if you want to read more on it.
We found a space for ourselves and sat down, briefly discussing which direction to point our feet as it would be rude to point it towards a Buddha statue, then deciding the effort would be futile as there were Buddha statues in every direction. In addition to answering prayers Buddha also provides free wifi at this abode. Since I forgot to bring my phone I grudgingly settle for pondering the meaning of life while everyone else Instagrams. No significant insights were noted.
We asked the taxi to take us to the night market. It didn’t seem promising at first, as we were pointed to go down the dimly lit alleyway with shuttered doors on both sides. We marched on fearlessly, and soon found ourselves among locals and tourists, basting in the multitude of sights, sounds, and smell invading our senses. We were quite full from dinner, so food was less enticing to us than the Buddhist parade that happens to roll by.
Different versions of Buddha sat on top of trucks, and devotees followed his motorcade silently with candles in hand. As they drove by, people left their dinners and stalls to give their offerings (cash) in exchange for strands of jasmine. The quiet procession was somewhat disturbed by the lion dance performance nearby, and soon lost the attention of these fickle tourists. The performance was in celebration of Chinese New Year, there was a crowd of hundreds, and it was broadcasted on a giant screen for those of us who could not get close. We marveled at the number of people who would want to watch, then moved on.
The Strand was a fancy hotel by the river. It reminds me of a number of bars on the Bund in Shanghai, without the gorgeous view. The decor was one of muted sophistication, in the Victorian style that characterized most high end hotels of the land the British colonized. We ordered brightly cocktails with fancy names, and talked about books, life, love, and perhaps other things too.
The night ended young for the jetlagged travelers, but we did manage to get up early the next morning with an important mission — finding the perfect mohinga as recommended by Anthony Bourdain. Mohinga is a rice noodle and fish dish that the Burmese eat for breakfast, served with sprinkles of long beans, fried garlic, cilantro, lemon grass, onions, among other things. It’s one of those things that can’t be described in words, you just have to try it yourself.
After several stops to ask for directions, our driver found the tiny street this restaurant is supposedly located on. The street was lined with many shops that fixed air conditioners. As we entered the nondescript joint, we realized (somewhat squeamishly) the restaurant had once been an air con fixer upper as well. To our delight we were the only tourists, even though that made ordering quite an ordeal as none of the servers spoke English (yes, I know, how pompous of us to expect such treatment). We somehow managed, and concluded in unison that Anthony Bourdain knows his stuff.
We left for the airport shortly after stuffing ourselves, content with our <24 hour day tour of the city. Yangon may not be the most beautiful or exciting part of the tour, but boy, did we miss that mohinga!
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