sheplayedelvis

Wanderlust

I have been lucky enough to travel far and wide for over twenty years, across the length and breadth of a wildly beautiful, challenging and and ever-changing world. From the vast Savannah’s of Africa to the snow-clad peaks of the Himalayas. The humanity-strewn streets of India, clad in a cloak of pollution yet still smiling broadly; a foray into an ancient culture revamped in crass modernity (as a hostess in Tokyo); and as witness to the end of an era as the Chinese People’s Liberation Army cruised the streets of Hong Kong on July 1st, 1997, their faces stuck to the fugged windows of ancient buses, framed by their hands, expressions of amazement etched onto their features at the sights and sounds of a city that had been partying hard in the lead up to this momentous event.

Each and every adventure is a palimpsest of stories and experiences, wonder and horror in equal measure. Perhaps the most confronting journey I made was to Burma in 2007. It is contentious – should travellers travel to Burma at all? There is much discussion as to whether tourists empower the regime by feeding it hungrily sought foreign currency, or whether they encourage a corrupt regime. Lonely Planet considers tourism “one of the few industries to which ordinary locals have access – in terms of income and communication; the vast majority of locals want you there”. The travel guide also suggests that in areas where the international community are present human rights abuses are less likely to occur. The people we met longed to know more of our world and our tourist dollars are a vital source of income to them. They were interested, engaged and powerfully optimistic that the choking pall of oppression would lift and Burma would one day be returned to its former glory.

Interestingly the regime is keen to stamp out independent travel in Burma in favour of tour groups and controlled tourism. I am fairly allergic to organised group travel and have been fortunate enough to  wander the earth on my own terms. Independent tourists are considered a challenge to the regime’s strict autonomy as what they see and experience cannot be controlled and their reactions travel with them far and wide. My experiences in Burma have allowed me a far greater understanding of an exceptional people castrated by the dictatorship they exist under. If I can help in any way to lessen the choke chain around their necks I will do so. Perhaps their stories will shine a light on a country that desperately needs foreign intervention and understanding.

A backdrop to the Saffron Revolution

Rangoon is shrouded in silence. It is the middle of the day yet all we can hear is the buzz of cicadas and the drone of traffic as we shunt towards the city from Yangon International Airport. The streets steam and the burnished glow of the golden pagodas warms the afternoon’s monsoonal cloak, light glinting from the puddles and caught in the raindrops. It is delicately ethereal and a long way from the few expectations we had of Burma, an ancient land wrought with oppression and two weeks away from an uprising witnessed by the world.

Rangoon’s sultry beauty is crumbling and damp, its pockmarked buildings sprout mossy growth and the decaying history of a once great empire streaks the city façades with a grimy sheen. My heart stumbles over every precipice in the pavement, a loose-toothed mouth than spans a torrent of effluent below. The skeletons of colonial splendour peek from beneath a patina of neglect, and great Georgian mansions line the Strand as if waiting for their colonial masters to return. Most are used for government departments, their interiors subdivided into tiny mdf offices that skirt the perimeter, their interiors echoing dully. It looks as if no maintenance has been carried out for the last 40 years, though Chinese office blocks, sleek and shiny are thrown up within weeks, huddling in the skirts of Sule Pagoda, the gilded temple, or ‘paya’ in the heart of the city.

The Okinawa Guesthouse hunkers down on 32^nd street, a tiny teak-floored family affair that is basic (US$17/ for two, including breakfast), but central. Heading out into the teeming city as night falls, we are assailed by steam from noodle stalls creating a fog of mouth-watering smells and the sizzle of street food; Indian, Chinese and local Bamar,  the conversation of the night . Willys jeeps bustle around downtown where mutated buses skitter and jolt, belching their human cargo on every corner. Bamboo cages teem with tiny black, yellow and brown sparrows, on sale to be released into the air, the flit of their wings symbolic of the freedom the Burmese are denied. Bustling markets like Bogyoke Aung San sell everything from second hand glasses, homemade exercise books, delicate lacquer ware, a startling array of pencils and well-chewed biros, and at this time of year, umbrellas, sold by salesmen with knowing grins and fat pockets, their days spent sewing life back into broken brollies. There is a refreshing absence of western consumerism here, a heartening lack of golden arches or flashing neon. Army disposal stores will sell you anything from genuine Russian army socks to a Willy’s jeep, complete with US Army markings. But it is impossible to buy a foreign newspaper, the internet is prehistorically slow and prone to censorship, and most popular email servers are banned.

Burma is a country of contradiction, where power and servitude are entwined, where gaudy wealth and abject poverty drink tea together on doll-sized chairs that litter the gutter. It is a country in which mute fear and abject humility is masked by bravery, courage and pride. Since 1962, the Burmese people have endured autocratic rule; since 1988, this has been the rule of a military junta. In stark rejection of this repression, the recent protests that occurred just after we left the country, saw a human tide swell through the streets of the capital, a tide coloured by the blood red robes of Buddhist monks, revered throughout society for their devout peace. The silence of the streets, we discovered, is indicative of the internal struggle that wrenches Burma apart.

August was, admittedly, a strange time of year to visit. Heading home to Australia from a summer spent in Europe the dilemma always confounds; monsoon or monsoon? We have discovered though, that monsoonal travellers in Asia are often witness to a chink in the tourist armour and are readily embraced for their willingness to visit at this time of year. Burma is no exception.

On a rain-lashed night a tiny, rusty, juddering Mazda ferries us back to 32^nd Street, one rear light blinking hopefully, the rest resigned to the enormity of the task. Red lights after curfew spell disaster, so we career into the inky blackness with, hearts in our hands. The road is slick with rain, the windows fugged, and Maung, our taxi driver, professional to a fault, leans out of his window to pull on the windscreen wipers in the vain hope they might flick back into life. Slewing across the road to avoid an oncoming horse and cart (similarly lacking adequate windscreen protection or lighting) our lives flash before us. But as our backstreet guest house hoves into view beneath the golden awning of Sule Pagoda, we are distracted from imminent disaster by a weaving throng of monks, their saffron robes wrapped tight around them. Streaming through the streets, thousands of feet mark a pilgrimage to the temples, the only sound the softest padding of bare feet on slick roads as dawn lights up the sky.

The alley rats are taking to the wires and even locals are hurrying to escape the storm brewing on the horizon as the floods begin to lap at the step of the guesthouse. After a simple breakfast of mohinga, slippery rice noodles laced with lime and chilli and fresh vegetables, in a gingery fish broth, included in the room fee pretty much everywhere, the family advise us to head up country to the relative dry of the plains of the Irrawaddy River in Central Burma.

After an hours flight, bouncing through monsoon skies we land at Nyaung U Airport, a rickety tin shed that claims to be the gateway to Bagan. The trip cost US$70 each one way, but was easy and quick and is perfect for travellers with a limited amount of time. A comparable trip by train costs between US$4-US$31 and takes from 10½ to 21 hours. Studded with temples, Bagan is considered a worthy rival to Cambodia’s Angkor Wat in terms of the sheer size and history of the settlement. Some 4,000 ancient temples dot the landscape, dating from the ninth century to the thirteenth century, like chess pieces on a barren board. The proud incarnations of a litany of Burmese kings, the temples mark the transition from Hindu and Mahayana Buddhist beliefs to the Theravada Buddhist philosophy that is characteristic of Burma. The ransacking by the warriors of Kublai Khan at the end of the thirteenth century is believed to have marked the decline of the area, but the imposing monuments that remain create an awesome display against the bruised skies that once again threaten rain. In tiny pockets of the plain it is common to find locals building new payas, spending what few hours of spare time they have hitching up their longyis and laying the bricks that they believe will last long into the future, a testament to their faith.

With so many ancient temples it is more than possible to avoid the tourist groups that rampage through in military formation, never once removing their eyes from the lens of a video camera. Infact, with a little initiative it is easy to find a spot of your own. Scuttling across a freshly turned field, oxen watching balefully from the corner, the centuries slip away, until, as the first pilgrims, we reach the crumbling outer walls of a temple overgrown with brambles. Approaching with caution, and no little veneration, removing our shoes as we step up onto the sprawling paya, we are met with gales of laughter. A face peers around the corner; bare to the waist and sporting an array of tattoos, an old man grins at our devotion, hitches up his longyi and readily offers us a swig of his beer and a puff on his cheroot. Mindful of local custom and happy to oblige, the rest of the day is spent gossiping and sipping beer in the warm embrace of an ancient monument, fading images of the Buddha gazing down on us with benign reverence.

It is rare to find a place so steeped in peacefulness. The plains of the Irrawaddy are a historical marvel, but it is the presence and generosity of the people who inhabit this region that make it so profoundly impressive.

In Bagan, where wizened, giggling old men share their beer with strangers, the clandestine battle that rages in Burma seems far away. Rows of neat hotels line the three single-street townships of Bagan, New Bagan and Nyaung U, freezers whir, somewhat sporadically, cooling the long-necks of beer we like most, and every door way frames smiling faces pouched tight with paan that invite us in to eat. Lazy days are spent in the shade, sipping tea and watching life spill past. Some of the more expensive hotels have pools the colour of verdigris that you can use for a US$5 or less and there is nothing to rival a pool to yourself even if the skies loom menacingly above. We opted for a cheaper option and stayed at the Okinawa’s sister guesthouse, Bagan Central Hotel. Stone villas set around a central courtyard set the scene for an open-air breakfast each morning, inclusive in the US$17/ night price, and much discussion of the weather with our affable hosts, though little English was spoken. Our evenings began as the sun sank and involved a jaunt along the streets of New Bagan or Nyaung U, chatting to the people who throng to catch a glimpse or share a smile, and a simple meal of fish and rice, icy cold Myanmar beer and coal-roasted peanuts.

Caught up in the wild rejoicing at the Buddha festival, held at Lakwananda Paya in the tiny village of Thiripyitsaya every August, crowds of people line the banks of the swollen Irrawaddy. The top-end of a speaker screeches and squeals in protest, booming its message for miles into the country. Performing monkeys, wooden carousels laden with kids and long-tail boat races on the churning current are the highlight of the year and we are welcomed in as old friends, to drink, laugh and eat. Climbing the steep whitewashed steps to the golden dome of the temple the pulsing roar of the crowd fades. The paya is draped in Buddhist flags and fresh blossom and families picnic together in the shade of a banyan tree, sharing the precious cool of the tiles with packs of slumbering village dogs. From the top, the view is of the river snaking its way back to the delta wetlands of Rangoon, sun-streaked kids splashing each other and piling onto rickety pods that double as boats to hurl themselves into the chocolaty depths. In a stolen moment, softened by friendship and a rare glint of sunshine, a local friend, previously too scared to broach any topic not candy-coated with innocence, whispers to me, telling me of his fear of shaded glances from unknown eyes. He glances around him, strangely wary when one of us inadvertently calls the country Burma as opposed to regime-sanctioned Myanmar. But he also tells me of his hope for the future and his belief that the Burmese people will gain their freedom once again.

As we headed back to the airport and a connecting flight to Bangkok, crouching low in a pickup that spills people onto the roadside with abandon, the silence on the streets seemed more normal than when we arrived. We discover motorbikes and scooters are banned from Rangoon, under edict from General Than Shwe himself, following a failed assassination attempt on his life in 2003. Aside from the buzz of bikes that you come to expect of Asia, in a country where a mobile phone costs upwards of US$250, and the average wage is a meagre US$30 a month, a tiny minority own phones. Perhaps it was the scarcity of loud conversation and the beeping indifference of mobile phones that we noted when we arrived. We could not have known that just days later the streets that were so silent would be shattered by the vicious retribution that lashed the peaceful protest staged by the monks and people alike. We bore witness to the birth of the Saffron Revolution.