Burma

Stepping off the plane in Yangon is like stepping back in time. Our first interaction with the city was from the back of one of its ancient taxicabs, physically holding the rusty doors closed to a vehicle with the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car from at least the ‘70s, when the country used to drive according to the British system. From there we witnessed scenes that could no longer exist in many Asian countries: monks still part of a bustling everyday life that includes women selling calls from landline phones set up on tables on the street and crowds waiting for rides in jam-packed pick-ups for which a boy hanging off the back and yelling is the only indication of a destination. Some of that sense of arriving in a land out of time is quaint. It allowed for the preservation of a culture where men still wear traditional long longyis, women still grind wood into a tan powder they apply to their faces as sunblock and families still send their sons to become novice monks, gathering alms every morning for at least a few months of their lives.



Some of it, however, is evidence of a marked, government-created lack of progress. In Yangon, where the situation is best, many people only have electricity two or three days a week. Rural people treat serious conditions with a mixture of spices because they lack access to a doctor and the means to pay for care. Leprosy colonies still are present, though the junta vehemently denies their existence. Employment for educated people is scarce; the military toughs who run the country would rather rely on their 800,000 forced laborers instead.

The dissonance between what Burma could be and what the government has let it become is astounding, because despite the prevalence of small men with big guns, it remains a nation of wonders. In Yangon we saw the Shwedagon pagoda – an awe-inspiring gilded stupa topped with a 76-carat diamond and surrounded by a complex of equally breath-taking holy sites, including spots where you pray based on which of the (eight) days of the week was the day of your birth. The Shwedagon is one of a half dozen blindingly gold pagodas that claim to enshrine Buddha’s hair, teeth or other relics we saw in a single day in Yangon.

The “world’s largest book” is carved on 729 doubled-sided marble tablets, housed in 729 pure white stupas at the Kuthodaw pagoda in Mandalay. The stone pages hold the entire Pali canon of Theravada Buddist scripture, which took 2,400 monks working in 24-hour rotations six months to read out loud, when ordered by King Mindon to do so in 1879. The ancient city of Bagan holds 2,200 temples in 40 square kilometers of unbroken countryside. That landscape, with earthen-toned temples as far as the eye can see in every direction, represents only about half the pagodas that stood during the former capital’s heyday, 800-1,000 years ago.



The list could continue. The sites we saw in Burma eclipsed those of any other country we’ve visited in scale and number, and we would giggle at the frequency of gorgeous buildings our guides would drive by without seeming to notice. The country’s great wealth of natural resources – it is not uncommon to see piles of precious stones for sale on the sidewalk – makes its people’s poverty and repression seem all the more unfair. Many people, from trishaw drivers to strangers met on the street, were eager to spread the word about the regime’s brutal policies. We met a woman whose mother was stripped of her medical license after participating in a pro-democracy demonstration two decades ago. Her response was emblematic of the quiet defiance exhibited by many Burmese faced with such indignities. “They can take my license, but they can’t take my memories,” she said.

The tourism industry in Burma is highly regulated, to keep foreigners from seeing blight-stricken areas like the post-cyclone Irrawaddy delta and to ensure that the government profits from their presence through fees and state-run businesses. Knowing that our dollars would be lining the pockets of corrupt ministers was the biggest deterrent to traveling to Burma, but once there, we saw how being around to purchase from everyday people also could do some good. And there was plenty to buy! Every town specializes in a number of handicrafts, and we visited a workshop for just about all of them. From intricate laquerware that takes months to complete to umbrellas that can be fashioned by hand in just minutes, we learned the centuries old techniques that family businesses are still using today.



People were happy to take us into their workshops and show us their craft even when not trying to make a sale. It was part of what struck us most about Burma – the people were genuinely kind and interested in practicing their English and learning about us. At Mandalay Hill we were surrounded by college students wanting to get to know us, one of whom – a monk – since invited Scott to gchat. People indulged us as we joined them to watch the Chinese New Year/shopping center seventh anniversary concert taking place outside our hotel in Yangon. When we crashed a wedding in Inle Lake, instead of being greeted with disapproving stares, we were taken to be photographed on stage with the bride and groom and feed big plates of noodles. Of course, at the reunion of about 100 of my family members held at a monastery on our last day, I was showered with questions about the family in America and overwhelmed by the number of connections I would now like to cultivate with my relatives in this isolated but beautiful nation.