Thursday, February 27, 2014
Bangkok and South to Bang Saphan
Nom wahn...sweet milk. One of the take aways from this trip will be learning to ask for sweetened condensed milk for my coffee. It's nom wahn, wahn being the accent, sounding like it starts with a k instead of wa, and clipped at the end. Impossible to hear the first or second or even third time. There is a book called Very Thai that is sweet and funny and great if you spend any time traveling in Thailand and want answers to the imponderables that come up, i.e. why small thin squares of pink tissue for table napkins, how the motorbike taxis work, why the police and army uniforms are so tight they look about to pop off of the men who wear them. They need one of these guides for Myanmar. I spent a small portion of my days in Yangon pondering the new paint jobs on the old, mildew encrusted buildings. Bright turquoise paint now covers part of the front of the huge colonial building across Sule Paya Road from the May Shan, our Yangon home. Did they run out of paint? Did they only paint as far as they could reach? Did they add Kilz-it to the paint before they used it? Did they pressure wash before starting (I doubt it)? Will they match this color and do more? Or is this all they had in the basement of an old colonial era paint store? These are questions I will never know the answer to. How does a country so far neglected and compromised begin to renew itself? In some places Myanmar has chosen to pull down these dilapidated mementos of the British Raj and replace them with Chinese Industrial architecture devoid of grace or charm and poorly built to boot. But isn't that the way it is everywhere? I don't know. With no TV, limited internet, running low on reading material and long days to contemplate Life's mysteries, these are some of the things I think about. Sweet Milk, where my next cup of coffee is coming from, will I finish the mystery I started only two days ago, today, and will there be a place to eat tonight? I need a book to guide me...instead, I find the Belt of Orion, turn to the north and find the Big Dipper low in the horizon, its handle dipping into the sea, and wonder some more why I didn't take a course in star gazing.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
The Local Ferry
After a full day on the Lemro River and a final stop at Mrauk U's most recently excavated temple Kothang, we woke early the next morning to catch the local ferry back to Sittwe and from there, to Yangon the next day. We ate at Moe Cherry our last night...one more Rakhiang meal and, perhaps, one too many.
We rode to the ferry as the sun was just infiltrating the foggy morning. After a bone-jarring drive we arrived at the busy dock. We paid our fare and waited aboard while sacks of produce, stacks of woven bamboo fans, boxes of empty beer bottles, familes with lunches and cranky children, and very few farang found spots on the two decks. Foreigners always ride up top, and always get a seat. Ours were two listing beach chairs with slung cloth seats in various stages of disintegration. A nice young man requested a dollar each since our tickets apparently didn't cover the cost of a seat. The last thing I saw come up the two by six used as a gangplank were two women with clusters of chickens tied together at the legs. I was pretty sure the chickens were still alive, at least as long as the ride to Sittwe, and felt fortunate that I didn't have to make the trip upside down with my leg tied to Muzzy.
The idling engine of the ferry accelerated and churned up the muddy river bottom to maneuver away from the dock. At last we were under way. Two men in longyis and puffy black Chinese polyester jackets with furry collars approached us to pay for our seats...again. As difficult as it is to debate in a language I don't know, I stood my ground and indicated we'd already payed someone else for the privilege of sitting in these lovely chairs. It was ludicrous to argue over two dilapidated deck chairs, but my intestinal unrest made me cranky. Our ferry crawled at a snail's pace down the river we'd come up 8 days earlier and while this trip wasn't as cold, it was certainly more crowded. Every available inch of deck space was covered with families on mats or people crouching in the morning chill. Muzzy went aft to stretch out and take photos and eventually I joined him. The port side of the ferry was bathed in the rising sun and by turning myself strategically, I warmed up. Looking over the railings I noted that the ferry was even more ancient than it looked when I beheld it at the dock in Mrauk U. Coats of paint barely held the rusting railings together and the wooden deck was a minefield of uneven boards...but, of course, it hardly mattered since all available space was taken. Upon returning to our seats we discovered that one of them had been re-sold. A game of musical chairs ensued and in the end, the farangs ruled, hollow victory that it was. Because we were both a little worse for wear, the ride was less exciting than the one going up, except for Muzzy's siting of several Sarus Cranes grazing in small groups and pairs through the harvested rice fields. We spent a bilingual debate with some Italian travelers over whether they were cranes or storks. At a little over 5 feet tall, they were impressive with their deep red heads and necks and gray bodies.
Our ferry stopped at every local dock, packing in even more people and produce. Eventually, five hours into the trip, I realized I would have to find the toilet. I dread using public toilets in third world countries. In our 14 hour bus trip in Laos, the driver stopped at a convenient field and men and women went to different sides, squatted down and did their business. The ferry had toilets on the bottom deck, I knew, from the ride up, but instinctively I knew this ferry was even less ammenable than the first one. I stuffed my pocket with a small wad of toilet paper and hoisted myself up from the sagging deck chair. Picking my way through peanut shells and sleeping children, I made my way to the stairway down to the bottom deck. As I neared the bottom step I looked out over a sea of brown faces squatting over every possible inch of floor space. Several women turned their eyes to me as I stood there, frozen...go back? Try to work my way through the packed bodies? I turned to the women and they raised their hands, indicating the direction I should go. It was one of those universal women things. We can't just stand and point whenever we want. I plunged in, finding just enough space for my large farang feet to hit the deck and not someone's hand, heading around to the left, navigating a narrow asile between 5 foot high bales of produce and the passengers, past the "dining" area, a large table where a woman was serving plates of rice with curries, and back to the narrow section by the engines where three toilets waited. As I neared the doors I noticed the two chicken ladies dozing with their backs to a sack of rice. Looking down, the only available floor space in front of the toilets was covered with an array of chickens. Legs still attached by plastic string, the chickens lay in fan-like circles, starring up at me. They were still alive and I was happy about that. I'm not so sure they were. Now I had to avoid stepping on them while I pulled open the warped metal door to the nearest toilet and did a sort of leap into the unknown of one of the more disgusting toilets I've encountered. It was everything I expected and more, but by now I have become adept, even at my age, at rolling up my pant legs, balancing on bricks used for footrests, and aiming at a not so strategically placed hole in the deck revealing the passing river below. I was in and out, touching a minimum of surfaces before the chickens even knew I had been there. I encountered only one cluck of disapproval on my way back to my seat, made by a woman who had to move aside for my foot.
Upon arrival in Sittwe, we watched in horror as a small wooden boat very nearly capsized as it collided with the ferry and several young men clambered up the sides like pirates boarding a ship, swarmed over the railings and battled for position, franctically soliciting tuk tuk rides for the foreigners aboard, of whom there were few. It was a crazy scene and I was relieved to finally turn on the shower in our Shwe Thazin hotel room, drink some cold water, and lay down.
We rode to the ferry as the sun was just infiltrating the foggy morning. After a bone-jarring drive we arrived at the busy dock. We paid our fare and waited aboard while sacks of produce, stacks of woven bamboo fans, boxes of empty beer bottles, familes with lunches and cranky children, and very few farang found spots on the two decks. Foreigners always ride up top, and always get a seat. Ours were two listing beach chairs with slung cloth seats in various stages of disintegration. A nice young man requested a dollar each since our tickets apparently didn't cover the cost of a seat. The last thing I saw come up the two by six used as a gangplank were two women with clusters of chickens tied together at the legs. I was pretty sure the chickens were still alive, at least as long as the ride to Sittwe, and felt fortunate that I didn't have to make the trip upside down with my leg tied to Muzzy.
The idling engine of the ferry accelerated and churned up the muddy river bottom to maneuver away from the dock. At last we were under way. Two men in longyis and puffy black Chinese polyester jackets with furry collars approached us to pay for our seats...again. As difficult as it is to debate in a language I don't know, I stood my ground and indicated we'd already payed someone else for the privilege of sitting in these lovely chairs. It was ludicrous to argue over two dilapidated deck chairs, but my intestinal unrest made me cranky. Our ferry crawled at a snail's pace down the river we'd come up 8 days earlier and while this trip wasn't as cold, it was certainly more crowded. Every available inch of deck space was covered with families on mats or people crouching in the morning chill. Muzzy went aft to stretch out and take photos and eventually I joined him. The port side of the ferry was bathed in the rising sun and by turning myself strategically, I warmed up. Looking over the railings I noted that the ferry was even more ancient than it looked when I beheld it at the dock in Mrauk U. Coats of paint barely held the rusting railings together and the wooden deck was a minefield of uneven boards...but, of course, it hardly mattered since all available space was taken. Upon returning to our seats we discovered that one of them had been re-sold. A game of musical chairs ensued and in the end, the farangs ruled, hollow victory that it was. Because we were both a little worse for wear, the ride was less exciting than the one going up, except for Muzzy's siting of several Sarus Cranes grazing in small groups and pairs through the harvested rice fields. We spent a bilingual debate with some Italian travelers over whether they were cranes or storks. At a little over 5 feet tall, they were impressive with their deep red heads and necks and gray bodies.
Our ferry stopped at every local dock, packing in even more people and produce. Eventually, five hours into the trip, I realized I would have to find the toilet. I dread using public toilets in third world countries. In our 14 hour bus trip in Laos, the driver stopped at a convenient field and men and women went to different sides, squatted down and did their business. The ferry had toilets on the bottom deck, I knew, from the ride up, but instinctively I knew this ferry was even less ammenable than the first one. I stuffed my pocket with a small wad of toilet paper and hoisted myself up from the sagging deck chair. Picking my way through peanut shells and sleeping children, I made my way to the stairway down to the bottom deck. As I neared the bottom step I looked out over a sea of brown faces squatting over every possible inch of floor space. Several women turned their eyes to me as I stood there, frozen...go back? Try to work my way through the packed bodies? I turned to the women and they raised their hands, indicating the direction I should go. It was one of those universal women things. We can't just stand and point whenever we want. I plunged in, finding just enough space for my large farang feet to hit the deck and not someone's hand, heading around to the left, navigating a narrow asile between 5 foot high bales of produce and the passengers, past the "dining" area, a large table where a woman was serving plates of rice with curries, and back to the narrow section by the engines where three toilets waited. As I neared the doors I noticed the two chicken ladies dozing with their backs to a sack of rice. Looking down, the only available floor space in front of the toilets was covered with an array of chickens. Legs still attached by plastic string, the chickens lay in fan-like circles, starring up at me. They were still alive and I was happy about that. I'm not so sure they were. Now I had to avoid stepping on them while I pulled open the warped metal door to the nearest toilet and did a sort of leap into the unknown of one of the more disgusting toilets I've encountered. It was everything I expected and more, but by now I have become adept, even at my age, at rolling up my pant legs, balancing on bricks used for footrests, and aiming at a not so strategically placed hole in the deck revealing the passing river below. I was in and out, touching a minimum of surfaces before the chickens even knew I had been there. I encountered only one cluck of disapproval on my way back to my seat, made by a woman who had to move aside for my foot.
Upon arrival in Sittwe, we watched in horror as a small wooden boat very nearly capsized as it collided with the ferry and several young men clambered up the sides like pirates boarding a ship, swarmed over the railings and battled for position, franctically soliciting tuk tuk rides for the foreigners aboard, of whom there were few. It was a crazy scene and I was relieved to finally turn on the shower in our Shwe Thazin hotel room, drink some cold water, and lay down.
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| Kothuang Temple of 90,000 Buddhas |
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| Begging bowls |
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| Kothuang Temple |
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| Kothuang Temple top |
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| Buddha carvings |
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| Kothuang interior where the roof has collapsed and been covered with corrugated tin |
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| Monks at Kothuang |
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| Ferry dock at Mrauk U |
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| All aboard |
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| Leaving Mrauk U |
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| Morning sun on the ferry |
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| Smoking woman |
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| Loading the ferry at Mrauk U |
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| Sittwe, view from the top of our hotel flying foxes. They call them flying dogs |
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Random Babble
My last post left off at our explorations of the temples and stupas in Mrauk U. We spent several hours two days in a row wandering through the dusky labyrinths and corridors that burrow through these 16th century structures. Typically there is a main hall housing a large Buddha surrounded by tunnels with niches holding rows and rows of smaller Buddhas, some in the image of lost kings of the Rakhine kingdom. We took countless photos but it is impossible to capture the mystery and magick of actually being there. At the end of our first full day we joined our new friend Marc for dinner at a small Rakhine eatery near the market. His guide joined us and the owner of the restaurant served up some traditional Rakhine cuisine. We had deep fried squash with a spicy dipping sauce, fresh corn, lima beans, fish curry and pork curry, sticks of tiny fish fried crispy and eaten whole, lots of rice and, of course, Myanmar beer. This was not a restaurant for the squeamish and I think we payed for that a couple of days later, but trying local food is one of the requisites of travel, don't you think? It was one of several lively meals we shared with fellow travelers and Marc and Muzzy made fun company.
Our third day in Mrauk U was spent on a river journey up the Lemro to visit the Chin villages. While the actual Chin territory is closed to foreigners, the government does allow tourists to visit these two or three villages north of Mrauk U. It took about two hours to get to the first two villages. We traveled in a small covered boat with a guide named Ao. Ao spoke good English and eagerly shared all sorts of information, answering all our questions as best he could. He even discussed politics and expressed some of the frustrations of the Rakhiang people with the Myanmar government. They are an independent people, proud of their heritage and their language, quick to point out their differences from southern Myanmar.
Ao walked us through the first two villages that are Rakhiang and Chin, sort of two villages that run together. Tourism pays for the primary school here and is one of the main sources of income for all of these remote Rakhiang villages. We were taken to the home of an elder Chin woman who had traditional facial tattoos. Once characteristic of Chin women and applied with great religious ceremony, the tattoos were ended many years ago. These tattoos will die with the women of this generation. We took a few photographs, an odd experience, and continued up the river to the next village, about a half hour north.
In this last village, there are nine women, all in their 60's and older, with facial tattoos, who are willing to pose for photos. While this has a rather zoo like quality to it, these women were incredibly gracious and dignified, showing off their weavings, welcoming us into their village, and inviting me to sit with them. I indicated that I had a tattoo as well and pulled down the corner of my T-shirt to show my shoulder. They gathered around and looked at it. We all laughed.
It was a moment. We had another when one woman asked Ao to bring us to her house. She showed us her back strap loom, ordered Ao to bring us tea, and after a few moments conversation with him, she got up and went to the back of her house. When she came back, she replaced the bamboo plugs in her ears with a pair of huge silver ear plugs. I gasped and put my hand on my heart. The other women gathered in the courtyard nodding their approval. Our lady was so proud, and rightly so, of these beautiful heirloom earrings. I felt privileged that she shared them with me. As we prepared to leave, she found me and motioned for Muzzy to take her photo with me. Lovely. I didn't buy any textiles from the women, but gave them each a small contribution to thank them for letting us trespass.
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| Kuang Thant One of the only restaurants in Mrauk U with an English sign |
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| Marc and Muzzy |
Our third day in Mrauk U was spent on a river journey up the Lemro to visit the Chin villages. While the actual Chin territory is closed to foreigners, the government does allow tourists to visit these two or three villages north of Mrauk U. It took about two hours to get to the first two villages. We traveled in a small covered boat with a guide named Ao. Ao spoke good English and eagerly shared all sorts of information, answering all our questions as best he could. He even discussed politics and expressed some of the frustrations of the Rakhiang people with the Myanmar government. They are an independent people, proud of their heritage and their language, quick to point out their differences from southern Myanmar.
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| Kothuang Temple the temple of 90,000 Buddhas |
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| Recently excavated temple |
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| Making bricks |
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| The boat landing at the Lemro River |
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| Market town - sorting snails |
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| Buying a basket |
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| Our boat |
Ao walked us through the first two villages that are Rakhiang and Chin, sort of two villages that run together. Tourism pays for the primary school here and is one of the main sources of income for all of these remote Rakhiang villages. We were taken to the home of an elder Chin woman who had traditional facial tattoos. Once characteristic of Chin women and applied with great religious ceremony, the tattoos were ended many years ago. These tattoos will die with the women of this generation. We took a few photographs, an odd experience, and continued up the river to the next village, about a half hour north.
In this last village, there are nine women, all in their 60's and older, with facial tattoos, who are willing to pose for photos. While this has a rather zoo like quality to it, these women were incredibly gracious and dignified, showing off their weavings, welcoming us into their village, and inviting me to sit with them. I indicated that I had a tattoo as well and pulled down the corner of my T-shirt to show my shoulder. They gathered around and looked at it. We all laughed.
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| Have a seat |
It was a moment. We had another when one woman asked Ao to bring us to her house. She showed us her back strap loom, ordered Ao to bring us tea, and after a few moments conversation with him, she got up and went to the back of her house. When she came back, she replaced the bamboo plugs in her ears with a pair of huge silver ear plugs. I gasped and put my hand on my heart. The other women gathered in the courtyard nodding their approval. Our lady was so proud, and rightly so, of these beautiful heirloom earrings. I felt privileged that she shared them with me. As we prepared to leave, she found me and motioned for Muzzy to take her photo with me. Lovely. I didn't buy any textiles from the women, but gave them each a small contribution to thank them for letting us trespass.
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| Chinn woman |
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| Chinn woman |
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| Silver earrings |
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| Chinn Woman |
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| Chinn woman |
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| Chinn woman |
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Back to the Net
Where to begin? Okay...we are back in Yangon after a week up north in the Rakhine state of Myanmar. We flew to Sittwe from Yangon, spent the night at the bat hotel, and caught the morning ferry to Mrauk U. The bat hotel is the Shwe Thazin in Sittwe, on the main road and the trees across the street are the nesting place for hundreds of fruit bats. They vie with the crows for space. Its an awful racket and tweeting (the real kind) while hundreds of bats and crows swoop and chatter to get a spot. Sittwe is a backwater but has some charming qualities. Unfortunately we never made it to the big fish market, but we were on a tight schedule. The Rakhine people throughout the region are very outspoken about their culture. They will tell you about the neglect of their area by the government and are definite and clear about the differences between Rakhine people and the people in the south around Yangon. All through Myanmar and especially in the north, we found people very friendly, eager to pose for pictures, and ready to help if it is needed. This area has been closed off and on due to "ethnic" troubles. As we left the airport, the road was lined with armed military, arms length apart facing away from the street. It is a difficult situation and not discussed easily for many reasons, including the language barrier. We know it has something to do with Rohinga, Indian Muslims who found themselves in this area at the end of WWII and now find themselves an unwanted minority although they have lived there for 60 years. I think there are fine nuances here that an uninformed American had best leave alone. Suffice it to say that security is tighter in this area of the north than elsewhere for travelers. It is a poor area with a neglected infrastructure (not unusual in Myanmar) with a magnificent archaeological site at Mrauk U, and is the gateway to an area of great biodiversity.
Early the next morning we rode a tuk tuk, the Rakhine version, a tri-wheeled motorcycle with a covered truck-like bed attached with two benches on either side. All of these seem to be driven by young men in their early teens or twenties, usually with a CD player rigged up hanging from the center brace over the passenger area, blasting Myanmar or Hindi music...the more distortion the better. We reached the jetty for the public ferry, bought two tickets that included seats on the upper deck. Dawn was just lightening the sky as I approached the two boards that served as the gangplank. I crab walked with my pack on my back, taking my time as I bounced over the boards, one foot on each. Muzzy was behind me, yelling encouraging things like, "Bend your knees honey! That's right, take your time". I only looked down at the murky water once and gratefully took the hand of a small thin man in a funky longyi with a cheerot hanging from his betel stained mouth. Muzzy, the surefooted Old Salt, glided across after me as another man steered us up a small stariway to the upper deck...for foreigners and Rakhine with seats. It all turned out okay. We sat with a very funny Belgian artist who lives in Germany, Marc, and another traveler, a French man whose name I shamefully never got. Muzzy and Marc immediately hit it off and it was a towel-snapping, repartee-filled voyage. Marc generously recorded riverside village life in a quick sketch in my travel journal. It wasn't until I got home and went on the net that I discovered his beautiful artwork.
When we finally got underway, most of the regular passengers sat on mats on the decks, upper and lower, huddled and bundled and trying to keep warm. According to the guide book, there is a government run ferry, and a privately run ferry, a fast boat (which was docked at the pier and similar to ones we took on our first trips to the islands in the gulf of Thailand) and various private boats for hire. I'm not sure which ferry ours was, and, again, nuance of language is the barrier. This is my third trip to Myanmar and it is the first time I've learned to say more than minglabar, hello, and jaysubeh, thank you. I can ask for the bill and ask how much, say that the food is good and someone or something is pretty or beautiful.
So, 5 hours later we arrived in Mrauk U and the Shwe Thazin. Yes, run by the same family, but a much nicer hotel. To our delight the main area of ruins surrounded us, all within walking distance. The village of Mrauk U is in and around the 16th century temples. We discovered on our second or third day that the temples that are exposed are merely a handful of ones uncovered. Many of the jungle covered mounds are speculated to contain other stupas and temples. The area, over 27 square miles, is full of them. We spent the next two days exploring and photographing. They are quite awesome. Some restoration as been done, and not too badly, but it is possible to enter lone, small payas and visit Buddhas who have lost a head or a hand. The pieces lay next to them, waiting to be reattached.
This post was much longer but the rest of it was lost when I tried to post it earlier today. I will finish posting about our trip to Mrauk U and the Chin villages further north when we return to Bangkok.
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| Looking across from the roof terrace of our hotel in Sittwe |
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| The locals call them flying dogs |
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| The Shwe Thazin, our hotel in Sittwe |
Early the next morning we rode a tuk tuk, the Rakhine version, a tri-wheeled motorcycle with a covered truck-like bed attached with two benches on either side. All of these seem to be driven by young men in their early teens or twenties, usually with a CD player rigged up hanging from the center brace over the passenger area, blasting Myanmar or Hindi music...the more distortion the better. We reached the jetty for the public ferry, bought two tickets that included seats on the upper deck. Dawn was just lightening the sky as I approached the two boards that served as the gangplank. I crab walked with my pack on my back, taking my time as I bounced over the boards, one foot on each. Muzzy was behind me, yelling encouraging things like, "Bend your knees honey! That's right, take your time". I only looked down at the murky water once and gratefully took the hand of a small thin man in a funky longyi with a cheerot hanging from his betel stained mouth. Muzzy, the surefooted Old Salt, glided across after me as another man steered us up a small stariway to the upper deck...for foreigners and Rakhine with seats. It all turned out okay. We sat with a very funny Belgian artist who lives in Germany, Marc, and another traveler, a French man whose name I shamefully never got. Muzzy and Marc immediately hit it off and it was a towel-snapping, repartee-filled voyage. Marc generously recorded riverside village life in a quick sketch in my travel journal. It wasn't until I got home and went on the net that I discovered his beautiful artwork.
When we finally got underway, most of the regular passengers sat on mats on the decks, upper and lower, huddled and bundled and trying to keep warm. According to the guide book, there is a government run ferry, and a privately run ferry, a fast boat (which was docked at the pier and similar to ones we took on our first trips to the islands in the gulf of Thailand) and various private boats for hire. I'm not sure which ferry ours was, and, again, nuance of language is the barrier. This is my third trip to Myanmar and it is the first time I've learned to say more than minglabar, hello, and jaysubeh, thank you. I can ask for the bill and ask how much, say that the food is good and someone or something is pretty or beautiful.
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| Tickets for the ferry to Mrauk U $10 including a seat |
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| Our Ferry to Mrauk U |
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| My happy gangplank |
So, 5 hours later we arrived in Mrauk U and the Shwe Thazin. Yes, run by the same family, but a much nicer hotel. To our delight the main area of ruins surrounded us, all within walking distance. The village of Mrauk U is in and around the 16th century temples. We discovered on our second or third day that the temples that are exposed are merely a handful of ones uncovered. Many of the jungle covered mounds are speculated to contain other stupas and temples. The area, over 27 square miles, is full of them. We spent the next two days exploring and photographing. They are quite awesome. Some restoration as been done, and not too badly, but it is possible to enter lone, small payas and visit Buddhas who have lost a head or a hand. The pieces lay next to them, waiting to be reattached.
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| First class upper deck, the only place farang are allowed to sit |
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| Yes, I am happy |
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| It could be worse |
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| The restaurant |
This post was much longer but the rest of it was lost when I tried to post it earlier today. I will finish posting about our trip to Mrauk U and the Chin villages further north when we return to Bangkok.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Politics and the Falang
Except for red white and blue bunting, the occasional Thai flag, and massive traffic snarls, falangs are kept, delicately, away from any political rally or march in the King's city of Bangkok. In Banglampu, where we stay, tourists and revelers go about their business of dressing inappropriately, careening through the evening with bottles of Leo Beer and Beer Chang with nary a thought to marches and riots. The tourist spots are open and welcoming and there doesn't seem to be any lack of commerce or crowds. No one talks about what is going on, and that is probably as it should be. As an American, our own political knots are complicated enough without trying to armchair quarterback what is going on in Thailand. I can't even begin to explain it and won't try. Ultimately, I am Switzerland, it's none of my business.
And then there is Yangon. Even moldier and more abject than last year, or perhaps I notice it more? I don't know. Mildew coats the once whitewashed colonial buildings and I am reminded of that first visit in 2006, before the government fled Yangon, before the devastation of Nargis, when I looked out the tiny balcony at the back of our guest house and saw wires hanging precariously, peeling paint and the smell of mold. There is lots of new building, lots of tearing down of other buildings, but still plenty of beautiful old buildings with festoons of laundry strung across balconies where I wonder if there is electricity and what must it be like inside. How lucky I am to be born where I was and be able to travel here. Amidst the decay and obvious poverty the people are warm and welcoming and their vitality is reflected in the energy of the city. Laughter rings out from the sidewalks as men continuously readjust their longyi and clap their hands loudly to summon the tea boy down the street. There is still an atmosphere of hope. I do my part as a traveler, supporting street vendors, patronizing new small businesses, much like I try to do at home. There is still something vital about this country and I wish it well with all my heart.
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| These funny little tubs ferry you across the Chao Phraya all day long, back and forth from one pier to another. Bangkok |
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| Where Chinatown and Little India meet Bangkok |
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| Sampaeng Lane Bangkok |
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| Street Food Yangon |
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| The view across Sule Paya Blvd from our hotel Yangon |
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| Sule Paya Yangon |
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| Barbershop Yangon |
And then there is Yangon. Even moldier and more abject than last year, or perhaps I notice it more? I don't know. Mildew coats the once whitewashed colonial buildings and I am reminded of that first visit in 2006, before the government fled Yangon, before the devastation of Nargis, when I looked out the tiny balcony at the back of our guest house and saw wires hanging precariously, peeling paint and the smell of mold. There is lots of new building, lots of tearing down of other buildings, but still plenty of beautiful old buildings with festoons of laundry strung across balconies where I wonder if there is electricity and what must it be like inside. How lucky I am to be born where I was and be able to travel here. Amidst the decay and obvious poverty the people are warm and welcoming and their vitality is reflected in the energy of the city. Laughter rings out from the sidewalks as men continuously readjust their longyi and clap their hands loudly to summon the tea boy down the street. There is still an atmosphere of hope. I do my part as a traveler, supporting street vendors, patronizing new small businesses, much like I try to do at home. There is still something vital about this country and I wish it well with all my heart.
Market Day in Yangon
One of the joys we have traveling is visiting markets. Yangon is home to the Bogyoke Aung San, or "Scott's Market" as the English dubbed it, but we were determined to find the market where the locals shop. The Theingyi Zei is huge. It comprises a vast area between three major cross streets with numbered, alley-like streets on either side of a huge ornate market building. 26th Street is the morning produce, fish and meat market. As usual, these markets are noisy and crowded, bustling with energy as people bargain for fresh food. No plasric wrapped meat in trays here. No pre-cut and cleaned veggies. People call their wares in sing-song voices that rise above the din. Housewives stop to visit amidst streams of shoppers jostling one another. As we wandered from the vegetable section into the land of protein, the landscape changed from bucolic heads of cauliflower and broccoli, baskets of garlic, tiny potatoes, chilis, multi-colored eggplants, long beans and okra, to a bloody trail of headless chickens, rows of fish heads and live eels trying to escape their fates by diving over the sides of shallow pans to the muddy pavement, only to be scooped and returned to await their inevitable fate. I watched a woman clean a fish using a shell scraper and weigh out the purchase on a hand held brass scale. We were the only foreigners in the market this morning. Shoppers stopped to talk to us, vendors laughed when we asked to take a photograph and one woman offered me a taste from a basket of what I thought might be tamarind.
Inside the recently re-painted colonial market building proper, locked tall wooden cabinets lined narrow rows. The building itself has an arched ceiling that soared into the gloom while light streamed in through high windows and bounced off festoons of cobwebs. Vendors unfastened oversized brass locks and stacked cloth on top of four foot high enclosed platforms that jutted out from the cabinets behind. This is an odd arrangement for selling. The seller sits atop this platform surrounded by longyis in every color and pattern, roll printed sarongs in plastic bags exactly the right size, and folded bolts of cottons and synthetics. As you walk the rows, looking at wares, they lean down or stand up to bring out more merchandise from the cupboards behind them, then lean over and offer it to you. There are stools for the customer to sit on on ground level, and somtimes I've seen the buyer climb onto the platform to sit with the seller. The stalls stretch from one end of the bulding to the other and I wonder how all this merchandise will get sold? Who buys it? And this building is massive! The aisles are narrow and the amount of cloth is mind boggling! How do you choose just one or two pieces from this veritable barn?
I love best the parts of travel that I understand the least.
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| Chilis and watermelon |
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| Fish heads |
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| Sweetheart of the market |
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| Muslim man |
Inside the recently re-painted colonial market building proper, locked tall wooden cabinets lined narrow rows. The building itself has an arched ceiling that soared into the gloom while light streamed in through high windows and bounced off festoons of cobwebs. Vendors unfastened oversized brass locks and stacked cloth on top of four foot high enclosed platforms that jutted out from the cabinets behind. This is an odd arrangement for selling. The seller sits atop this platform surrounded by longyis in every color and pattern, roll printed sarongs in plastic bags exactly the right size, and folded bolts of cottons and synthetics. As you walk the rows, looking at wares, they lean down or stand up to bring out more merchandise from the cupboards behind them, then lean over and offer it to you. There are stools for the customer to sit on on ground level, and somtimes I've seen the buyer climb onto the platform to sit with the seller. The stalls stretch from one end of the bulding to the other and I wonder how all this merchandise will get sold? Who buys it? And this building is massive! The aisles are narrow and the amount of cloth is mind boggling! How do you choose just one or two pieces from this veritable barn?
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| Early morning at the cloth market Yangon |
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| Closed stalls |
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| Opening up |
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| The bakery |
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| Old man on the street |
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| Street tailor - Yangon |
I love best the parts of travel that I understand the least.
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