Myanmar: the Wild East

YANGON, Myanmar (Burma) - Myanmar is 6.5 hours ahead of Greenwich Mean Time and a century behind the rest of the world.

I am mesmerized by this mysterious world. Everywhere, life plays on the streets like a show. Everything looks archaic. Everyone is slow-motion busy. Every moment comes at me like spin art, leaving me in a state of empirical catch-up. I am sure this is time travel.

As one of the world's most unexplored, and by some measures, forbidden, countries, the Union of Myanmar is slowly emerging into the modern world. For many, it's a contentious tourist destination because it is ruled by a military dictatorship. But I do not make travel itineraries based on politics or I would never leave home. I am here to savor the rural beauty, sift through urban madness, and be charmed by the nation's 135 ethnic groups. I am impressed like no other place on Earth. Myanmar is a shape- shifting attraction right from arrival. For a country notoriously ruled with an iron fist, I was amazed how lax things were in the immigration hall. Hoards pushed to get out while a counter mass shoved to get in.

Yangon is the nation's threadbare capital. I wandered its rambunctious streets for four days. Rarely did I find anything from this century, or even the last one. Amidst the fray, there are large and impressive cathedrals. There is a mosque, a synagogue, and Buddhist temples.

The Shwedagon Paya is Mecca for Buddhists here. It's a massive golden Hershey's Kiss shaped structure skirted by numerous prayer halls. The pious prostrate themselves before the temples, like they have been doing for 2,500 years, or so says the legend. The atmosphere is mystical, surreal, ethereal, arcade-like. As the sun fades, winking halos animate the Buddha statues. They flash and spin as for a winner at a fairground. Myanmar is full of prizes, and none more rewarding than an encounter with the locals, possibly the gentlest souls on the planet. Mr. Sai from the tourist office at Yangon Train Station led me personally to my place on the Yangon-to-Yangon Loop Line train. "Here you'll be comfortable," he said, waving me off. On the train, Nenem whispered to me like an angel, inquired about my country and family, then slipped away like an apparition.

"What you want to see?" asked my taxi driver from the airport into Mandalay.

"Markets," I said.

"Oh yes, we have nice supermarkets," he boasted. I laughed.

"What you think about Bush?"

"I hate him. What do you think about your government?"

He raised his eyebrows and smiled.

"I guess that means you don't like them."

"You tell no one what I say, OK?" he insisted. I agreed. "I like Aung San Su Kyi. Everybody does, except military. They must think we are really stupid. I am afraid. We are afraid."

His sentiments were echoed by the owner of an Indian restaurant in Bagan. "Nothing changes unless we have fighting. Why America not come here but to Iraq?" He looked around, leaned in close, then said, "One day fighting here, finish, all new government."

I whispered back, "The Chinese." "Good morning, Mr. Jono. Did you sleep well?" Myant Aung asked me each morning in Mandalay. His trishaw rank was outside my hotel.

"Yes, thanks. How is your wife today?" She needed medicine that his meager $3-a-day wages barely covered. But Myant Aung always peddled with a smile, neatly combed hair, and a clean shirt.

In Bagan, I fell in love at first sight. Khing Shwu Wan's bright almond eyes sparkled like diamonds. Her long jet-black hair was neatly braided. She giggled like a fairy and smiled like a queen. "This way to the toilets," she said, offering me postcards en route. I declined them but offered her a 200 kyat tip for being so nice and modeling for my camera. She melted me with her smile.

Not even a blazing 43C sun had done that. Khing Shwu Wan was 9-years old. Myanmar beguiles. Just when it seems you understand this place, it morphs into another conundrum. Unraveling it can be emotionally, visually, spiritually, and physically taxing. Yet somehow, it all feels like a gentle soul massage.

I hired a bicycle in Mandalay. It was green with old-style pulley brakes. It had a basket. There was a shiny bell that let out an efficient ding. The seat was hard and springless. The bike was called a Hero. For seven hours and 12 kilometers it carted me into the unexpected, the uncharted, down cheerless streets animated by cheerful people.

Cycling in Mandalay requires lots of eyeballs. You must simultaneously mind the road conditions, the traffic, and the tornado of activity. The sights and sounds that draw you in like a magnet never repeat themselves.

Take, for example, squeals of delight from residents as you turn off the main road into their disheveled neighborhood. Kids chase after you like a mad dog after a car, barking "hello" or "hey, what your name?" Street vendors serve slices of watermelon that look particularly red against the decrepit backdrop. Everyone seems to be at work, but all the jobs are unenviable. There is little display of displeasure.

By the Ayeyarwady River, sweatdrenched men on wooden boats sunk to the gunwales hurled eight shovelfuls of sand into baskets. Young women and boys heaved them upon their heads, marched stiff-necked up the riverbank, then plopped the sand into a growing pile. Astonishingly, they smiled at me as they did this. To their right, washerwomen scrubbed piles of laundry, soaping it into huge lathers, then spoiling the clean shirts and longyis by dousing them with muddied water. Next to them, mothers bathed with their infants. Grandpas shampooed their hair. They joked and giggled. They graciously allowed me to observe their routines.

"What country? What your name?" I was asked these questions at least 100 times at the Shwesaryan Festival, 26 kilometers from Mandalay. Handshakes. Stares. I felt like a rock star. A gaggle of believers was celebrating the local paya, or pagoda. Outside, everything imaginable was on sale. Inside, half the crowd was praying, the other half was picnicking on the floors. At the riverside, ritual bathers seemed oblivious to the dangerously overloaded pleasure boats. The village was woven from bamboo and thrash. Houses on stilts. Oxen at rest. Horses and traps.

The parking area was absolute gridlock. Wood-framed buses, tractors, sedans, bicycles, motorbikes all seethed out at once. Passengers sat on rooftops and clung to sides of buses. When the tractor behind my matchbox-size truck taxi bumped us, my driver got out wielding a hammer and pulled at the other guy's longyi, revealing what lies beneath: just a penis. The events were surreal, out of time, back in time.

The two thousand temples of Bagan, Myanmar's bygone capital, proved to be a calming end to a turbulent visit. For four days, I peddled alone from payas to ruins to treasures. Often, the only voice I could hear was my own. More than once, I heard it say, "Wow, I must be dreaming." But each night at dinner along the tranquil dirt lanes of Nyaung-U village, an icy cold Myanmar Lager Beer brought me back to the timeworn reality that is Myanmar.

Text & photos: Jono David