A few years ago when Burma, now known as Myanmar, was transitioning to democracy, I had the opportunity to travel there. It was to be for four months, to help a hotel transition from the ignominy of being almost empty on most nights, to now boasting of soldout occupancy levels, thanks to the frontier market warriors who were arriving in droves. I said “yes” and packed my bags.
I had never been to Burma, didn’t know anyone there and neither did I know of anyone who had ever been there. But I knew of Burma, had observed it closely, been moved by The Lady’s struggle and on a personal level, was drawn to Buddhism. The hotel where I was to work and stay put was on a road called Sule Pagoda, one of the more “modest” shrines when one thinks of the awe inspiring Shwedagong.
On the eve of my departure I went to my favourite bookstore, Midland Books and the owner Mr Baig, familiar with my flights of fancy gifted me a Lonely Planet on the country despite my objections. It is an expensive book and I told him I would just make friends, but he insisted. So with little more information of the Lonely Planet in my suitcase, I set off to the land that shares a border with us but remains foreign by design and our own willful ignorance. And as if to emphasise its “foreignness” the journey to Yangon, the erstwhile capital of Burma, is a circuitous one. You must fly to Bangkok, break journey and then hop on to an hour-long flight. The other option is to fly via Kolkata, Gaya and then onwards. The last time I checked, this flight was only available on Fridays.
Arriving in Yangon is undramatic — what you are struck by as the plane circles over the city is the greenery, the many golf courses that the generals loved to putt in. The airport is shiny and clean, the lines at the visa counter organised, and there is a general hush around the place. These are the first impressions. The streets outside, however, are cacophonous and when you step out of the air-conditioned comfort of the airport, you are pleasantly seduced by the ambient sounds. As an Indian, noise is familiar — it soothes my senses especially during travels to distant lands. Even if it annoys me at home, like it does right now as I write this piece in a hotel room in Lucknow’s noisy Hazratganj, it is silence that unnerves, always.
Yangon is a city trapped in time. An often repeated joke told in the self-deprecating way that locals have made their own, is the one about the pilot who lands the plane and makes his announcement, “Welcome to Yangon, where the temperature is X and the time is sixty years behind the rest of the world!” And it is! Yangon is a little nugget of colonial heritage preserved by neglect as opposed to a carefully calibrated heritage policy. Today there is an active preservation drive underway as older buildings are being transformed into hotels and the like. However, local activists and in particular the lawyer community in the city vehemently opposes such changes to the city’s landscape.
The most tempting spread of Yangon is its abundant variety of street food. It is here that the DNA of the city is revealed — its strong ties with India, erased over time, linger on street corners — in the sizzling “dosha” (dosa) counters and biryani houses. This is where Subhash Chandra Bose came and made his speech, knocking at the empire’s door; where Bahadur Shah Zafar was exiled — he now rests in a modest grave site visited by local Muslims who draw their heritage from India, speak broken Urdu and embrace you like one of their own, for they have never ever belonged to Burma.
A people lost in time and denied citizenship — like the 80-year-old grandma of two handicapped girls who tells me of her sister who left for India and was never to be seen again. And how she was educated by her maulvi father but could never find a job even in trying circumstances. Living in a modest house, she spoke to me like my own grandmother would have — despite never having visited India. She asked me about the movie stars, trapped in the Bollywood of the 50s. I tell her they are mostly gone. She nods and asks about Dilip Kumar in particular.
It is hard for me to write about Yangon and Burma in a way that would inform the reader about the sights and sounds (for that there is Google) — because this is a country and a people scarred by time and circumstances. If I was to tell you to seek one thing when you visited Myanmar or Burma, I would ask you to seek its living history. You will find it in the most unexpected moments and places. It will enrich you in the way travel truly can.
Must see places in Yangon
3 Shwedagon Paya
3 Bogyoke (Scott) Market
3 World War II cemetery
3 Sri Kali Temple
3 National Museum of Anthropology
3 Mahanbandoola Park
Must eat
3 The hearty national dish mohinga, which is a fish soup with lemongrass and tea leaf salad
3 Burmese specialty Ohn no Kauk Swe, a chicken and coconut soup
3 Cold bottle of Myanmar beer and Myanmar’s red mountain wine
3 Ngar Kyaw Hnut, fried freshwater fish with crispy onions and Pazunhtok Sebyan, king prawns in a rich tomato curry sauce
3 Roadside seafood, banana fritters and spring rolls
Writer is an author and screenwriter with a fondness for travel
