I went to Myanmar during the 30/4 - 1/5 holiday 9 years ago when I only searched for information on the Internet and traveled alone. The endless trips seemed to leave behind something devastated and to find something again.
I still remember the first night in Yangon, after arriving at the hotel and having dinner, I went alone to the hot bar. It was 10pm but still 30+ degrees, sitting drinking beer among young people of all skin colors, having fun and making noise. The seat was tilted to look out at what seemed to be a stadium, in the distance faintly visible the majestic Golden Temple - Shwedagon Pagoda.
I still remember the afternoon I was so absorbed in admiring the giant reclining Buddha statue that I almost missed the bus to Bagan. From the hotel in Yangon to the bus station was approximately… 100 kilometers. After getting the ticket, I sat down to eat a plate of salty noodles under the flickering darkness of the train station.
I still remember when I got off the Bagan bus station at 4:30 am, a tour guide (pre-booked on the Internet) came to pick me up, and I climbed to the top of the tower to watch the sunrise. The entrance was only wide enough for one person, with a backpack on his shoulder and both hands holding onto the steps made of rusty, curved steel bars stuck into the tower wall. Below was a local man carrying a suitcase in one hand and a flashlight in the pitch-black space, and it was drizzling outside...
I still remember the moments of wandering alone among the overlapping temples of the ancient capital of Burma. The space was absolutely quiet, with only constructions from hundreds of years ago made of baked bricks, sand and soil. Many Buddha statues were just drawings carved into the wall, a place that looked like a place to put incense but had no incense, a few vases used to hold flowers had no flowers. Absolutely nostalgic and simple. Full of sunshine, whistling wind and I felt like I was “time-traveling” back a few centuries in a space imbued with Buddhism, quiet and truly healing.
In those moments, I told myself that someday in my life I would return to this place, to live in this space, to stand under the sunlight of these temples once again, not limited by time to feel and enjoy it completely.
I still remember the blazing hot summer afternoon, before climbing up to the temple tower to visit, I had to take off my shoes and walk barefoot up the steps built of baked bricks covered in thick sand. The feeling of stepping up there reminded me of when I was a kid popping corn. If I wanted the corn kernels to pop like fireworks, I had to roast them with sand. The sand made the corn kernels pop to their fullest. Now, it felt like I was walking barefoot on the sand used to pop corn back then…
I still remember the feeling of crossing the village to get on a boat to cruise along the Ayeyarwady River with two Japanese female tourists who could not speak English, painting their faces with tree powder according to the Myanmar tradition. The village that I had never seen before in my life, a poor village in the middle of barren land with "houses" woven from bamboo built together like blinds. Wandering on the road were a few skinny white cows breathing hard in the space that lacked green, surrounded by ancient walls built of thick bricks and lots of scrap wood. And the sun, the sun that every time I unconsciously looked up at the sky, I saw everything as if spinning in whirlpools of fire...
I still remember the afternoon when we jostled each other to go up to the roof of the biggest temple in Bagan to watch the sunset in the middle of a crowd. And then I understood why people who love to travel around the world still tell each other “must go to Bagan to watch the sunrise and sunset once in a lifetime”. Only a few minutes to watch the sunset, but I felt my heart stuck in the middle of Bagan…
I remember the long lines of old cars that lined up patiently under the Yangon sun. And absolutely no honking. Or the squeaky longyi-wrapped Burmese man carrying his wares in Scott Market. The food stalls with cleaned fresh fish covered in wet cloth. Or the resigned look of a skinny, dark-skinned mother holding her child sitting on the side of a Yangon road, surrounded by flocks of wild pigeons flying around, perched heavily on the electric wires.
It has been 9 years since I left, and I still cherish the day I will return to Myanmar, visit their ancient capital Mandalay, stand on wooden bridges and watch the immense Inle Lake covered in gold under the sunset like the pictures I have seen. And return to Bagan - the city that haunts me the most in this stretch of Southeast Asia, so that I can relive the truly healing moments of those days.
These days, hearing news about the earthquake, a natural disaster that was sadly compared by Seismologists to “a giant knife cutting into the Earth” makes me feel sad. The land famous for its precious stones, beautiful and rich like a jade, is gradually fading away and worrying, until when…
Pray for Myanmar, with the love of a traveler who has passed through this beautiful and peaceful country!
