VI
EN
I visited Myanmar during the April 30th - May 1st holiday nine years ago, having only gathered information from the internet and traveling alone. These continuous journeys seem to leave behind something desolate and ruined, yet also serve to rediscover something.
I still remember my first night in Yangon. After arriving at the hotel and having dinner, I went to a sweltering bar alone. It was 10 pm, but it was still over thirty degrees Celsius. I sat drinking beer surrounded by cheerful, noisy young people of all skin colors. My seat was angled out, overlooking what appeared to be a stadium, with the magnificent Shwedagon Pagoda faintly visible in the distance.
I still remember that afternoon when I was so engrossed in admiring the giant reclining Buddha statue that I almost missed my bus to Bagan. The bus station was approximately 100 kilometers from my hotel in Yangon. After getting my ticket, I sat and ate a plate of salty noodles in the flickering darkness of the station.
I still remember arriving at the Bagan bus station at 4:30 a.m., where a guide (booked online beforehand) came to meet me. We climbed to the top of the tower to watch the sunrise. The path was only wide enough for one person, with a backpack on my shoulder and my hands gripping the steps made of rusty, bent steel bars embedded in the tower wall. Below, a local man, carrying a suitcase and holding a flashlight, shone his light in the pitch-black darkness, while it was drizzling outside...
I still remember those moments wandering alone amidst the towering temples of the ancient capital of Burma. The space was absolutely silent, with only structures built centuries ago from fired bricks, sand, and earth. Many Buddha statues were merely sketches carved into the walls; one spot seemed to hold incense but held no incense, a few vases held flowers but no flowers. Absolutely nostalgic and simple. Filled with sunshine, a gentle breeze blew, and I felt transported back several centuries to a space steeped in Buddhism, tranquil and truly healing.
In those moments, I told myself that I would one day return to this place, to live in this space, to stand under the sunlight of these temples once more, unconstrained by time, to fully experience and enjoy it.
I still remember those scorching summer afternoons, when before climbing the temple to visit, we had to take off our shoes and walk barefoot up the steps made of rough, sandy fired bricks. The feeling of stepping on them reminded me of when I was a child roasting corn; to make the kernels pop like fireworks, we had to roast them with sand. The burning sand made the kernels burst open. Now, it feels like I'm walking barefoot on the sand used for roasting corn all those years ago…
I still remember the feeling of crossing the village to board a boat for a cruise along the Ayeyarwady River with two Japanese female tourists who didn't speak English, painting their faces with plant powder according to Myanmar tradition. It was a village I had never seen before, a poor village amidst barren land with "houses" woven from bamboo and enclosed like mats. A few thin, white cows wandered along the path, breathing heavily in the sparsely green surroundings, surrounded by ancient brick walls and lots of wood scraps. And the sun, the kind of sun that, every time I involuntarily looked up, made everything seem to spin in swirling, fiery vortices…
I still remember that afternoon, jostling to climb to the top of the largest temple in Bagan to watch the sunset amidst a dense crowd. And only then did I understand why travelers from all over the world say, "You must visit Bagan to see the sunrise and sunset at least once in your life." Just a few short minutes of watching the sunset, and I felt my heart trapped in Bagan…
I remember the long lines of old cars patiently lined up under the Yangon sun. And not a single car horn was heard. Or the creaking cart of the Burmese man in a longyi walking through Scott Market. The food stalls selling fresh fish, cleaned but covered with wet cloths. And the resigned gaze of the thin, dark-skinned mother holding her child, sitting by the roadside in Yangon, surrounded by flocks of wild pigeons flying and perching on the power lines.
Nine years have passed since I left, yet I still cherish the dream of returning to Myanmar, visiting their ancient capital, Mandalay, and standing on the wooden bridges gazing at the vast, golden-hued Inle Lake bathed in the setting sun, just like in the pictures I once saw. And to return to Bagan – the city that haunts me most in Southeast Asia – so that I can relive those truly healing moments of my life.
These past few days, hearing news of the earthquake, a natural disaster that seismologists have sadly described as "a giant knife cutting into the Earth," has left me heartbroken. This land, famous for its precious stones, beautiful and rich like a gem, is slowly decaying and suffering; when will this end…?
Praying for Myanmar, with the love of a traveler who once passed through this beautiful and peaceful country!
