Michael Batson

A visitor once described swooping down to Rangoon and central Burma’s “flat green, soggy plains overwhelmed by angry monsoon clouds in unbearable heat.” Yangon formerly known as Rangoon, is barely more than an hour by plane from Bangkok and six-and-a-half hours ahead of GMT but in some ways is light years away from the rest of the world, a country largely ostracised by many in the rest of the global community, being placed on a par with pariah states like North Korea.

Yangon International Airport is the country’s only link with the outside world, a pristine and bright display case to welcome the few visitors to this reclusive land. There are three lines for Myanmar citizens, two for foreigners and an entire counter for diplomats. The plane from Bangkok was nearly empty but business class was nearly full, with what turned out to be some delegation judging by the official looking reception on hand to greet them.

The runway is busy with an endless stream of military transport planes, mainly of aged Soviet vintage, and jet fighters landing and taking off.

For reasons best known to themselves Myanmar’s secretive military rulers, the State Peace and Development Council, once formerly known by their Orwellian acronym, SLORC (the State Law and Order Restoration Council), moved the country’s capital several hundred kilometres inland in 2003 to the relatively obscure site of Naypyidaw. Some Burma observers surmised that this was down to sheer paranoia, the fear of invasion, which made Yangon more vulnerable. The country’s civil servants were forced to move, and other institutions have since followed, even Yangon’s zoo has now been re-located.

Some foreign agencies and governments refuse to recognise the name change of either the country or the city by the current regime, as they suggest that the junta does not have the mandate to make such decisions. In response, Myanmar’s rulers counter that these agencies and governments are seeking to undermine the country, and refuse to be swayed by them, the BBC is one such agency, and consequently foreign media are banned from Myanmar.

The airport taxi drivers and male tourist staff wear the traditional longyi (sarong) with crisp white shirts. I had yet to clear customs but this didn’t prevent one official so dressed from offering to find me a cab and suggested that I follow him.  Customs seemed unfazed tourists dealt with local transport details before completing official entry into the country.

There is nowhere to change money at Yangon Airport and no ATM, but the tourist official said I could change money on the way if required. The flat charge to the hotel of my choice was US$10. In fact, it appears there are no ATMs in Myanmar and you should bring crisp, new US dollars to exchange (creased or torn dollars receive a lower rate of exchange).

The best place to change money in Yangon is the Aung San Bogyoke Market where you should test the rate for the day with two or three of the jewellers before deciding. I was told to count the Myanmar Kyats (pronounced “chats”) before handing over any dollars, and place the smaller bills on the outside of the notes for paying, but then that may be being over cautious.

Only the colonial rulers, the British, called the city Rangoon, a corruption of the name Yangon. The city was originally founded as Dagon by the Mon people in the 6th century AD centred about the magnificent Shwedagon Pagoda, and was renamed Yangon in 1755, which translates to the “End of Strife”, though the city has been the centre of first nationalist and more recently, pro-democracy action.

The British fought three wars with Burma first capturing Yangon during the first Anglo-Burmese War (1824-26) and again in 1852 before conquering the whole country in 1885. The city was subsequently transformed into the commercial and political hub of British Burma, part of its colonial arc from Northwest Asia to Singapore.

In 1841 the city was destroyed by fire so today’s layout is largely based on a grid pattern laid down by British army engineers. Later the city was developed by the Public Works Department and Bengal Corps of Engineers. Colonial Yangon, with its spacious parks and lakes and mix of modern buildings and traditional wooden architecture, was known as "the garden city of the East." By the early 20th century, Yangon had public services and infrastructure on par with London.

Soon after Burma's independence in 1948, many colonial names of streets and parks were changed to more nationalistic Burmese names. The country’s military rulers changed the city’s name from the English corruption of Rangoon back to Yangon in 1989 along with many other changes in English transliteration of Burmese names.

Yangon has the largest number of colonial buildings in Southeast Asia today. During the rule of Burma’s dictator Ne Win (1962-88) Yangon's infrastructure, like much of the country itself, deteriorated through poor maintenance and did not keep up with its increasing population.

Downtown Yangon is still mainly made up of decaying colonial buildings, some of them still plainly magnificent structures, such as the High Court Building and City Hall near Independence Monument, the latter in British Raj style, albeit painted tawdry shades of lilac.

I read a description of the city written in 1947 that referred to Yangon as “dilapidated”, a term which would still largely apply today. With a population near five million, Yangon is creaking at the seams. Years of isolation and misrule coupled with an influx of people from rural areas has brought the city close to crashing down.

Vehicles on the streets of the country’s largest city drive on the right but seem a mixture of left and right hand drives, and are a motley collection of older Japanese vehicles; cars, pick-ups and battered buses crammed with passengers and belching smoke.

In many ways Yangon’s taxis epitomise Myanmar itself. They are a mixture of all types, beaten and bruised. They struggle on poor roads and endure corruption and a lack of maintenance and spare parts. In the heat there is no comfort. Everything rattles from the suspension and brakes to the windows and the doors. Those that use them make do and get by and bear the hardship with grace and humility, while those that rule and make the conditions suffer them not, instead riding about in chauffeur-driven air-conditioned utilities and flying business-class.

Interestingly enough, whereas many other Southeast Asian city has thousands of motorbikes swarming like locusts, in Yangon these are banned save for use by the police.

I saw advertisements for New Zealand Pep low fat skim milk powder and Anchor butter is sold is the government-owned department store; curious as UN-sanctions are in place.

Many the men wore traditional longyi (sarong) and shirts with a variety of sandals and open footwear, and trousers are less favoured save for the young, where jeans are worn half the time. As practical in the heat as these garments may be they weren’t designed for the accessories of modern life wallets and for those who own then, cellphones.

The people have a wonderful grace and calm in their movements, and I was instantly reminded of visiting Laos. I saw a photo of one of the senior government officials meeting the Indian foreign minister on a visit to Yangon and he was dressed in a collar-less shirt buttoned at the neck, his lyongyis and jandals.

A perfect illustration of the city’s creaking infrastructure are Yangon’s pavements, which are cracked and broken, or in some places missing altogether. Moving down the street requires dexterity so as to not trip. Outside a row of shops workmen were removing the concrete slabs that covered the drains, meaning that even getting in and out of shops suddenly became a life-threatening exercise, least you fall in.

Men chew the betel-nut, a carcinogen, as something akin to chewing gum but mixed with a variety of additives. When finished they spit the entire mouthful onto the pavement. When emitted this is coloured orange but upon drying becomes blood-red, making underfoot look like an axe-murderer has been on the loose. The culprits aren’t hard to spot. The betel nut stains the teeth, leading to the long-term devotees appearing as if their teeth have vanished altogether.

The people of Yangon are friendly and eager to engage. After changing money at the large Bogyoke Market, the largest tourist market in town I met James (not his real name) and his English teacher, U Tin Tut (not his real name either). I told them this was my first visit to Myanmar. They invited me for coffee and to meet them the next day Saturday, for a tour of the city.

James and his wife sold perfume, and U Tin Tut was in the process of setting up an import business for high-speed diesel from the Gulf States. He explained that many things were changing in Myanmar and that investment and foreigners were encouraged.
“The army is good at polishing bullets but no good at making business.”

They took me to see one of the wonders of the world, Shwedagon (Golden Lion) Pagoda, the most famous pagoda in Southeast Asia.

Sitting atop a small hill, Shwedagon is visible from all over Yangon. We took the lift from the back gate, to avoid the guides. The pagoda is a collection of shrines and buildings and is very popular with Buddhist visitors and tourists alike. The main pagoda is 2500 years-old, stands 326-feet high and over 1100 feet in circumference.  The very top of the pagoda is gold and embossed with almost 80,000 diamonds and 3154 gold bells. Entry for tourists is 5000 kyats, or about US$5, but free for locals.

U Tin Tut explained Buddhism is both a religion and a philosophy, he was more into the latter, while James preferred to former. The museum contains a number of interesting artefacts including the peculiar currency of the Ne Win years, all odd-number denominations, 15, 25, 35, 45, 75 and 90 kyat notes. When he was deposed in 1982, the notes were abolished wiping out the life savings of many minorities overnight.

“We are a nation of idol worshippers, a superstitious people,” he explained. “When Khrushchev came here in the 1960s, he urged Burma to tear down the pagodas and by arms. He said religion was the refuge of the rascals.”

I’m glad they didn’t tear down Shwedagon.

There were medals from the Japanese War, when Aung San and his Thirty Comrades had marched into Rangoon with the Japanese in a bid to win independence from the British. Only to turn on the Japanese in 1945 when it was clear they would lose.

I told U Tin Tut that my grandfather had been stationed in Burma during that war. “Ah, you see,” he replied. “You have already been to Burma.”