It was one of my last nights in Myanmar. I had just returned to Yangon after 10 days of bumpy roads, more pagodas than I could count, and smiling Burmese at every turn. The weather had turned hot but I wasn't interested in the air-conditioned bar at my hotel. I wanted some spot in the steamy streets to sit while I put some thoughts down on paper.

There was a little restaurant just down the street from my hotel. I walked over to see if they had the three things I needed: a chair large enough for my long legs, a cold beer and, most importantly, a tape player where I could listen to my country music tape. I love a little taste of home in a strange land and it's also fun to see how the locals react to country music.

The player was in the back by the kitchen, above the cash register. As the manager put the tape in he asked, "Which side?" I shook my head. "It doesn't matter." I was planning on staying long enough to hear it all. When my beer arrived I got up and, after asking, "OK?" I turned the first song, by Vince Gill, up real loud. Other diners turned to look: I nodded and sat to write. I had a lot of feelings and images I wanted to capture from my stay among these incredibly happy, friendly people.

The walls of the restaurant were covered with a few posters of travel sights in Myanmar and beer promotions with pretty girls, but mostly it was empty pop and beer cases that decorated the place. There weren't a lot of people inside. Most sat at tables on the sidewalk where it was cooler.

As I wrote, the rhythm of the restaurant revealed itself. There were two waiters who were constantly carrying trays of food and piles of dirty dishes back and forth. Each time I looked up they seemed to be looking at me too. One always smiled and nodded: I think he liked the music, Patty Loveless was singing just then. The other seemed to be trying to figure out what I was up to. He neither smiled nor frowned: he just looked at me in wonder. Actually, that was more or less my reaction too. Wondered at this magical land where just sitting in a dingy little restaurant could be so interesting.

Of all the evening's events the strangest was when the manager took a bottle labeled "Johnny Walker Red" and poured a large measure into a plastic bag - that caught my attention. Next, he poured in a bottle of cola. He then added a straw and the customer walked out sipping it.

Well, all good things must end and soon I was finished with my writing. I got my camera out and took a few pictures. Then I retrieved my tape and said good by to the waiters and cashier. Now back home in cold, gray Michigan I still have that wonderful memory.

Yangon, Saturday, February 10
The single most striking sight in Yangon - and perhaps all of Myanmar - is the Shwedagon Paya. It's a 100 meter tall gold-covered stupa surrounded by scores of other religious buildings, many of them also covered in gold: an visual extravaganza. It is Myanmar's holiest sight - the central stupa contains eight of the Buddha's hairs - but it's more than just a place of religious pilgrimage. It is also a place to see Burmese at their leisure. As many people were sitting and talking as were praying.

I made my first trip the evening I arrived in Yangon. I left around sunset, just as the day was cooling off. My taxi dropped me at the South entrance and after paying the steep $5 admission - locals enter free - I removed my sandals. This is a requirement at all Myanmar religious sites. It's more a sign of respect than an issue of cleanliness: the floors of many payas weren't at all clean.

Minus footwear, and sporting the round colored ID button that proved I had paid my admission, I started toward the top. Both sides of the covered stairs were lined with shops selling both devotional items, such as flowers and incense, and souvenirs, such as carved sandalwood and jade. Vendors called to me to look at their goods.

At the top, I stepped out of the shadow into the last rays of sun. I gazed up at the enormous, gold-covered stupa. It looked something like a bell with an upside down ice cream cone on top - 300 feet tall.

First, I walked around the stupa. I noticed various "stations" where Burmese were praying or making devotional offerings. After I had made a full circuit, I found a cool spot to sit down. As I watched Burmese and tourists flow past, I had that magical feeling that often come when I travel: "I'm in Burma," I said to myself, "I actually am in Burma," - wonderful!

Earlier that day I had walked downtown Yangon, talking to banana vendors and taxi drivers - a surprising amount of English is spoken, perhaps a legacy of the British Colonial period. I also stopped to photograph an eyeglass vendor and a watch salesman - everyone put on their best smiles when I got my camera out.

I walked and walked until I grew hungry and, when I found a little Thai restaurant, I stopped and had a delicious lunch. The place had Formica-top tables and there were more Burmese than tourists - the food was delicious. Then it was back to the hotel for a nap. My day had started early: I had gotten up at 3:30 in Bangkok and I was pooped.

After my late afternoon trip to Shwedagon, I visited the busy night market in downtown Yangon. At the far end there weren't any streetlights so the vendors had put candles next to their goods. The streets were crowded and the sidewalks broken, so I had to watch my every step. The honking horns and the shouting vendors added to the confusion.

They were selling all manner of goods: rice, shoes, tee shirts and pens. I saw one guy who was just selling compasses. I walked for an hour and then headed back to the hotel where I had a beer at the hotel roof bar. While enjoying the refreshing breeze that blew in the open windows, I recorded my reflections.

Yangon reminded me of India - the ceaseless, chaotic activity and the streets full of people - with essentially none of the problems. There were virtually no touts tugging on my sleeve. My impression was of a very poor country but not desperately poor - there were more bikes than cars, but very few beggars. The people seemed to be a happy and were quick to laugh. I immediately liked Yangon and Myanmar.

Bago, Sunday, February 11
At 8:00 my driver Jeffery arrived. He was a tall, handsome man in his early 30's who spoke English with a thick Indian accent. He wore a crisp, white shirt and a dark, plaid longyi, the skirt-like affair that Burmese men wear instead of trousers.

We were going to Bago, a small city about two hours away. I wanted to see some of the countryside and to visit the famous reclining Buddha located there. His car was a 10-year-old Nissan, called strangely "Super Roof." This is a very popular model and I often rode in them during my stay.

On the way out of town while we were stopped in traffic, Jeffery said very softly, "Do you know Aung San Suu Kyi?" He motioned ever so slightly with his eyes. "She live down that road," and then added, "You can't go there." I had read the army maintains a roadblock and stops all foreigners from getting anywhere near her house. The fact that Jeffery was so circumspect when we were alone in the middle of noisy traffic shows how cautious he felt he needed to be.

Aung San Suu Kyi, for those who do not know, won a popular election in 1990: the military promptly annulled the results and has kept her under house arrest every since. Her plight is well known outside Myanmar: she has received the Nobel Peace Prize. This was not the last time I heard her name carefully mentioned.

The road was full of buses and trucks packed with people. Small pickup trucks are used for public transportation as they are in Thailand. The trucks have two benches, one down each side of the covered bed. Extra passengers - and there were always extra passengers - hang off the back or ride on the roof. Sometimes there are goods such as bags of grain or boxes piled on the roof too. Then the extra 4 or 5 passages just sit on top of that. It's quite a sight to see.

Along the road were lots of little shops and cafes. The latter had plastic tables and low stools. Jeffery called these little groupings, "bus stations," but they looked more like transfer points, as there were certainly no terminals or ticket stands.

On one clear stretch Jeffery called my attention to a policeman in a white uniform standing on the opposite side of the road. "He will pull you over and then expect a bribe before he'll let you go," he said.

Farther from Yangon, away for the settlements, the land was flat with bright green rice fields on either side of the road. There were men working water buffalo in the fields under the bright sun. Warm air blew in the window as we drove along. It was a very pleasant day.

In some little towns Jeffery had to pull over and pay some money - a "wheel tax" or a "township entrance fee," he told me. The money would presumably be used to repair the roads. On the subject of roads, let me say that they were simply awful. The surface of even the best roads was very rough and on the lesser ones there were frequent holes to dodge. The hidden advantage of this was that we rarely drove very fast.

We also drove on toll roads. At the entrance to one Jeffery was given a torn banknote in change. This is a bit of a problem in Myanmar as no one wants worn or damaged bank notes. When Jeffery saw it in his change, he held it up for me to see. "So," I asked, "What are you going to do with that?" "Oh, I'll just give it back to them on the return," he grinned.

In Bago we drove over a rusty, metal bridge and through a busy market on our way to our first stop: Shwemawdaw Paya. With Jeffery's help, I bought a $6 ticket, which gave me access to all the sites in Bago. Then I had to pay another camera fee of 30 Kyat. For this I got a little laminated picture of the main paya to tie on my camera - a nice souvenir.

I took off my shoes and started up. The stairs were lined with shops along both sides. At the top was a massive, golden paya. In many ways it looked very similar to the Shwedagon Paya in Yangon, but there were no westerners here.

Our next stop was the market in the center of the town. Jeffery stayed with the car while I took a little walk. There were vendors shouting and loud pop music playing. They were selling shirts, electric plugs and live chickens. Vendors, porters and shoppers all competed for the narrow pathways. Farther down the lane turned muddy and I took a side street and walked past vendors selling rope and shovels. There was also a station where pickups loaded with people were waiting to leave. I took lots of pictures before returning to the car.

Our next stop was to see Bago's enormous reclining Buddha. It was kind of disappointing: it was garishly painted and covered by an ugly metal shed. The one thing that did delight me was the huge, mirror-covered finger and toenail. I found that somehow endearing.

In the back a woman was teaching some kid to do traditional Burmese dances. She had a tape playing music and would call the kids, mostly girls, one at a time to dance. I was enthralled by one 10 year old who had the natural grace and poise of a dancer. It was a real treat to just stand and watch her move.

Next, I climbed a nearby paya for a spectacular view of the surrounding countryside. From this vantage point it seemed that every hill top within sight was covered with additional payas.

After one more stop - this time to see four 30-meter (90 feet) Buddhas sitting back to back - we headed back to Yangon. Back at the hotel I tried to take a nap but was too restless and excited to lay still: I wanted to see more of Yangon, so I took a taxi to the Sule Paya, located in the center of downtown.

This paya is set in the most unlikely location: in the middle of a busy traffic circle surrounded by commercial buildings and noisy traffic. On the sidewalk there were food and trinket vendors. There were also women with cages of birds. For 100 Kyat you can purchase a bird and then let it go. I was told that the Buddhists believe that you gain merit by doing this.

I spent the rest of the afternoon walking around central Yangon. Every street was full of vendors selling everything from key chains to magazines, from watermelons to sugar cane juice. I even found a guy selling laminated maps. He asked where I was from and when I told him, he said, "Detroit? Sure, I know where Detroit is. The industrial capital of America." He kept patting me on the back and telling passersby that I was from Detroit.

Well, perhaps his information was a little outdated but I was still impressed by his knowledge of America and his command of English. Anyway, I love maps and like to buy a world map written in the language of the country I'm visiting. I found a great one here for only 500 Kyat.

Back at the hotel, and now completely exhausted, I took a taxi to a Thai restaurant I had heard about. It was located in the north of the city, just past Shwedagon Paya. Its called Sabai Sabai and I highly recommend it. The food was superb and cheap: 1500 Kyat (a little more than $3) for one dish and a beer.

After that it was back to the hotel, a slow walk around the neighborhood and then one last beer before bed.

Ann Arbor, Michigan
April 2001

Next: Part Two - Bagan, Mt. Popa and Salay
Part Three - Mandalay, 3 Ancient Cities and Mingun
Part Four - Yangon and Bangkok
Part Five - The details

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