RANGOON -- I
discovered Old Bagan on a bicycle. My guest house provided me with a two-wheeled Pheasant. It was in reasonable condition, the brakes worked and there weren't any gears to worry about.
I cruised around this intriguing archeological zone of Myanmar, a Southeast Asian country of 50 million people, visiting the ancient stupas or temples,pushing my bike through sand, snapping photographs and chatting with hawkers selling lacquerware, postcards, oil paintings of temples, colourful Shan shoulder bags and cheap T- shirts. Almost everywhere I turned, I was the lone tourist.
Old Bagan encompasses 40 square kilometres; more than 2,200 stupas dot the horizon. Some temples are restored, while others lay dilapidated, collecting dust in the sand. There are so many stupas that most of them have been given a number instead of a prestigious name. The site is considered the most wondrous archeological place in Myanmar, if not in Southeast Asia. Without a doubt, it rivals Cambodia's Angkor Wat and China's Great Wall.
For many travellers, however, Myanmar is still considered off-limits. The country continues to be controlled by a military dictatorship. In 1989, that government changed the nation's name from Burma to Myanmar (used by the United Nations, but largely ignored by most locals since it was changed under the junta). And while the military government released Aung San Suu Kyi, leader of the National League for Democracy, from house arrest last May, locals are still forbidden to talk politics with travellers.
Public declarations printed daily in the national newspaper, The New Light of Myanmar, still read: "Crush All Internal and External Destructive Elements as the Common Enemy" and "Oppose Foreign Nations Interfering in Internal Affairs of the State." Human-rights and democracy groups, such as the Burma Campaign United Kingdom, advise tourists to stay away, saying, "Tourists can only lend the present Burmese government credibility and bring them revenue." The group maintains that the only people visiting Myanmar should be diplomats and UN representatives.
But I still wanted to see Myanmar for myself, believing that informed travellers provide vital information in and out of the country. For many locals, the arrival of foreigners is a partial remedy to the lack of world news.
I had also long admired Aung San Suu Kyi, viewing her as one of the most courageous and principled people of our age. In 1990, her party, the National League for Democracy, won 392 out of 485 seats. The junta ignored the results, claiming that the election had not been to choose political leaders, but to elect representatives to a national convention that would draft the country's constitution. Eleven years later, there still isn't a new constitution and several NLD representatives are still in prison. In 1991, Aung San Suu Kyi won the Nobel Peace Prize for her commitment to her country. I wanted to communicate with her people.
Since the 1960s, Myanmar's doors have opened and closed to outsiders, an indication of the changing political climates. Today, visitors can apply for a 28- day tourist visa. Once you're in the country, tourist visa extensions for up to another 28 days can sometimes be processed, for a fee. I applied for the 28- day visa at the Myanmarese embassy in New Delhi. I was on a semester break from teaching English at the Kodaikanal International School in Southern India and took the opportunity to visit.
What I found was a country of contradictions. It is a land of water buffalo, golden-topped pagodas, maroon-robed monks, graceful Intha fishermen, unfriendly military personnel and suspicious hotel owners; I wanted to see as much as possible.
After landing in the capital of Rangoon, I travelled to Mandalay, Inle Lake and Bagan. I dined on breakfasts of fried rice and Chinese tea for a dollar. I endured punishing rides and televised soap operas on chilly air-conditioned Chinese buses. The Myanmarese drive on the right-hand side of the road, but most vehicles have their steering wheels on the right, since they're cheaper to buy when they're made that way. When drivers pull out to pass, they're the last ones in the vehicle to see the oncoming traffic.
After a few days in Bagan, I exchanged my Pheasant for a bus ticket north to Mandalay, a frontier boom town known as the city of red, green and white: rubies, jade and heroin. (The U.S. State Department reports that Myanmar is the largest exporter of opium in the world.) Despite its border-town atmosphere, Mandalay remains the cultural heart and soul of Myanmar.
One evening there, I witnessed a traditional a-nyeint show in which actors and a small orchestra render skits, often satirical in content. Seated one night among an audience of 15 foreigners, hot tea in hand, I was captivated by the performers' legends and stories illustrating tales from Myanmarese mythology.
Back in Rangoon, around the corner from my hotel, I walked to Shwedagon Pagoda, the most sacred Buddhist temple in the country. Removing my shoes at the bottom of the stairwell, I started to climb the steps to the top of the temple, passing on the way shops selling flowers, prayer beads, Buddha statues, ceremonial paper umbrellas and incense. I emerged at the top of the stairs and stood dazed at the exceptional site before me.
Shwedagon is said to have more gold on its spire than is found in the vaults of the Bank of England. Its top is encrusted with 4,500 rubies, sapphires and emeralds with a 76-carat diamond gracing the peak. The 98-metre golden spire is surrounded by clusters of smaller spires, temples and prayer halls.
At the top of the stairs, I turned left, the marble stones cool on my feet. In holy places, it's not just what you see, it's what you allow yourself to feel. I had forgotten that it was the full moon and coincidentally it was also Tazaungom, the annual Buddhist festival of lights. Thousands of candles flickered in the setting sun, their golden light spilling onto the ancient stones, generating a peaceful energy as the full moon rose. Some devotees circumnavigated the pagoda, some lit candles, others sat in deep meditation.
Later, while sitting quietly in a restaurant, I heard the tune of Anne Murray's Snowbird sung in Myanmarese. It contrasted dramatically with Shwedagon. I had fallen in love with this enchanting country.
Its political status, however, remained a constant shadow. I hadn't expected the country to be so politically suppressive, and I hadn't expected the people to be so kind. Their dreams reside with Aung San Suu Kyi. She is the hope of her people. In one of her recent interviews she stated, "We will get there in the end." I hope for the Myanmarese people that she is right.