Category: Asia

The taxi took us along dark roads, gradually dimming to dawn, to the 6.30 ferry to Bagan, docked and boarding passengers. We took a seat buzzing with the last tired and innocuous mosquitoes of the night.

The first few miles from Mandalay are lined by hills covered with more pagodas than I thought possible, but soon after it’s just flat banks offering an occasional peek into the lives of the sparse river dwellers. With the exception of two simple meals nothing happens for 10 hours. Nothing. A confined space with no mobile coverage or the bliss of modern technology. When was the last time it happened? As scary as it sounds it was liberating and I feel joyful every time I think back to that day.

A spectacular sunset in Nyaung-U

We reached Bagan at dusk. The boat turned off the engines as we silently glided in the bay. Black trees and stupas sharply silhouetted against the orange-to-navy-blue hue of the sky, and large bats hovered above us, dancing around the bright full moon.
This almost surreal poetry was quickly broken by reality as we moored: the boat was swarmed by people grabbing bags to secure passengers for their taxis and in a couple of hectic minutes we were all off board.
We let this commotion steam off until we’re approached by a man offering a taxi rate that would be probably realistic in New York. We teamed up with a Canadian couple to negotiate, levering on the fact we were almost the last passengers left.

The rough edges of tourism in Bagan

The taxi facilitator had been aggressive and hostile, a stark contrast with the kindness we’ve encountered in Mandalay, surely an inappropriate behaviour in the contest. At least we got to destination – which at some point of the drive was no longer obvious – to the guest-house where the reception had unsurprisingly no trace of our booking. Without much effort we got them to accommodate us anyway so we dropped the bags in our room and headed out for dinner. It seemed we arrived at the right time, as dinner was being served in the open area at the entrance of the guest-house. “Can we eat here?” I asked a short man, probably the manager.
“No.”
A man of few words, but maybe he misunderstood. With a broad smile, I tried to make myself clear with various food-related synonyms supplemented with the eloquent Italian gesture language.
“No.”
That man then proceeded to become my sworn enemy during our stay. Deaf to any request – unless it was for giving him money for a couple of appalling tours – unable to understand or speak English, but mastering it pretty well when he found out we bought the bus tickets to get out of Bagan with another agency.

Is this how tourism will turn all of Myanmar into? A cynical money machine? Why does it always have to be like this? The inevitable human greed pushes the individual, albeit a small percentage of the whole population, to exploit the visitors, while on the other end the naive tourist facilitates the process allowing this behaviour.

Tea houses: a peaceful haven for hardened stomachs

But faith in the Burmese people is hard to lose. We reached a tea house, few door down from the Golden Hotel, which would then become my daily provider of meals. The décor was down to the bare essential, concrete floors and plastic chairs, no English was spoken but the guys there were really nice. After being almost scared by our presence they gradually started smiling at us and making us feel welcome, as if we were guests at somebody’s house. There was a sort of local-pub feel, with families gathered there to talk, chill and watch the football match on TV. Premier league was on (apparently is a big thing in Myanmar) and I even pretended to support one of the two teams playing in order to win the favours of the locals. We ordered the only two dishes we managed to understand: Cantonese rice and the best Shan noodles I’ve ever tried. Green tea and peace of mind were on the house.

On our first day in Myanmar, we still believed that we could draft up a list of things we wanted to do and follow it. One of the obstacles to our plans was Maung Maung, a man different than all the others offering their taxi services: curly hair, thick wool sweater and exuberant personality. It was not long before we were heading towards Mandalay Hill, sharing the car with a French couple. Maung Maung entertained us with jokes, mostly political in a display of defiance, and when we arrived at destination he let us go without payment “I’ll wait you here“. A suspicious bell rang in our heads as we exchanged a quick look, but we accepted nevertheless. We would have needed a ride later and it was worth relying on him.

The roofed stairway crawls up the side of the hill until the Sutaungpyei Pagoda at its top and, being a sacred place, it has to be tread barefoot. We left our sandals with a lady at the entrance and we planted our bare soles on the cold, dirty surface of the first stone step. It did get easier soon but our first contact with the local germs and fungi sent a shiver up our spine. The climb is less than 30 minutes and offers an interest insight: all along the stairway there are little souvenir shops which are also where people actually live. The terrace of the Pagoda offers a wide view on the city, the sunset raises a mist from the moat around the Royal Palace, surrounding it in a mysterious light. Despite the amount of people the atmosphere was quiet and friendly, people sat in circle talking to monks, others knelt in front of some of the many Buddha effigies.

Before we even noticed it the light dimmed as dusk descended… how long had we spent there? Was Muang Muang still going to be there waiting for us? We shot down the stairway, avoiding the multitude of dozy dogs and waving at the families closing up shop while cooking dinner in front of the telly. Of course our driver was still there, we were actually within the agreed time and he still had to cash in. But he looked less enthusiastic than when we left him, and he wanted to upsell us some tour.
The more resolutely he insisted the more stubbornly we declined. The more we declined his offers the more he became disappointed and pushy. Eventually he told one of his jokes, and normal service was resumed.

Probably your best bet for a taste of local cuisine is one of the numerous, often nameless, tea houses along the road: concrete floor, plastic chairs, green tea bottle always on the table. However they seemed to be a long shot from the hygienic standards we are used to and we wanted to get accustomed more gradually. So we opted for the Lashio Lay, suggested on our brilliant guide: typical Shan food and slightly more clean than the average, without being a polished anodyne eatery for squeamish tourists. It was so good that during our stay we ate there three times. The staff was friendly, English was not widely spoken there but it was not necessary as there isn’t a menu and orders are taken as “point at what you want”. All of their food is displayed in tubs at the entrance, you tell them what you’d like to eat and they’ll serve you the little dishes with a huge bowl of steamed rice, a soup and their green tea.

Back at the hotel we were reminded by the staff that it was Christmas and we accepted their invitation to join the party at the top floor. The view was good, there are not many tall buildings, but everything was so dark that all we could spot was some lonely vehicle’s headlight slowly piercing the pitch-black road. We were the only tourists in the majestic saloon, with as many staff members as customers. On the stage the amateur band was testing out their acoustic repertoire of international classics and local tunes, completely ignored by the guys necking a bottle of Johnny Walker at the table near us. I know the description doesn’t make it all glamorous, and in fact it wasn’t, but it was somehow brilliant and we absolutely enjoyed it even if we probably arrived a bit too late and miss the climax of the party.
The waitress brought us more beer, with some chapati-like snacks while the band silently packed up and left the room and the last scooter wobbled along the road, under the windows.