Before setting out on a walkabout, it is always wise to lay in a solid breakfast. Today’s choice was roasted and salted chickpeas with flat-bread and mohinga, a fish curry noodle dish that is the standard Burmese brekkie.

Myanmar is a land renowned for its pagodas. Burmese pagodas, like European cathedrals, or Thailand’s many wats (temples), are a mixed blessing. We have a saying, a result of many trips to Thailand: “Here a Wat, there a Wat, everywhere a Wat-Wat.” I do not mean to be sacrilegious. There is, however, a point at which the awe-inspiring fails to inspire awe. It is what I call the Angkor Wat syndrome. The traveler can only take in so many glorious monuments to this or that deity before it all starts to wear a little thin.

And yet, Myanmar is the Land of Pagodas, reputed to have more Buddhist Phaya, Zedi, and Phato than any other country. There is usually at least one gold spire or dome in sight at any given time. Why so many pagodas? A good person (or a bad person hedging his or her bets) can donate money to build a pagoda. This is a solid way to make merit. People erect a pagoda in this life with the hope of reaping rewards in the next life. The Lord Buddha did not teach any sutras regarding the building of pagodas. Dogma being what it is, redemption through pagoda building became an add-on, much like Papal Indulgence in the Catholic Church.

Our goal for the day was Shwedagon Pagoda, the crown jewel of any Yangon tourist worth their salt. It was a long walk, so we opted to shorten it by using the public bus system for a portion of the distance. Mastering the mysteries of a city’s public transit system is a joy in itself, particularly when one is in a land that makes use of non-Latin script. Poor Traveler, you cannot read the signs (or numbers!) on the buses. Let the games begin!

Before we could set out on our adventure, there were necessities to attend to, specifically coffee and a morning smoke. While enjoying both, we were witness to a much more common method of making merit. The local monks were making their rounds, collecting food alms for the day. Preparing food for the monks is a common practice here, as it is in Thailand and Laos. It is a daily routine which keeps the monks fed, and allows the lay people to acquire merit for their good deeds.

As a nation, Myanmar has the highest percentage of Buddhist monks based on population, and the highest percentage of income spent on religion. A large percentage of boys and young men become novice monks for a period of time. Buddhist monks have been a significant force in the politics of Burma, and later Myanmar. The influence of the monastic orders remains a powerful force in Myanmar politics, with sometimes questionable results.

We are off into the heat of Yangon, the sun pressing down on us. A ride on the public bus costs 200 kyat, or about twelve US cents. For that modest price, the rider is treated to a respite from walking, and an up close and personal experience of humanity. This would be the time to abandon any notions one has of personal space. Packed cheek-by-jowl, the good commuters take it all in stride as the bus defies the laws of physics. More people are crammed into a defined space than there is space, but somehow it is accomplished. The riders remain stoically cheerful, squeezed all together like longhi-wearing sardines.

Gawking our way through small, twisting streets, we made our way north of the huge public market. Even the pedestrian bridge over the train tracks was used as a market space. Beyond the market were shadier lanes, then dead-ends that spit us out onto one of the huge sun-baked boulevards. Feeling the need for refreshment and shade, we veered off into the pathways of the lesser pagodas and mausoleums that line the approaches to Shwedagon Pagoda.

We wandered about the vast complex of monasteries, temples, and tombs. Scattered amongst the gleaming gold spires were the ancillary businesses catering to the religious pilgrims. There were cafés, of course, of which we took full advantage. But there were also astrologers, fortune tellers, and shops selling all manner of Buddhist icons. 

One would not think it possible to lose a 368 foot high golden pagoda, but lose it I did. We twisted through a narrow maze of a neighborhood, a wonderful distraction in itself. Finally, catching a glimpse of our goal, I managed to right our course and we found one of the four main entrances.

Barefoot now, we climbed the long, covered stairs that lead to the heights above. Like any good temple stairway, this one was lined with stalls selling all manner of religious souvenirs. it is a common gauntlet, on that repeat itself in religious sites the world over.

Shwedagon Pagoda is a Zedi, a bell-shaped dome containing sacred relics of the Lord Buddha. In this case, the relics were a few hairs of the Buddha, given to two Burmese merchant brothers who had traveled to India. The sacred hairs were returned to this ancient Burmese city, where they were enshrined in the original Zedi. Destroyed many times by war, earthquakes, and fire, the pagoda has been rebuilt following each disaster. With each rebuilding, it has grown taller and more magnificent.

The main spire is surrounded by many other pagodas, temples, and monastic buildings. Arriving at the main platform of the place, we found out where the other tourists had been hiding. we certainly had not seen them on the streets of Yangon.

There were many, many people here. Myanmar folks were busy making merit, laying lotus blossoms and lighting incense sticks. There were monks everywhere, their saffron robes a vivid contrast to the immense fields of gold paint and gold leaf. Outnumbered by the local folks, small knots of foreign tourists made their way around the pagoda, cameras at the ready.

Despite my jaded comments about temple burn-out, Shwedagon Pagoda is indeed magnificent. It was made more so by the dark afternoon thunderclouds that threatened, but did not strike. The golden spire seemed to pierce through the heavy, sultry clouds, shining ever the brighter. We lingered long, circling the pagoda barefoot to make merit for the day.

The gloaming of the day was upon us, and our feet weary. It was time to think of things more temporal and leave the sacred behind. We wandered off into the darkened streets, seeking out food and rest.

Even amongst the city streets of Yangon, there are constant reminders of the religious nature of this country. A neon-bright Hindu temple lit up the street, adjacent to a Buddhist monastery and a very incongruous Salvation Army building. All this in one city block.

After a wonderful Thali platter in a busy Indian joint, our weary feet drew us home to our guesthouse. Along the way, we passed a busy mosque where the faithful were heeding the call to prayer. We had been good tourists today, “Pleasuring with a vengeance” as Mark Twain would say. The rest of the evening was spent at the outdoor bar in front of the guesthouse, sipping tepid drinks, smoking, and watching the street theater. Tomorrow we would set out for Bago, riding the narrow-gauge trains of the Myanmar railway.

Thanks for your interest in my blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here, how about a free short story? My short fiction piece “The Broken Vow of Ramón Torres” has recently been featured at Inlandia Journal. You can check it out here:

“The Broken Vow of Ramón Torres” at Inlandia

Or perhaps one of my other novels? All of the information is here at my website. You can check out books, blog posts, book reviews, or even get a free book. Just look for the big button that says “FREE BOOK.” It’s kind of hard to miss. Happy reading!!

When the chill of Northern Europe is in the air, and Vienna’s stony streets are cold and dark, thoughts turn to Southeast Asia. I hear the siren call of sweaty, humid days, and warm sultry nights. Where have we not been? Where could we, should we, go? We spin the Asian Destination Wheel (ADW) and, voilà, this time it is Myanmar.  

Formerly known as Burma, and as a down-trodden English colony, post-WWII Myanmar languished under a series of juntas and military rulers. Following two and a half decades of civil unrest, political intrigues, and the protests of Buddhist monks, the Myanmar government in 2015 held open elections. As a result of these elections, the National League for Democracy won an absolute majority. The military remains a powerful force in Myanmar politics, yet the country is moving towards a modern democracy, albeit in fits and starts. This is in contrast to Myanmar’s neighbor, Thailand, which is slipping back into a military junta.

There will be much more to say about Myanmar’s politics and history, but for now we need to be leaving cold, gray Europe for hot, humid SE Asia.

Roaming the globe means paying the piper. Thus it has always been, and shall always be, unless we suddenly invent teleportation. “Beam me to Myanmar, Scotty!” Alas, we are still getting there the old-fashioned way, with hours of time spent in the aluminum tube. Two hour early to the airport for an international flight, ten hours to Bangkok, two hours in Bangkok, then a short hop to Yangon (Rangoon). About sixteen hours of planes and airports. Pay up, Traveler.

My secret to air-travel is to get stupid. I try to dial that brain activity down to about a three. I watch lots of movies, particularly Pixar movies. Sure, I’ve seen them all, but cute, animated movies are a great way to sooth that impatient brain. Thinking about time is a killer. I’d rather watch Woody and Buzz do silly stuff. Always have a book, an e-reader, something. Eat the airline food slowly. Play games with the little plastic food trays. The time will pass if you don’t engage with it. 

The time does pass, and then we are wandering though the vastness of Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi airport. This is familiar ground, and the pull of my favorite neighborhoods in the Big Mango is strong. But there will be no stopping over on this trip. We thread through the maze, through the next security check, and eventually onto the little plane. I hear the whisper; almost there.

The plane drops in over a painfully green landscape. The rainy season in just ending. Below us, shimmering water threads in every direction. Electric emerald fields roll out across the flat bottom land. Then there is Yangon sprouting up along wide, shining bands of rivers. 

The legalities of entry go off without a hitch. Our visas are accepted and our passports are stamped by the unsmiling immigration folks. Both backpacks slide down the baggage carousel; always a welcome sight.

Then there is a smiling young man holding up a sign with my name on it. We will free-lance the rest of the trip. booking guesthouses as we go, but it is always a good idea to have that first place locked down. Searching for a place to stay after a long flight is a fool’s errand.

Stepping out of the airport is to step into a wash of heat and humidity, that familiar first sultry, sweaty embrace of Asia. You are back; welcome home. Our driver pilots us through the cramped streets of a new Asian city, yet the scenes are familiar. There is the tangle of traffic, the open shop fronts, life being lived out of doors. He asks us the direct, yet polite questions typical in this region. How old are we, how many children do we have. I let My One answer him while I take in the passing cityscape.

We have arrived in the morning, the worst of hours for Mr. Jet-lag. The best possible option is to stay awake, push through until bedtime at the local hour. After twenty hours of no sleep, this is simply not an option. We opt for a three-hour nap, cast ourselves down on the bed, and slip into oblivion.

With rest and a shower, there is the need for real food. We set out on foot, exploring our new neighborhood in our new city. The method is always the same: find a joint that is packed with local folk and settle in. Wandering down narrow streets, past food stalls and vendors, we are the only Farang. Folks look at us with serious faces. We try out our first words of Burmese: MING-ga-la-BAH. The reward is bright smiles all around, a nodding of heads, greetings in return. So it passes as we search for our place.

When we find it, we know it is the noodle joint we were looking for. There are bright fluorescent lights, lot of people, and the atmosphere of a crowded bus station waiting room. The kid waiters are friendly, amused by the Farang in their midst. The noodles are wonderful; hot, full of fish-balls, the perfect antidote to airline food. Sated, we make our way back to the guest house as the tropical night falls.

A ubiquitous fact of life in Southeast Asia is that it takes place in full view. Work is done in shop-houses that are open to the street, and to the world. When the time for work is done, families relax in front of the same shop-houses. Meals, drinking, arguments, games, haircuts; they all unfold in the open. It is free theater. All one needs is a rickety plastic chair, a cool drink, and perhaps a good cigar. We whiled away the rest of the evening watching folks do what folks do. 

The night was warm and humid, the neighbors loud and boisterous. There was no need for anything else, until the lack of sleep crept over us. We climbed the stairs to the top of the guest house, threw ourselves down on the bed, and slipped into the sleep of our first night in Myanmar.

Thanks for your interest in my blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here, how about a free short story? My short fiction piece “Ghost Hats” has been featured at Literally Stories” You can check it out here:

“Ghost Hats” by Marco Etheridge — Literally Stories

Or perhaps one of my other novels? All of the information is here at my website. Just click on the menu items at the top of the page. You can check out books, blog posts, book reviews, or even get a free book. Just look for the big button that says “FREE BOOK.” It’s kind of hard to miss. Happy reading!!