48 Hours in Yangon

At 8.00pm last night, I boarded the JJ Express to Bagan, feeling relieved, distressed and somewhat heavy-hearted. Yangon is ranked amongst the poorest cities in terms of human development. Little of this did I know before arriving and  after two days I was more than ready to escape this hell on Earth. I stayed at a hostel on 9th street in downtown Yangon. The street was a 5 minute walk to China Town,  and the famous 27th and 19th streets.  As I stepped out of my hostel I was bombarded with the oppressive smell of rotting litter, open sewers and tropical fruits. Bittersweet proof of what this city could be and what it was lay just around the corner. Rich in fruit and colour, yet tarnished with flies and streams of green and grey pools. Children were sleeping on cardboard, whilst stray dogs and cats licked the ground for morsels of food. Dragonfruit, lychee, pineapple and mangoes bathed in the open air, attracting flies who were feasting on their juices. I was shouted prices at and offered these fruits, but I had to reject them and felt shame upon walking into CityMart to buy a fresh apple imported from the USA and a pear imported from China. I felt nauseous walking around the city so picked up some dinner from the supermarket and headed back to the hostel for the afternoon.                                                                                              

On my route, I came across one of the worst scenes I have ever witnessed in my short life. I was almost knocked out by such a strong smell, of which I cannot even begin to describe to you. It felt as though I had walked into a brick wall and upon reaching this wall I turned and saw a large metal gate; a bulwark into one of Yangon’s many urban slums. Firstly, I was overwhelmed by the height of these buildings, which looked as though they could be washed away by the heavy June rains. Run down shacks were stacked upon each other with little metal balconies where locals dangled things in carrier bags onto the street below and hung their clothes to dry. [I dried a pair of shorts this way, and the smell that permeated them is beyond wearable to the western nose]. The dilapidated colours of pink, green and blue houses promised pain and poverty, amidst a past promised prosperity. Three men sat on blue plastic stalls smoking cigarettes and chatting casually. They seemed un-disturbed by the canal of green filth that soaked into their flip flops. Holes in the pavement exposed littered canals of shit and plastic, which attracted hundreds of flies and insects of all varieties. Dogs with tumours lay along the path and emancipated cats scrounged for food that the locals threw to them.

 The other side of the gate, where I was walking, a middle aged lady breastfeeding a baby was selling mangoes. I couldn’t bear to buy one, so instead I went to the nearest convenience store and bought her water and snacks. I did this the next day also, but felt guilty for not investing in their, what seemed like, disease-ridden foods. I handed out chocolate treats to the children and was greeted with many thanks, which just added to my guilt. I felt disappointed with my hostel, yet there I was with a shower, toilet and bed, albeit basic and somewhat dirty, this was paradise from what lay inside the houses opposite me. Those people living and sleeping and eating on the streets would kill for this luxury and there I was, troubled by what I thought was primitive and below sub-standard.

Coming from Japan, where most toilets are ‘smart toilets’ with heated seats and automatic flush sensors; where the streets shimmer in cleanliness; where it is illegal to cross the road when a red man is present; where it is deemed rude to blow your nose and eat whilst walking; where fruits are meticulously polished and wrapped in unnecessary packaging to protect them; where restaurants are carefully composed of china bowls and fresh wooden chopsticks; where vending machines line every corner; where masks are commonplace to stop the spread of infection; where girls wear unblemished makeup and men wear pristinely ironed suits; where a beer is cracked open on the bullet train at 10am to celebrate a business deal; where everything, just everything is intricate and valued, it was not only shocking but also highly disturbing to see the sate of Yangon.

I found my way back to my hostel and had an ice cold beer with a fellow traveller. I decided to go and visit the Shwedagon Pagoda at sunset. My taxi driver said 2,000 kyat but he then demanded 3,000 kyat of which I obliged to. When I entered, I was asked by a girl who couldn’t have been over 11 years old to remove my shoes and socks and head towards the escalator. I paid 10,000 kyat to enter the pagoda and as much as it is worth the visit, I was horrified by the perverted opulence that greeted me. Gold leaf, gold plate and gold paint harboured rubies and diamonds and gems of all varieties. A complex of wealth. A religious complex that gives those who practice Buddhism faith and comfort. Yet, how I wondered? Every 5 years the pagoda is built higher, more gold is donated and more money is invested. However, not only 10 minutes away lay slums like you wouldn’t believe. A few years ago I watched Slumdog Millionaire, and I never thought I would witness such sights. But they are real and I was made even more aware of this when I was in a taxi on the way to Aung Mingalar Bus Station, of which I will speak about later.

At the pagoda I was introduced to ‘Potato’, who gave me an hours tour of the complex. He told me about the importance of the day of the week you were born (I am a guinea pig), the history of Buddhism, of politics and of international relations. He showed me where to stand to see the largest diamond on top of the pagoda shimmer in hues of blue, pink, green, white and purple. He answered my questions about the meanings of different positions that buddhas are designed in. He is 24, so intelligent, practiced being a monk for one year, lost his father and seems despondent to whether he will gain enlightenment. If a person deserves to, he does. After the tour was up I shook his hand, gave him 5,000 kyat, took his email and we parted ways. I looked back to see him ready to greet another tourist, in the hope of securing a little more hope. Potato has already responded to my email of thanks, and my goal in this life is to get him to England for a holiday.

I then jumped in a taxi back to 9th street and proceeded to eat a bowl of traditional food that I felt was safe because it was bought from the supermarket. Little did I know that minutes after finishing this meal I was violently vomiting and two days later, I still  feel unsettled.  I had eaten a lump of fried bean curd in chilli oil and pickled vegetables. Despite it being overly spicy, it seemed normal enough. Since then, I can only stomach crisps and cake. Perhaps the food was out for a while, perhaps it contained meat, perhaps it was the spice. I do not know, and I do not wish to know.

The following evening I had to catch the bus to Bagan. The hostel ordered my taxi from ‘grab’, which is the equivalent to Uber; cheap, reliable and safe. However, I have never felt so unsafe. My taxi driver listened to my inquiry as to where I can buy a phone charger because I left it in the hostel. He pulled over and told me where to go, so I did and purchased a cord for 3,000 kyat. He was so kind and friendly and demanded no more than the original price of 10,200 kyat for pulling over and waiting for me. I obviously gave him a tip for his charity. We carried on our journey, yet soon we were on a dark, unlit road adjacent to a shanty town. This was not just a construction of poorly built buildings, but walls and homes propped against each other in a desperate attempt to create shelter. Homes were lit with candles and stoves, there was not an electric bulb in sight.  I just saw stacks of metal and wooden makeshift structures and children running along the side of the road, lit up only by the cars light beams. My body felt tight and I struggled to breathe. Where was this taxi taking me? I knew it was a potential short-cut to the bus station; the equivalent of cutting through Heytesbury to Sutton Veny, but after learning about the high frequency of human trafficking in Yangon, I was ready to jump out the taxi there and then. I looked to the left and saw the shadow of a girl standing there. The ominous figure seemed like a warning to me. Who was she? Why was she just stood in the dark shack? Was she ok? All these questions suddenly pounded at my mind. I silently cried in terror and in pity. These poor people. I asked the driver how long to the station and he informed me it was only 20 minutes farther. I used my MapsMe App to see where we were. He was telling the truth and I was allowing my imagination to run wild. I looked to the right and felt an affiliation with these slum dwellers. Even amongst all this sorrow and filth, a bar playing the FA World Cup was packed with men of all ages sharing a drink and watching the game. Fathers, sons, brothers, uncles, grandfathers all together watching the same game as those in England, America, Japan, Russia, China; the entire world. I thought about my bus journey to Bagan and that I would be going home in under a weeks time. I would soon be surrounded by my family and friends, enjoying luxuries like having a coffee machine, a hot bubble bath, a simple toaster. Yet, these people… where would they be in a few days time? A few years time? Would they still be here? Would they meet some kind of devastation? Would their lives improve? I don’t know and I doubt I ever will. But I can hope and perhaps try to change something. I feel different in myself and how I view the world. In two days I have seen a world that I thought existed purely in films and on TV. A world that was so far from my own that I couldn’t even begin to think that it really existed on this Earth.  A world where everyday is a laborious struggle to secure food and survive. And there I was, in a taxi with air-con, worrying about my own safety; how egocentric of me, me the sheltered girl from England.

When I arrived at the bus shelter, I was hoarded into a tiny waiting room, supposedly a luxury waiting room. It was hot with two fans to cool down the sudden influx of tourists waiting for their overnight buses to Mandalay and Bagan. I was assigned to Bus 8, and as I watched my rucksack be carried out of the waiting room, I knew that there must be some kind of joy beyond the confines of Yangon City.

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