Mandalay
The road to Mandalay was a mere 8 hours or so! We first descended hairpin bends, creating white dust behind us as we lost altitude. We then drove along busy roads with carts and oxen, motorbikes and pickup trucks. We passed a massive valley of felled teak, all ready to be exported in huge Chinese trucks. There may have been sanctions by many Western Countries, but neighbour China was still merrily trading with this secretive land.
We drove into the outskirts of Mandalay and I was struck by how developed it looked! Husband said, ‘this looks like a brand new Chinese city’. Indeed, our hotel was called was The Great Wall and we finally got our double room with a double bed! There was also a Western standard decent bathroom but as always, the shower was not keen to impart with warm enough water! I called down to reception and they sent a tall gangly boy to deal with the issue. It irritated me that I could not explain the problem in Burmese and my brave husband even tried some Chinese on him, but he remained bewildered. It looked to us like we would have to shower in tepid water! That evening, we took a drive further into town for dinner. We stopped at a noisy eatery/tea shop, where boys in brightly coloured shirts shouted orders to the back of the restaurant. We sat under bright florescent lights on wooden stools and plastic tables and ate the most delicious lamb biryani that we had ever had! I remember looking forward to sleeping well that night and not having to rise before dawn!
The following day, we took a trip to the old Palace, surrounded by a glimmering moat. In these grounds my great-grandmother Bibi Glay had grown up. Her father or grand-father (I forget) had been the personal assistant to the last Kind of Burma, Thibaw. Our van got checked by the Burmese Military and we got issued with some wonderful card tickets allowing us entry to a number of sites around the city. I watched my father go up the steps and felt tugged by a thread of my own ancestral history.
The Palace had been ‘done up’ and at first glance looked impressive. However, it soon dawned on me that the roofs were painted corrugated iron in rust red! There were garish splashes of gold paint on intricate wood carvings but the whole Palace still had its majestic aura. I particularly liked the mosaic mirrors and the wooden floors made the whole place incredibly cooling. My father said he and my mother had been in the city on their honeymoon and he remembered it well. My mother’s aunts had lived in the city throughout my childhood and we visited every year as far as I could remember for the Burmese New Year, the water festival in April. It was a boisterous affair, with everyone getting drenched in the sweltering heat. There were lorries blaring with music hosing down passersby. My mother had been near deafened by the power of a hose at such an event and still suffers from it to this day exacerbated by age! I rarely enjoyed much of this frivolity as I was left at home with acute stomach disorder of some sort. I remember every year dreading the onset of the vomiting and feeling wretched in the enervating heat. After a few days, my father would give me some injection and slowly I would improve to maybe enjoy an afternoon of drenching and giggles!
My father beckoned me into an exhibition area of old photographs and said my great great grand-father’s attire would have been similar. I looked at these courtly sepia stained images, wondering if one of these unsmiling inscrutable faces was indeed a blood relation...
The items which fascinated most were the spittoons... beautifully crafted silver or gold wide vase shapes. Historically, betel leaf chewing had also been ‘de rigueur’ even in the Royal household and spittoons had been made to Royal standard. It did make me wonder how unattractive women would have been with red stained teeth. Maybe that was why they were no smiles in these vintage photographs!
We then made our way to a lake in the grounds. My father commented how it had been cleaned up. When he came with my mother over forty years ago, he said it was mosquito infested as had been the whole moat. Forced labour, men, women and children working with their bare hands if they did not have tools, had cleared these swamps making it attractive for the few tourists who visited the old capital and no doubt stayed at the only luxury tourist hotel in town, built by Singapore. It made me smile, that the least perceived corrupt state of the Far East did its ‘dirty’ work in this corrupt ridden country, making sure the proverbial finger was in every available pie in the region.
We spent quite a bit of time just ambling in the grounds, taking shelter under huge banyan trees favoured by Buddha himself. We saw monks and nuns, also on their tourist visits. Not far I knew was where the maiden aunts had lived. I asked my father if he could remember where the house might have been. I recalled it was ochre coloured and had a garden with a veranda area where we sat in the balmy evenings with coils of mosquito repellent smoking at our feet. I also remembered watching the aunts’ maid, a tall wiry woman with dark leathery skin, squatting over tin pots and grinding on stone to make some of the most delicious meals of my childhood. My father, unfortunately, said he could not remember exactly what road the house was on and very likely, after their death, the lucrative grounds would have been sold off to some wealthy Chinese merchant and the house as I had remembered it would no longer exist. I must admit, I was rather disappointed that we did not pursue it further. If there had been a good mobile phone network, any mobile phone network, I would have called my mother and asked her! She had after all spent most of her school holidays with them and would remember for certain. However, I had to be rebuffed.
After Mandalay Hill, we did return to the rows of white stupas we had seen earlier. There seemed no official entrance, so, my father simply led us through a gate. As we wandered around looking at the tablets with faded scripts, a girl came forward selling lilies. She was delicate in build as many Burmese girls are, and had big brown eyes with a wonderful warm smile. She also had thanaka in the shape of leaves on her cheeks. This was my favourite pattern when I used to wear thanaka. I asked if she would pose for me and she graciously obliged. I tipped her as best I could and moved on saddened I could do no more to improve the quality of her life.
After this, my father was determined I should see the Arakan Buddha. We again drove through a maze of streets and parked close to what looked like a floral market. I was utterly bewitched by the spray of colours and array of blooms. I understood the ladies commenting on me taking photos of them. They did not seem best pleased. Did I care?! We made our way through a market of classic tourist wares which were fascinating. I fell completely in love with the Mandalay lacquer ware, the beaded bags and most of all, the court puppets. I resisted the temptation to barter for a pair of puppets but brought small lacquer pots for my dearest friends. This was to be my only way to share a piece of my Burma with them. Luggage allowances are always such a pain! However, I promised myself that next time, those puppets were coming home with me!
The Arakan Buddha was a magnificent sight. There were rows of worshippers in front of it and worshippers still laying gold leaf all over him. Over the centuries, this had been a common practise and his shape had much enlarged. My father remembered a similar sight when he had seen it with my mother. Again, I gazed at the peculiar spectacle, incredulous that I was there at all. As always, I waded in as close as I could to get a picture but was unceremoniously stopped by some military guards as I had inadvertently passed a cordoned area. I remember giving the youth a deserved contemptuous look, half heartedly apologised and moved on.
For our final meal in Mandalay, my father had asked the driver to find us somewhere we could eat in relative quiet! He fulfilled his task and took us to an upstairs dining room of a noisy street side eatery. We were waited on hand and foot by an array of tea house boys, all rather curious at the mixture in our party! I felt exhausted by this point and although my appetite had waned, I enjoyed the pleasure of the evening and the medley of dishes which were laid before us. This was a fitting ending to a visit which was not planned, to a city long remembered, where the assortment of what was experienced was delightful and delicious!
The following day, we set off back to Rangoon. The journey felt prodigiously quick once we hit the newly built highway. It was a speedy 8 hours in the end!
As we left the city, we passed many vehicles with monks clinging to them like saffron barnacles on a rusty ship. There was the omnipresent Ox and Cart and noisy spluttering mopeds. On the highway, there were perhaps one or two cars at various intervals. The road had been built, but clearly the majority of the population would not be using it for a long, long time.
Once back at the hotel in Rangoon, we said our farewells to Baby, Cherry and her mother. They had endured the trip rather than enjoyed it I think. I could tell from the way Cherry felt so glad to be going ‘home’. She positively cheered to be back in Rangoon! She had barely ever left the city in her 23 years or so and clearly seeing her country the way she did, had not inspired her to explore further. I, on the other hand, knew I had barely touched the tip of the ice-burg.
We ate in the hotel that evening with my father and then had a walk around the block. It was a balmy evening and the streets were lively with street hawkers and the smell of frying delights. In some of the side streets, there were youngsters playing badminton on the pavements as we had seen in Mandalay. The garishly lit street restaurants were busy and noisy and full of bustle. This was a city alive and kicking. The people in Burma may not have much, but they clearly made the most of everything they had. However, there seemed to be one big white elephant in the country. Nowhere did we see, not even surreptitiously, any sign of Aung San Suu Kyi. There were no pictures, no literature, nothing. It was as if she did not exist.
had a terrible night of throwing up before we left. I barely slept and feared I might not be fit to travel. The plumbing played up and by the morning, there was a small flood in the bathroom. This was not going to be an auspicious parting. My father met us to say goodbye and the driver was ready for us to take us to the airport. It was not yet daylight. He was not the best driver in knowing his itinerary and roads but what he lacked in knowledge, he made up for with his respectful and gracious attitude. Before we said goodbye to him, he gave us a beautifully wrapped gift.
June 2012
We left Burma early on the morning of 31 Dec 2010. In November 2010, Aung San Suu Kyi was released from house arrest after 15 years. A few weeks ago, I saw this ‘steel orchid’ on television like so many others, this serene, immensely self contained ‘Lady’, accept her Nobel Peace Prize in Oslo which she was awarded in 1991. She has made historic speeches and is spoken of in the same breath as Nelson Mandela. Burma, predominantly through her, has made a meteoric rise out of obscurity and notoriety into a place for hope and possibility. ‘Reform’ is spoken of with gusto as the world holds its breath with ‘cautious optimism’.
Our gift from our driver was a collage map of Burma encrusted with coloured stones representing gems from the various ethnic regions. The variety of it is beautiful but what is more beautiful is the effect of the whole. Burma is the land of my birth, the long hidden gem of my past, now finally coming into the light.
The road to Mandalay was a mere 8 hours or so! We first descended hairpin bends, creating white dust behind us as we lost altitude. We then drove along busy roads with carts and oxen, motorbikes and pickup trucks. We passed a massive valley of felled teak, all ready to be exported in huge Chinese trucks. There may have been sanctions by many Western Countries, but neighbour China was still merrily trading with this secretive land.
We drove into the outskirts of Mandalay and I was struck by how developed it looked! Husband said, ‘this looks like a brand new Chinese city’. Indeed, our hotel was called was The Great Wall and we finally got our double room with a double bed! There was also a Western standard decent bathroom but as always, the shower was not keen to impart with warm enough water! I called down to reception and they sent a tall gangly boy to deal with the issue. It irritated me that I could not explain the problem in Burmese and my brave husband even tried some Chinese on him, but he remained bewildered. It looked to us like we would have to shower in tepid water! That evening, we took a drive further into town for dinner. We stopped at a noisy eatery/tea shop, where boys in brightly coloured shirts shouted orders to the back of the restaurant. We sat under bright florescent lights on wooden stools and plastic tables and ate the most delicious lamb biryani that we had ever had! I remember looking forward to sleeping well that night and not having to rise before dawn!
The following day, we took a trip to the old Palace, surrounded by a glimmering moat. In these grounds my great-grandmother Bibi Glay had grown up. Her father or grand-father (I forget) had been the personal assistant to the last Kind of Burma, Thibaw. Our van got checked by the Burmese Military and we got issued with some wonderful card tickets allowing us entry to a number of sites around the city. I watched my father go up the steps and felt tugged by a thread of my own ancestral history.
The Palace had been ‘done up’ and at first glance looked impressive. However, it soon dawned on me that the roofs were painted corrugated iron in rust red! There were garish splashes of gold paint on intricate wood carvings but the whole Palace still had its majestic aura. I particularly liked the mosaic mirrors and the wooden floors made the whole place incredibly cooling. My father said he and my mother had been in the city on their honeymoon and he remembered it well. My mother’s aunts had lived in the city throughout my childhood and we visited every year as far as I could remember for the Burmese New Year, the water festival in April. It was a boisterous affair, with everyone getting drenched in the sweltering heat. There were lorries blaring with music hosing down passersby. My mother had been near deafened by the power of a hose at such an event and still suffers from it to this day exacerbated by age! I rarely enjoyed much of this frivolity as I was left at home with acute stomach disorder of some sort. I remember every year dreading the onset of the vomiting and feeling wretched in the enervating heat. After a few days, my father would give me some injection and slowly I would improve to maybe enjoy an afternoon of drenching and giggles!
My father beckoned me into an exhibition area of old photographs and said my great great grand-father’s attire would have been similar. I looked at these courtly sepia stained images, wondering if one of these unsmiling inscrutable faces was indeed a blood relation...
The items which fascinated most were the spittoons... beautifully crafted silver or gold wide vase shapes. Historically, betel leaf chewing had also been ‘de rigueur’ even in the Royal household and spittoons had been made to Royal standard. It did make me wonder how unattractive women would have been with red stained teeth. Maybe that was why they were no smiles in these vintage photographs!
We then made our way to a lake in the grounds. My father commented how it had been cleaned up. When he came with my mother over forty years ago, he said it was mosquito infested as had been the whole moat. Forced labour, men, women and children working with their bare hands if they did not have tools, had cleared these swamps making it attractive for the few tourists who visited the old capital and no doubt stayed at the only luxury tourist hotel in town, built by Singapore. It made me smile, that the least perceived corrupt state of the Far East did its ‘dirty’ work in this corrupt ridden country, making sure the proverbial finger was in every available pie in the region.
We spent quite a bit of time just ambling in the grounds, taking shelter under huge banyan trees favoured by Buddha himself. We saw monks and nuns, also on their tourist visits. Not far I knew was where the maiden aunts had lived. I asked my father if he could remember where the house might have been. I recalled it was ochre coloured and had a garden with a veranda area where we sat in the balmy evenings with coils of mosquito repellent smoking at our feet. I also remembered watching the aunts’ maid, a tall wiry woman with dark leathery skin, squatting over tin pots and grinding on stone to make some of the most delicious meals of my childhood. My father, unfortunately, said he could not remember exactly what road the house was on and very likely, after their death, the lucrative grounds would have been sold off to some wealthy Chinese merchant and the house as I had remembered it would no longer exist. I must admit, I was rather disappointed that we did not pursue it further. If there had been a good mobile phone network, any mobile phone network, I would have called my mother and asked her! She had after all spent most of her school holidays with them and would remember for certain. However, I had to be rebuffed.
After the Palace, we made our
way to Mandalay Hill, the site of fierce fighting during the Second World War
between the Japanese and the British. Now the hillside looked lush with
vegetation and perfectly tranquil. On our way there, we passed a convoy of
noisy open roofed trucks with theatrically dressed boys atop. I asked my father
what the event was. He said it was boys being taken to do their turn as novice
monks in the monastery. This was their parting party so to speak before the
months of Spartan living and austerity. Our van also wound past rickshaw lined
streets, gloriously faded old houses, apartment blocks and a stunning set of
lined white pagodas which housed tablets of scripture. We would return there
later my father promised.
The Pagoda aloft Mandalay
Hill was cool and restful. Local folk made offering at shrines and prayed
amidst lit incense sticks. There was a faint scent of jasmine being worn in
women’s hair although dusk would the time to truly savour the heady scent of
this favoured bloom. We all decided we needed a cup of tea or a 3 in 1 coffee
and made our way to the small cafe. As I walked in, I noticed two monks
chatting. They were smoking and one had a tattoo on his arm. This did not fit
my image of the quintessential monk! I whipped out my camera but instinct told
me not to point and shoot just yet! We sat down and I asked my father if he
would ask the monks if I could take a picture of them. He didn’t seem
particularly keen to do this, sensing they might actually not be monks.
Nevertheless he relented, knowing I’d do it myself if he didn’t help! We went
over and using his most polite Burmese, my father asked for their permission.
They seemed perfectly happy, but quickly put out their cigarettes and hid the
packets under the table. I asked them to keep talking, but they preferred to
face me. I also wondered like my father if they were indeed genuine men of the
Buddhist cloth! Remember, this was a country where the junta had no qualms
about shooting at monks as they had done in 2007.
After Mandalay Hill, we did return to the rows of white stupas we had seen earlier. There seemed no official entrance, so, my father simply led us through a gate. As we wandered around looking at the tablets with faded scripts, a girl came forward selling lilies. She was delicate in build as many Burmese girls are, and had big brown eyes with a wonderful warm smile. She also had thanaka in the shape of leaves on her cheeks. This was my favourite pattern when I used to wear thanaka. I asked if she would pose for me and she graciously obliged. I tipped her as best I could and moved on saddened I could do no more to improve the quality of her life.
After this, my father was determined I should see the Arakan Buddha. We again drove through a maze of streets and parked close to what looked like a floral market. I was utterly bewitched by the spray of colours and array of blooms. I understood the ladies commenting on me taking photos of them. They did not seem best pleased. Did I care?! We made our way through a market of classic tourist wares which were fascinating. I fell completely in love with the Mandalay lacquer ware, the beaded bags and most of all, the court puppets. I resisted the temptation to barter for a pair of puppets but brought small lacquer pots for my dearest friends. This was to be my only way to share a piece of my Burma with them. Luggage allowances are always such a pain! However, I promised myself that next time, those puppets were coming home with me!
The Arakan Buddha was a magnificent sight. There were rows of worshippers in front of it and worshippers still laying gold leaf all over him. Over the centuries, this had been a common practise and his shape had much enlarged. My father remembered a similar sight when he had seen it with my mother. Again, I gazed at the peculiar spectacle, incredulous that I was there at all. As always, I waded in as close as I could to get a picture but was unceremoniously stopped by some military guards as I had inadvertently passed a cordoned area. I remember giving the youth a deserved contemptuous look, half heartedly apologised and moved on.
That afternoon, my father
decided to take a nap and the Ladies and I decided to go shopping! Alas, it was
a Wednesday and the market was closed! However, the one thing we were looking
for was good quality Burmese silk brocade. I had my heart set on it and the
driver asked around. He was given directions to a well known store and we set
off. On our way, we passed the Palace and the moat and once again, I was struck
the splendour of the sight coupled with a sadness of the sacrifices and misery
inflicted to make it so. So much of what I found beautiful was double edged.
This was exactly how I felt when I saw an almost lyrical sight of a young dark
haired woman, with her burnt orange coloured longyi tied around her bust,
washing clothes at a pavement well. She looked absorbed with her task, unaware
anyone would be at all interested in her moribund daily labour. I watched her from the car scrubbing her
washing and then washing herself by throwing a bucket of water over her head
from the well. She had long raven coloured hair and large dark eyes. As we
drove away, I closed my eyes and took a mental shot which remains vivid still
in my memory.
The fabric shop was small but
perfectly stocked. ‘Baby’ led the negotiations once I found the fabric I
wanted; a lavender coloured brocade which I would have made into a tamein.
Business was conducted in a most respectful and cordial manner and we left with
what we felt was value for money. Leaving the shop, I felt so much potential
for the two girls running the place. Somehow, they had managed to not just
survive but thrive in a country which was in economic ruin. Imagine how they
would prosper given half the chance.
For our final meal in Mandalay, my father had asked the driver to find us somewhere we could eat in relative quiet! He fulfilled his task and took us to an upstairs dining room of a noisy street side eatery. We were waited on hand and foot by an array of tea house boys, all rather curious at the mixture in our party! I felt exhausted by this point and although my appetite had waned, I enjoyed the pleasure of the evening and the medley of dishes which were laid before us. This was a fitting ending to a visit which was not planned, to a city long remembered, where the assortment of what was experienced was delightful and delicious!
The following day, we set off back to Rangoon. The journey felt prodigiously quick once we hit the newly built highway. It was a speedy 8 hours in the end!
As we left the city, we passed many vehicles with monks clinging to them like saffron barnacles on a rusty ship. There was the omnipresent Ox and Cart and noisy spluttering mopeds. On the highway, there were perhaps one or two cars at various intervals. The road had been built, but clearly the majority of the population would not be using it for a long, long time.
Once back at the hotel in Rangoon, we said our farewells to Baby, Cherry and her mother. They had endured the trip rather than enjoyed it I think. I could tell from the way Cherry felt so glad to be going ‘home’. She positively cheered to be back in Rangoon! She had barely ever left the city in her 23 years or so and clearly seeing her country the way she did, had not inspired her to explore further. I, on the other hand, knew I had barely touched the tip of the ice-burg.
We ate in the hotel that evening with my father and then had a walk around the block. It was a balmy evening and the streets were lively with street hawkers and the smell of frying delights. In some of the side streets, there were youngsters playing badminton on the pavements as we had seen in Mandalay. The garishly lit street restaurants were busy and noisy and full of bustle. This was a city alive and kicking. The people in Burma may not have much, but they clearly made the most of everything they had. However, there seemed to be one big white elephant in the country. Nowhere did we see, not even surreptitiously, any sign of Aung San Suu Kyi. There were no pictures, no literature, nothing. It was as if she did not exist.
had a terrible night of throwing up before we left. I barely slept and feared I might not be fit to travel. The plumbing played up and by the morning, there was a small flood in the bathroom. This was not going to be an auspicious parting. My father met us to say goodbye and the driver was ready for us to take us to the airport. It was not yet daylight. He was not the best driver in knowing his itinerary and roads but what he lacked in knowledge, he made up for with his respectful and gracious attitude. Before we said goodbye to him, he gave us a beautifully wrapped gift.
June 2012
We left Burma early on the morning of 31 Dec 2010. In November 2010, Aung San Suu Kyi was released from house arrest after 15 years. A few weeks ago, I saw this ‘steel orchid’ on television like so many others, this serene, immensely self contained ‘Lady’, accept her Nobel Peace Prize in Oslo which she was awarded in 1991. She has made historic speeches and is spoken of in the same breath as Nelson Mandela. Burma, predominantly through her, has made a meteoric rise out of obscurity and notoriety into a place for hope and possibility. ‘Reform’ is spoken of with gusto as the world holds its breath with ‘cautious optimism’.
Our gift from our driver was a collage map of Burma encrusted with coloured stones representing gems from the various ethnic regions. The variety of it is beautiful but what is more beautiful is the effect of the whole. Burma is the land of my birth, the long hidden gem of my past, now finally coming into the light.
