Burma: Land of my birth Part 2

Leg two of my trip to Burma in December 2010

Rangoon

This was the city of my birth. We had barely spent any time in it and we would not be again. We had an afternoon to visit the Shwedagon Pagoda, the fabled gilded stupa that is the synonymous with the city. My father arranged to hire a driver to take us and wait. As it turned out, the driver talked incessantly to my dad and stayed with us the entire time, or rather stayed with my dad saying it was good to talk to him and he wanted to talk more. I could not help but be suspicious of why he was doing this. In a country where the secret police are notoriously prevalent and suspicious of foreigners, I started to look at anyone who took an interest in us with great suspicion.

The road to the Pagoda was manically busy. It was a hot afternoon and everyone seemed to be heading there. The car park seemed prodigiously busy, but the driver found a spot. Getting out of the car, I noticed for the first time a bus load of Europeans. I had not seen any on my travels on far! They were indeed a rarity. We headed to the entrance and were immediately wowed by the ever rising monument of gold. It glistened in a mesmerising way which made plausible all the fables it has inspired from this part of the world. We duly removed our shoes and the driver offered to look after them as we walked around. There was so much to admire inside. The delicate glass work; the many buddhas; the fragrant jasmine; the monks in orange and saffron robes, themselves enjoying behaving like tourists, taking pictures with their earthy digital cameras! Wherever one looked, there was something to delight the eye and bring a smile to the spirit. I noticed a girl, hands clasped together, offering a prayer with deep shut eyes; a monk sat in classic meditative pose, perfectly still and calm amidst the din of chatter and shutters snapping.

Suddenly, a row of people with brooms gathered in a neat semi circle. At regular intervals, this was repeated. After an interval of some ten minutes to organise themselves, they all started sweeping in a circle round the pagoda. It was quite a sight. Everyone moved out of the way to let these volunteers fulfil their task. It was quiet a poetic sight. Leaving the Shwedagon, returning my cooled feet into sandals it made me immensely proud that on my passport, my place of birth is registered as Rangoon....

Taunggyi

The following morning, we woke again at some unearthly dark hour to be picked up for our alleged 8 hour drive from Rangoon to the main town in Shan state. I had requested we visit Taunggyi as it was the last place I remembered living in before we emigrated to England. I remembered it as a cool and temperate place; verdant and charming. I recalled the Catholic Church where I had had my first communion; a disastrous day when my headwear fell into mud and I abandoned my ill fitting shoes full of cotton wool in the aisle! I don’t think my poor mother has lived it down since! I also recalled the house, where my father had a surgery at the front and we lived at the back. I remembered the kitchen area where my mother squatted to peel onions and ginger and cook, the dining table where I did my homework with an oil lamp and the small bedroom I shared with our housekeeper and nanny Lucy. I think she was about 18 years old at the time, petite with a very dark complexion. She was perhaps Tamil in origin. She never struck me as being pretty, but she was infinitely kind and I loved her for always helping me with my school work and most memorably for making me her three dimensional house models which I loved to colour in and play with. Taunggyi was where I had my first crush on a boy at church and where I had to say goodbye to my first recalled best friend. It was a place I remembered with rose tinted glasses and the full flush of nostalgia. It seemed unthinkable that I would not take the opportunity to go there on this visit. So, my father had the trip arranged and off we headed, accompanied by his relatives - Cherry, her mother and ‘Baby’....

I slept through the first two hours of the journey until we stopped at the only service station on the main highway. I looked out as we parked up and noticed a row of restaurants. We got off and walked to one of these, apparently a known chain! There seemed to be a small army of youngsters dressed incongruously in Chelsea shirts ready to give us their undivided attention. Cherry and her mother had prepared a tiffin dishes for us and we were treated to some home fare which was delicious. My father and husband ordered ‘3 in 1’, a coffee brand well known and it seemed loved in the country.  We did not stop long and I noticed once again, we were the only ‘foreigners’. I decided to brave the toilets and made my way to the back of the buildings. The whole place had clearly been set up for foreigners as well as Asian visitors as there was a choice of squatting toilets or ‘western’ toilets, with images behind the door giving instruction! i.e. do not climb on and squat on a western toilet! I also noticed lots of sinks and thanaka tablets. Clearly, some of these youngsters lived in the ‘restaurants’. One was conducting his morning ablutions and seemed embarrassed to see me. It struck me there and then that schooling had little significance for many.

We set off again and within a few hours were at Nay Pyi Daw. This was the new capital in the making. Approaching it, I noticed an amazing amount of electricity lines and cables. So far I had barely seen any.  It struck me as insidious that so much was spent on this fake site when Rangoon was left to ruin.  They had even built a fake Shwedagon! My father joked with the young driver but I was surprised that Cherry and her mother found it beautiful. In a way, compared to what they saw in their daily lives, it was like a Florida holiday resort and indeed on that level it was beautiful. Huge houses, grounds and what looked like landscape gardens to come. Nevertheless, it seemed peculiar to me that they did not question why it needed to exist. There seemed to be lacking a real sense of enquiry. I wondered whether this was because it had been knocked out of them for 60 years by the prevailing dictatorship. Yet, these were intelligent people. They had chosen, it seemed, to shut away that part of the human nature since it had come to nothing for so long. Even monks had been silenced in times of protest. The dictatorship held nothing sacred. Keeping their positions secure was all they wanted and needed to do.

We drove on and after several hours came to a cross roads. The young driver, whom we had trusted to know the way, was not too sure if the ‘new road’ was ready to take us up to the Shan State. He asked a few folk and seemed assured that although there might be some bumpy patches, it should be fine. So, we started on our epic voyage on this dust ridden road, which would take another twelve hours or so. It has to be the most fascinating, stunning, arduous and nerve shattering road trip of my entire life. The road was far from ready. Most of it was still just freshly dug dry earth. The amount of white dust we blew up with the van was blinding! At first, it was all fascinating; the hair pin bends, the lush vegetation, the novelty of being the only vehicle on the road for miles. At one point, we had to wait for a JCB type excavator to finish digging into the side of the mountain! We stopped off in villages for quick cups of tea and toilet breaks and looked in wonder at odd passing vehicles wondering where they were headed! We passed what I called the Great Wall of Burma at one stage. It indeed stretched for mile after mile, and shielded new military barracks we were told. I suddenly felt, we really should not be on this road. After ten hours or so, we started hitting fascinating outcrops of rocks with tiny white pagodas aloft. It looked surreal to see these sloe black rocks, shaped like mini mountains, balancing these delicate stupas. Dusk was beginning to fall and there was no sign of Taunggyi. There were no road signs, nothing to follow. The young driver drove on, chewing on his betel leaf as is he chewed it for divine inspiration. We stopped and asked various locals who could in no way predict the distance or the time it would take for us to get there. We drove across what seemed like a Mongolian plateau for hours as darkness drew in. We saw random square cement houses, oxen tied outside and freshly lit fires. It started to feel cold. Now after thirteen hours on the road, it was cold and dark and there was no sign, not a sliver, of civilisation. I started to feel terrified. We in reality had no idea where we were going. We had no mobile phones or signal for that matter. I stopped talking as did the lady passengers at the back. I held on tightly to husband’s hand who declared that this must be the most remote place he had ever been to! We drove on and on and I began to pray we would not break down before some sign of reaching a town or village. We also had the added worry of getting into a ‘foreigner’ registered hotel! This was not a country where you could take the first available room at the inn!

So far, I had not spotted any other vehicle like ours. There had been mopeds, oxen carts and the odd rickety truck but nothing that looked like another set of ‘westerners’ touring the country. We soldiered on. It was night now. Complete darkness. Eventually, in our fourteenth hour, we started seeing buses sardined with people and loaded on the roofs to the hilt. One of the silent ladies in the back seat read it was the Express bus from Taunggyi. We must be on the right road. The bus had come from Taunggyi! We all breathed a little easier and now felt it was now within our reach. No one dared predict how long, least of all the driver. He seemed to think it was taboo to give us any indication of time! I found it impossible to think there was anything ‘express’ about anything in the country. Those night buses would be driving on dark dangerous roads all through the night. Where ever they were going, they would not be getting express service as I knew it!

We trudged on, my heart still in my mouth, dreading and fearing we would break down. Eventually, we turned into what looked like a main road. It meandered up and then passed the gates of a vineyard which husband had heard of!  My father seemed more relieved that we were on the main road into Taunggyi. Soon, there were street lights and the semblance of a town appeared. We had not booked anywhere to stay and by law we had to stay in a government approved hotel.  So, we kept our eyes out for tourist friendly hotels. We all saw one at the same time, and shouted it there was a possibility on our left. We stopped on the road just outside the hotel. My father and the driver went in and a few minutes later, they came back out. We could not stay there. It was full. We had arrived too late! The driver remembered the ‘Taunggyi Hotel’ from his past and headed further into town. In the darkness, I could remember nothing. We drove up and down the main street several times looking for signs for this hotel. All the shop fronts were shut and the only sign of animation was the night market. After what seemed like yet another anxious eternity and stopping to ask odd passer bys, we did find it and it looked like something out of a 70’s B horror movie!  The two white buildings were set in woodlands and looked like an abandoned asylum. We walked to the reception and were struck by how cold it was. The ladies and I were desperate for the toilet and found disgusting ones which looked unused and uncleaned for a millennium. The whole place looked and felt inhospitable. We checked in and the youthful clerk allocated us rooms in the ‘foreigners’ quarter whilst the three ladies had the local quarters. We wished them good night as the same clerk porter took our bags to the foreign wing. We agreed with dad, who was allocated a room in the same corridor, that we would meet up in ten minutes to go and get something to eat in the night market. Our room had twin beds (we had yet to encounter a double bed as a couple!) and seemed Spartan in style and content. We abandoned our dusty suitcases and headed back to the van to head into ‘town’. The night market was in full swing but there did not seem anything lively about it. We went to the food stalls and looked at the steaming choices. We all opted for Shan noodles and took our seats on wooden stools. A smiling lady appeared and took our orders. Huddled and cold, we ate in silence. I’d long lost my appetite and did not really enjoy what I was eating. There seemed to be no flesh to the chicken sauce except crushed bones. As always, husband and I got stared at, a lot! After his first bowl full, my father wandered off to order more food for himself.  He came back saying he’d encountered someone who knew an old colleague. He’d also been asked by the stall owner, if I was a famous actress! Apparently, I looked like the actress from the Titanic! I told my dad to tell her I was indeed Kate Winslet and that my husband was George Clooney. We might not look as good as we did on film at the moment as we had been travelling for 15 hours! We all had a giggle and left shortly after eating.

That night, I barely slept at all. I dressed up to go to bed anticipating it would be freezing and it was. Husband was optimistic and had his boxer shorts and T shirt on. Sure enough, in the early hours, he crept into my bed, teeth chattering, suffering from near hypothermia! I encouraged him to put on more clothes and get back in his own bed. The bed was not designed for two! As soon as could, we got up and got dressed. Neither of us wanted to risk a shower that might not work and be confronted with cold spray! We made our way to the main building and joined the ladies and my father for breakfast. They seemed cheerier and had apparently slept well! My father had kept his coat on and had stood under a hot shower for a long while thawing himself that morning. The ladies I think slept in what they wore the night before! I helped myself to some steam starchy rice and had a cup of coffee. I’d woken up with my legs covered in red blotches and began to feel our trip here was cursed! My dad said it was some sort of allergic reaction to something and suggested a cream. By the time we came out of breakfast, it was gloriously sunny and the air felt crisp and fresh. I looked at my surroundings and was struck by how beautiful it was. There it was, the Taunggyi of my girlhood; lush green mountains rising all around the town;  snow white Pagoda peaks on the ridges;  bright colourful flowers, even in mid winter. Husband commented what a beautiful location it was. What amazing potential the place had. It would be perfect for a Spa boutique hotel with an open Jacuzzi, with views to the mountains! Maybe some hotelier would see its potential one day and turn it into a gem!

Dad had agreed with the driver that after a whistle stop tour of the town, we would head to Mandalay. I had pleaded with him on the long drive the evening before, that heading to Pagan the next day was madness. It had taken us fifteen hours to reach Taunggyi. I would not survive another 10-15 hours driving cross country the following day. It was pointless me being in Burma after three decades if all we did was see everything from a van! After a heated exchange, my father agreed. He said, we could go to Mandalay as there was nowhere else in between worth stopping at! I said I would be happy to see Mandalay again as I had been there frequently for the water festival and remembered the home of my mother’s aunts. However, first, there would be our nostalgia tour around Taunggyi.

Our first mission was to find the house we had lived in. I remembered it vividly. It was near the corner of a road and had been painted in sugared almond colours of blue, pink and purple. My father had his surgery at the front of the house and we lived at the back. I shared a room with our nanny and housekeeper. My parents and brothers had a long room adjacent to ours. There was an eating area with a simple dining room table and chairs and a cooking area where my mother and Lucy squatted on stools preparing meals. There was a ‘patio’ area of sorts at the front of the house, where Lucy swept daily. I remembered the landlord lived above us. I had no recollection of what he looked like or his children. I never played with them and had no idea who they were. We drove around a couple of streets but none seemed familiar. We then stopped outside a house which looked very much like the one we had lived in. I told my dad I did not think this was it. A woman came out as we were gawping at the house and she told us the family we were looking for were on another road nearby. So we graciously thanked her and headed on. Indeed, the helpful lady had been right. Turning a corner, we came to a stop. The house was nearly the same colour as I had remembered it. Aspects of it seemed entirely alien to me now, but it had unmistakably been our home for the two years or so we lived in this hill town. This was where my father had earned his small fortune treating insurgent Shan soldiers fighting the ethnic war. He had had expertise and equipment for treatments they could not easily get elsewhere. They paid him in cash and handsomely so it seems. My mother had been accountant to this small amassing fortune and kept it all in biscuit tins! It was during this time that they confirmed their plans to leave the country and emigrate. This place had funded our exit out of the country! I looked around me and noticed a dilapidated wooden house right next to ours. It must have been there whilst we lived there but I had no recollection of it. I then walked to the end of the road the sure enough, looking down to my right; there was the mosque at the end of the street. There was also a row of tea shops which I remembered well. As my father talked to a maid who appeared at a window, I noticed a trail of novice monks coming down the road for their morning alms. I took picture of them and they seemed happy to pose. I wonder if they thought I was Kate Winslet too! Turning back to my father, I noticed a lady had appeared and was chatting to him. She was the wife of one of landlord’s sons and he had tragically died in a motor bike accident a few months earlier. She said his brother had a tyre shop and she would take us there. My father remembered the nicknames he had given these boys, but I could not share in his joyous recollection of such details! We piled into the van and headed to his shop. The young man recognised my father instantly and they got into conversation. I was more interested in the folk I saw about me. After having wished him well, we headed for the church where I had had my first communion. It was a disastrous day with me abandoning my cotton wool stuffed shoes in the middle of the aisle and my headdress falling into a puddle of mud! It was also the place where I had had my first crush on a boy and where I had seen a bishop who looked like Father Christmas. To my surprise and delight, the church and grounds were as I remembered them.  They were in remarkably well kept condition and against the cobalt blue sky, the church itself looked magnificent and bright. I took a photo of it and breathed in the memory of those days like taking in the scent of a favourite perfume. After that, we headed into the town for quick snack before heading on the road again. Taunggyi seemed to have prospered my father felt. There seemed to be quite a lot of new buildings and all seemed well looked after. The old cinema where I had been taken to ingest dreadful Japanese flicks and noisy Bollywood movies seemed to have disappeared. I felt a sadness the building itself was no longer there. For it was also at this small cinema that I first saw Zeferelli’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’. I had no real idea what was going on, but I felt the tragedy of it all on the face of Olivia Hussey and the power of cinema captured me once and for all. As we ambled up the road with well kept pavements, husband and I noticed what looked like WW2 Nazi helmets on men and women alike! At first we thought they must be imitations but on second look, he assured me they were real! Clearly, this country had a penchant for such curios. I took a photo of a lady with rotting teeth who seemed very proud to be wearing it! We made our way to a small tea shop, now ready for some sweet milky tea and my husband his customary 3in1 coffee! We walked to the back of the shop and a young boy came to take our orders. I wondered how old he was and asked ‘Baby’ if she could ask him. She seemed a little reluctant, looking around her as though she was being listened to and watched. I told her not to ask if she did not feel comfortable. She just asked me to wait. When he arrived with our drinks, she asked his age. He replied 13. I asked her to ask him if he was on holiday from school. She relayed the message and said, he was done with school now. We looked at each other knowing and understanding the reality of such lives.

Late morning, we drove out of town, pass the neat terrace of shops, quieter residential areas and then the hospital where my mother had worked and where my brother Nigel had had his tonsils taken out! It looked remarkably the same and I smiled as I saw the nurses in their red skirts and white peaked caps come out of the gate. I was glad to have made it to this town again. The journey had been hard but it had polished and distillled long held memories of childhood happiness.