SIMPLY (t)RAVELLING

Yangon Circular Train

 

4 Feb 2012. 

From the market, we continued with our excursion along the Bogyoke Aung San Road to the Yangon Central Railway Station at the city center. We were going for a short trip around town the old-school style. Taking public transport to me is one of the many ways of exploring a place and a fascinating insight of locals day-to-day.

 

The station is situated right in front of an old cinema nearby the Traders Hotel. It was hidden from the main road, and we thought that we had missed it. Upon climbing the flyover to the north of the Pansodan road we saw the landmark and was relieved that we were on the right track. Note the gold colored, tiered minaret – a traditional burmese architecture known as Pyatthat that marked the station.

 

Rows of unused coaches spotted from the flyover.

 

The view of the station from above. The day is still early and the place was not yet crowded.

 

The main facade of the half-century old train station. The original complex was a victorian architecture first built by the Brits in 1877 during the British India colonization of South East Asia (including Burma). It was later destroyed in 1943 upon Japanese occupation and rebuilt according to the traditional Burmese style by local engineer in 1954. Although listed as one of Yangon City Heritage, we couldn’t see much preservation works being done to it. 

 

Upon asking for the ticket booth, we were directed to platform 7 where we purchased our ticket for US1 per pax. Passport is required for foreigners.

 

One of the officers was kind enough to show us the hand drawn train route. The train takes about 3 hours to return back to the main station, trundling through Yangon suburbs and sub-districts in one big loop.

 

Platform 7, where we waited for our train. ? without the dot is numeral to 7 in Burmese.

 

The idle platform was suddenly brought to life by the commotion of the passengers disembarking from the arriving train.

  

Ours wasn’t meant to arrive just yet, so we took the chance observing the area and get the most of Burmese daily lives.

 

 Waiting.

 

Couple on train.

 

 

Lost in thought.

 

 

Sleeping.

 

Two and a half ladies.

 

All aboard!

 

 

Our train finally arrived a few minutes later, and we quickly hopped in and looked for a good spot to sit. The inside has nothing much to offer, except a flat, hard wooden benches that run the length of the carriage on either side, in line with the square, push-up metal windows. The rusty, iron rooftop is supported by wooden planks flooring; and with the absence of lamp and fan, it was dark, hot and humid inside. We finally settled ourselves near to the doorless exits, for ease of mobility and of course, ventilation.

 

You may sit as you pleased, and in any way to make yourself comfortable, though it rarely the case. From my experience, sitting cross-legged is the best as you would be able to enjoy the outside view better, though you might suffer from severe muscle cramps later.

 

A peep into another coach. The circular train is actually meant for locals to commute within Yangon and the villages on the countryside, and is a sight by itself.

  

We were amused by the locals, and they us. We exchanged glances and polite smiles, and a shy nod if I asked for a photo or two.

 

Kids and babies are great ice breakers by the way. This one kept on smiling and gurgling with pleasure everytime I raised my gear. 

  

As the train toot tooting further into the suburbs at turtle speed, the landscape changed from the rundown buildings and dusty streets into green vegetable gardens and peaceful villages.

 

Life outside the train could be as basic as this straw hut and the breadwinners are mostly farmers working the small piece of land in front of their lot. They are extremely poor people, but from their tired looking faces I could still spotted a spark of happiness and contented from the tip of their eyes and lips. They live their life in simplicity and with little expectation, far from what we have and taken for granted each day. Through them I found a small piece of my life mosaic: “to be trully happy,  one must be genuinely grateful”.

 

A cottage by the lake.

 

February marks the end of the cold season in Burma, and patches of brown start to crop up here and there.

  

Amidst the midget-sized huts and poverty-stricken neighbourhood, occassionally we stumbled into shimmering golden rooftops of the village pagoda, which grace and location appear to me a bit contradictry.

 

Every so often we crossed path with another train coming from the opposite direction. It was so close, and at such speed it is possible to jump across one another. 

 

A smile from the bypassing train. 

 

Typical scenary at one of the village station.

 

 

It suddenly getting hectic as we were approaching Danyingon station. Farmers from every corner of Yangon come to this place to market their produce, perhaps cause the station strategically sits in the middle of the circular train pathway.

 

It was almost midday and the morning market has just ended. Farmers were seen transported their goods back and it was havoc as they rushed themselves in with their loads for the train only stops within a small window of time. Suddenly the whole Myanmar was on the train –  from families visiting relatives at the neighbouring villages, banana sellers on long poles, farmers with their bundles of produce,  man with cheeroot, teenager with thanaka drawn with heavy metal image, woman brestfeeding her baby, food peddlers with their great balancing act – all appeared before me in that tiny speck of time.

 

  

 Some scenes at the market. Loading and unloading was quick, and the burden was often bigger than the carriers themselves.

 

I was squeezed in between fresh vegetables and sweaty farmers, and can barely moved my legs. As the day was getting hotter and our small carriage getting crampier at each station – more people got in than off; I started to smell myself like the locals. I was hungry too; not to mention our stupidity to only equipped ourselves with a bottle of half emptied mineral water throughout the journey. What was I thinking?

A boy suddenly got in and started to pour what looks like refreshing cold water from his cooler into a small metal cup, which he handed to a guy next to me. The guy took a gulp, passed back the metal cup to the boy and paid him some Kyats. The metal cup was refilled and passed from one thirsty customer to another - which merrily drank from the same cup.  We had drained our last drop of mineral water, and  was equally tempted. I hinted DH with my eyes, but he wasn’t sure. The waterboy looked at me with his smile, but I only managed to swallowed my own saliva.

 

One after another evil temptation came to us in that stuffy cramped coach; one in the form of a waterboy, another in a form of a man with basket full of freshly steamed corn and a woman with stuffed fried tofu – similar to our own Tahu Sumbat. But I managed to avoid them all. Not going to risk  diarrhea today. 

 

Traditional Burmese hat on a pile of vegetables. From time to time the train inspector will come aboard to check the tickets, more scrutiny on the vegetable sellers and the locals to ensure that nobody rides for free.

 

Walking seems to be much faster than the train itself. People can get off from the train at any where they want, the old chug moves so slow that enables you to jump out unscathed.

 

Life of the villagers and the railway line is inseparable; they lived by it through in and throughout. The farmers stay and plant their crops to the brim of the railway line, and use it to transport their produce to the market.

 

We came across a massive car junkyard along the way, and some of the vehicles still looking good. My wild guess they were used cars imported from the neighbouring countries at a cheap price, stocked and repaired before being sold to the locals.

 

Scenes spotted along the way.

 

The train continued to chug slowly, and for the first time I was relieved to see the scenary changed back from the green and lush countryside to the filth and dilapidated buildings of outer Yangon. Lunch was about time, and as soon as we stepped out from the train I was eager to get myself transported again somewhere with food and fan.