There are so many things to tell about the small town of Yangon, though we only spent a few days there. It is the most interesting town that I’ve visited so far, and yet I’m not a town person. I think living in KL has made me grew tired of all the city atmosphere – the buildings, skyscrapers, the hustle and bustle, the dust, the vehicles, the smell of carbon polluted air etc. Not to say that Yangon doesn’t have it all. It is just that I’m craving for something deep and meaningful, which the world is currently lacking. Somehow Yangon can give me that, and amazingly it comes from various shapes and sizes, and mostly common. Or perhaps cause I could still trace a sense of sincerity there, and a vague hint of some faraway childhood memories. Anyway these are the recaps of us visiting Yangon, and what we made out of it.

DH in front of the Ocean Pearl Inn, where we spent our nights.

Morning in Yangon, on our peaceful walk to the town center.

Pigeons flocking the streets of Yangon, and for a small Kyats you could purchase the dried corn kernels from the street vendor to feed them.

Locals passing times with board game seen along the Mahabandoola street.

Betel nut operator downtown Yangon.

Chewing betel nut is common in Myanmar, hence finding the blood-red stains of the spits around town is not that hard either!

They still have the old-style cinema and I was surprise on how back-dated they are, as the media here is heavily regulated by the military government. Bollywood is clearly having its fans here, but the movie currently in hype has actually made its debut somewhere in 2001. A decade too late! (Thank god our hostel room was equipped with satellite TV and the channels, though not much, aired a recent broadcast).

A worker maintaining the big generator for the cinema. Power outage is common in Myanmar, so the people here hangs on electric generators or battery inverters to be used during the electricity cut off.

This is how public phone booth in Yangon looks like. Most of the times it is just a home phone on top of a plastic foldable table setup, and yes, they provide the stool for your conveniences. The operators definately can’t help themselves from hearing the conversation, and no secret is a secret to them.  Not advisable on lengthy romantic tete-a-tete, if I’m the operator I’ll sure puke on that one, haha. Mobile phone is a luxury, and calling international lines is expensive. I once tried to call my kids back at home, but my intention  was hampered when I was informed that the call rate is USD3 per minute!

The U.S. Willys jeeps still roam the street in Myanmar. They are as old as the WWII, but when refurbished with parts from China and a bit of paint they look as good as new. A bit basic, but hey it’s cheap and it works.  They even have driving class for those interested.

Accommodation in Yangon is mostly a pigeon holes like this as real estate values  here are expensive.

Most of the buildings are also in bad state of repair or in dire needs for paints, with creepy looks hanging around them. But sometimes I find them dramatic enough such as this one.

Drug stores stalls along Anawrahta Rd. Just anybody can buy medicine – not sure with or without doctor prescriptions. By the way we didn’t spot any single clinic during our excursion, although I could feel (based on our daily walking milage) I’d covered Yangon far and wide.

 Sule Pagoda, another prominent landmark built in the middle of a roundabout right in the heart of Yangon.

Sitting juxtaposed to the Sule Pagoda is the Sunni Jame’ Mosque, which location quite exhibits the religions tolerence they have here.

Another mosque along the Mahabandoola street. There’s about 6 to 7 mosques around Yangon, and all are based on different sects of Islam though all muslims of any sects are accepted to pray in any of them.

Hawker selling  cold drinks serve in recycled paint bucket on the street of Yangon. The cone like shape filter is where they put the ice; while water is poured on top and to let it drips into the metal cup.

Our lunch in Yangon is basically Briyani rice eaten with hearty portion of chicken or mutton and some condiments – a bit of veggies, bird chilies, fruit pickles (acar buah) and salts. Taste a bit dry and different from typical Briyani in Malaysia, but I like it! (perhaps I was hungry).  Most of the halal joints here are indicated with numeral 786 which they say symbolic representation of the word ”Bismillah”,  though I’m not sure the relevance.

Of course a local sweet beverage is a must to complement our spicy lunch, and out of clue I ordered this one from the menu. I’m not sure why I pick it out of a few, perhaps because of it’s witty name. Faluda, sounds like ‘someones’s spit’ in Malay but taste like heaven! Mouthful mix of jellies and frozen custard swimming in sweet milky syrup, topped with a scoup of vanilla ice cream. Very rich and refreshing especially after a long walk under the hot sun.

During our strolls downtown Yangon, we saw locals suddenly started to gather at the side of the street. Curious, we crossed the road and joined the crowd.

It is actually a recycle market, where sellers trading cheap, second-hand electronic items or spare parts, and based on the size of the crowd it seems like a good business here.

The recycled electrical and electronic components on offers ranging from general household items such as fans, irons, cassette players, radios, digital music players and computer peripherals. The market starts somewhere on the 19th street up to the 28th, and you would immediately feel nauseous surrounded by all the junks. Some of the items are as old schools as the cassettes and the floppy disks. Yup, Yangon still have them alright. Where else could you find them these days? Err… to any Gen-Z who does not know what cassette or floppy is – cassette is the old version of voice recording media prior to VCD and DVD. It is the one with the two holes and in case the tape had gone haywire or need rewinding, you could use pen/pencil/finger to roll. While floopy disk is the data storage pre-USB. Got it? Go Google.

A toddler playing alone in the middle of the scraps at the Recycle Market, downtown Yangon.

The arm forces patrolling the streets in Yangon.

A lady selling photos of Myanmar most beloved nationalists and idols, the late General Bogyoke Aung San and her patriotic daughter Suu Kyi. Tough woman, she is.

We also visited the Bogyoke Market which formerly known as the Scott Market, named after a British civil servant. It houses arts and crafts shops, antiquities, jewelleries, souvenirs and trinkets, clothing stores and is a popular black market location for exchanging dollars and Kyats.

Jewelleries and precious stones are abundant in Myanmar, and the one place to find them is at the Bogyoke Market. Although to be honest the design is a bit out-of-fashion.

A view of the main street in Yangon.

An alley in Chinatown, Yangon.

Mohinga, the national dish of Burma we savoured on our last day in the Land of the Golden Pagoda. It is basically rice vermicelli in thick, herbal fish soup, garnished with boiled eggs, a squeeze of lemon, coriander, chili flakes and crispy fried fritters. Delicious stuff, and a must try.

The End.

For more photos of Yangon, please visit my photo gallery HERE.

Early morning and we took a cab to Shwedagon Paya, the largest and the most prominent pagoda in Myanmar. The street was clear, so in less than 20 minutes we arrived at the the pagoda south gate. Our cab driver, Mr. Mon was kind enough to stop a few meters away so that we could snap a few photos of Shwedagon golden bell-shape dome.

Instead of dropping us at the front gate, Mr. Mon drove straight inside the complex and let us off at the parking lot near to the lift tower. It’s a faster access to Shwedagon, and also gave us the amazing view of the South gate intricate design.  

 Another view of the South gate Pyatthat from the Buddha perspective.

The South Gate, or zaungdans is actually one of the four entrances to the golden Shwedagon that sits atop the holy Singuttara Hill, via a flight of stairs. These entrances are located at each side of the pagoda, divided by the main cardinal directions – i.e. north, south, east and west.

We walked to the lift tower, and were asked USD5 per person as entrance fee, while locals enter for free. Like any other sacred complex, all visitors are required to dress modestly and remove their shoes at the entrance. Instead, we put our shoes in a plastic bag and carry it with us, as to convenience whenever and wherever we exit the building.

 The view of the South Gate from the lift.

As we stepped in the complex, the first thing that we spotted was this man seriously looking through the built-in telescope. Wondering what interests him, I immediately followed his gaze.

He was actually zooming onto the Shwedagon peak, which is said to be ornated with colourful gems and diamonds, which abundant in Myanmar. It looks a bit plain though, the top in broad daylight, but somehow I could glimpse some sparkles when the sun was right. 

Htee, the crowning top of Shwedagon main stupa. At the upmost tip where it is too high for human eyes to discern any details is the Sein Phoo or the diamonds bud, studded with exactly 5448 diamonds, 2317 rubies, sapphires and other gems. On top of all the gleaming gems, is a single 76-carat diamond, as it name suggests.

Tailing other visitors, we finally came in view with the magnificent Shwedagon main stupa. Plated with 21,841 solid gold bars; I’ve to admit that after all Buddhist shrines that I’ve visited across South East Asia so far, Shwedagon captivated me the most. It is a real showcase of Myanmar true culture, history, art and architecture. Built as old as 2,500 years ago, during the lifetime of Siddharta Gautama himself.   Although destroyed numerous times in the past due to war, fire and  natural disasters, it was quickly rebuilt and restored to its elegance state.  

It is a massive gold plated stupa, standing at the height of 99 meters; one has to circumnavigate about 433 meters before he reach the starting point. Octagonal in shape, the structure is surrounded by 64 small stupas, with Manusiha (Buddha mythological version of a sphinx) guarding at each cardinal points.

The stupa is not the only thing that is covered in gold; most of items in the complex are made or masked with that precious element. A poor country, but Burmese are indiscreetely lavish especially when it comes to terms of religion and beliefs.

Crowds paid homage to the Buddha images standing inside Shwedagon small niches.

One of the praying hall inside Shwedagon complex, with beautiful and ostentatious  fretworks that adorn each individual columns, arches and pyatthat. The complex consists not only of the grand centerpiece – the great stupa, but also over a hundred smaller stupas, prayer halls, sculptures and shrines.

Burma, being accounted as one-third of world’s total teak production, had most of the arches and shrines inside Shwedagon elaborately and beautifully carved  with teaks. It is unsurprise that  Burma could unsparingly built the longest teak bridge to just connects the rural, as seen at the U Bein Bridge in Amarapura.

One of the Buddhas that sit in the Hall of U Thin & Daw Thet Pyin. 

 A lady caught rolling deep into prayers. 

 A man praying in the Northern Devotional Hall.

Devout Buddhist all around Myanmar come to this place to pray and get their blessings, old and young. 

We saw a woman preparing food, which we initially thought for the devotees.

We later learned that it was actually an offerings for the Buddha. 

Praying is not the sole way of paying tributes to the Buddha, the locals also help in ensuring the place is clean and tidy. All is done for free, expecting only for the eternal blessings.

 Sweeping patrols of Shwedagon.

Cleaning is usually done in large groups, and usually in a row. They moved swiftly in somehow rhythmical motions, scrubbing  and polishing the bit before shifting to the next in sync with the others. I could sit and watch them doing the chores like forever. I bet the last girl will have very little to clean, as the rest of them had done their parts.

As a rule, when a Buddhist visits a pagoda, he or she invariably sits and prays in his or her birthday corner. Above, is one of the 8 planetary post, where devotees with that birthday pour water and make offerings to the Buddha image. Eight, as according to Buddhism there are 8 days a week instead of 7, where Wednesday is divided into two equal half of morning and evening. Sunday was the best day of all, and Sunday-Born people are often considered lucky. I was born on Monday, and these are what the Buddha has to say about me:

Character: good memory, serious, love to travel
Optimum profession: trader, doctor, nurse, fisherman
Very lucky day/color: Saturday/black
Lucky day/color: Wednesday (day)/green
Unlucky day/color: Sunday/orange

Now I’m thinking of shifting my career to fishing on my next life.  

At shwedagon buddha images and shrines are ceremonially poured with water from silver bowls, though I’m not sure what it means. Perhaps it is a custom seen as a way of paying respect to the person of the Buddha himself.

Sunday-born devotees pouring water at the planetary post of the Sun.

The day one is born plays an important role in every Myanmar Buddhist, as it affliates with astrological impacts of their daily life. The planet associated with one’s birthday will be the main custodian of his fate and fortune. This belief is so significant that a born Buddhist will be named after the day he/she is born, which he/she will carry for the rest of his/her life, rather than a family name.

A young monk, seemed to be lost in thought.

We decided it was time to leave, as the place was getting crowdier by the minute. The day was getting hotter too - the heat from the marbles starting to chew our bare soles, and we were sweating like hell by the warmth eminated from the golds. We gave one last look to the glamourous stupa, before we head off.

We walked back to the South Gate, and this time using the stairs to exit. Along the length of the stairway on either side are the shops that sell Buddha images, flower pots, religious charms, books on Buddhism, flowers and souvenirs.

 Paper flower offerings, Shwedagon South Gate.

Upon exiting we came in full view with the two beautiful and equally fearful Chinthes, the mythical creatures of half lion, half griffin. This mythical creatures could be seen guarding most entrances to pagodas in Myanmar.  

Squatting at the gate were two ice cream peddlers with striking pink cones, and the thought of indulging the cold, homemade ice cream  in the hot weather sounds great.

Another interesting sightseeing ride if you are so happen to be in Yangon besides the circular train, is taking the ferry across the Yangon River to the small town of Dala, where the tragic cyclone Nargis had its fierce tantrum a few years back. And that’s exactly what we did after we disembarked from the train (and lunch, of course).

Yangon’s afternoon was unbearably hot; fatigue and sleepiness started to crawl in especially after a heavy lunch of briyani. Although the distance not that far, we were too tired to walk, so we hailed a cab and asked for Pansodan Jetty. We were dispatched in front of the Myanmar Port Authority building somewhere at the Strand Road, 15 minutes later.

 We walked to the jetty terminal and were ushered to a room upon asking for the ticket booth. It was a small room; furnished only with seemingly empty office desk and a chair, sat by a guy in mid 40′s with friendly smile. Standing beside him were two young boys, not more than 16. The two boys greeted us in fluent English, of which we later learned the trishaw riders of Dala. The guy was actually the jetty  in-charge officer, as he began asking our purpose to Dala, jotted down our names and passport numbers in his register before issuing return tickets at USD1 one way.  Definitely locals are charged way lesser than us, but we didn’t argue. Although a bit expansive as compared to the 3 hours journey by train, it is still among the cheapest rides that we had took all over South East Asia.

As soon as I handed over the fare to the officer, the two boys sticked like a glue and pushing us into using their services. They quoted USD4 per person for an hour ride around town, which to me is quite cheap considering the hard labour and the hot weather. However, the thought of riding shadeless rickshaw under the unforgiving sun wasn’t  so appealing - so we politely refused the offer. I felt guilty when seeing their frustrated face, knowing how much they need the money and regretted the decision myself.  I wasn’t sure why I didn’t seem interested at that point time, perhaps the extreme heat and headache finally taking their tolls on me. Or maybe, it was just a counter-reaction as I don’t like being pushed. To ease my conscience I made a promise to myself to properly visit Dala if I so happen find myself in Yangon again.

While we were busy dodging the pesters from the two young boys (and a few others for a bunch of postcards), our ride had arrived at the dock and was about to leave. We hurried to the gangplank with several others and made it to the ferry in time. It was my umpteenth experience boarding a ferry, although it was my first in Yangon, after 18 years. I vaguely remembered the time when I took my first ferry ride across the Straits of Malacca from Butterworth to Penang.

Inside the ferry. It was a bit smaller to the one that I ride in Penang years ago, which transporting vehicles at his lower deck instead of people. This one serves only the people, granting allowance of small rides such as the bicycles. At corners there were food peddlers setting up their mobile-stall selling food to the daily commuters.  

We went upstairs where it was less crowded and found that all the seats were already taken.  Together with the locals we conveniently grabbed some small plastic chairs that scattered around, and chose to sit by the metal barricade for a better view outside.

We waited few minutes for everybody to get in, and the ferry was fairly loaded by the time everyone was aboard. Like the circular train, locals use the ferry to commute between Yangon and Dala, where most of them lived.

One of the ferryman patiently waited at the berth for everybody to get in before releasing the mooring rope from the rusty bitts.

 Locals boarding the ferry.

Ahoy! The ferry slowly leaved the Pansodan Jetty and plied the murky river of Yangon. At the far left is the Yangon River Port, a vital entry point for business and commerce in Myanmar that welcomes trade and cruise vessels coming from the Andaman Sea. Connected to the famous Irrawady River on the upper north via the Twante Canal, one can get as far as Mandalay in a 5-day trip. Thanks to the Irrawady for providing Myanmar with fertile delta, but the sediments build-up is another concern. Note the dredgers, that are used to excavate the sediments from the bottom of the river and disposing them at another location to make the water channel navigational for larger ships and steemers.

Another type of ferry that is used to transport freight and vehicles.

The view of Yangon city from the river. Back in the 6th century, Yangon was only a small fishing village, slowly transformed itself into Burma trade and commercial center after years of wars and conquering by the British Empire. It was made the country’s capital in 1885, until it was relocated to Naypyidaw in 2005 by the Myanmar military junta government.

There’s nothing extra-ordinary with the port and the river; it is wide and the water was cloudy, with anchoring vessels littering the area. Amazingly I found it to be such a peaceful sight. The day was calm and breezy, and occassionally we heard the cry of seagulls accompanying a ferry amidst the sounds of fluits from a far distant ships.

Little we know that a small fee is charged for using the chair that we took earlier, roughly around 10Kyats.  That’s about 25cents of our money. Upon reaching the Dala Jetty, suddenly we were approached by a man with a weary face, which persuasively asked for “chats”. From his look I was quite certain that he didn’t intent to have a casual conversation with us, and “chats’ sounded more like “Kyats”. The thought that we were being ‘pan-handled’, or worst - mugged by conman to pay extra, we simply ignored the guy albeit his constant nagging.  It’s like chicken talking to a duck, and we couldn’t understand what he was saying and he us. This going on for several minutes, attracting attention from the nearby passengers. A guy who sat next to us finally gave him some cash, and later told us that the poor fella was actually asking money for the chair that we sat on. What we thought we heard as “chats” was actually “chairs”, and we laughed our heart out for the misinterpretation. We offered the gentleman to pay him back the money due us, but he refused any of it. We thanked him for his kindness, and continued with our journey.

Crossing was quick, and 20 minutes later we safely landed on Dala terra firma.  As soon as the ferry docked we were swept in the stream of passengers leaving the ferry right into the chaotic Dala. We were quite lost for a while, not knowing which way to go. Locals minded their way, some on bikes while others climbing into over-loaded trucks, persistance trishaw riders following us offering a ride, hawkers calling for customers, deafening sounds of honking and people shouting, babies crying et cetera, et cetera. The cacophony was too much, so we walked fast pace to the river side, away from the maddening crowds.

Still dizzy with all the mumbo jumbo, we hung around for a while enjoying the colorful view of oared water taxis berthing at the jetty. A few minutes later the commotion slowly passed, although not totally. The trishaw riders still eyeing us with great interest, and I was contemplating whether to take their offer or not. It was a hot day; we had been walking the whole morning and my feet were burning with pain.  All I could think of was a cold shower and a nap on a cozy bed.

We decided to make a move back to the jetty. Coincidentally there was a ferry to Yangon, and without much ado we jumped on. After all my watch was already showing 4.00pm, and the last ferry was at five.  I wouldn’t want to risk missing it just for a cruise around Dala. Not that I mind, given more days in Burma.

Scene at the jetty – some hawkers and trishaw riders loitering on the ramp, waiting for potential customers.

 A hawker under a makeshift umbrella, selling munchies at the jetty.

 More of Dala as we took off.

 Fisherman boats at a village in Dala.

Learning from our previous mistake, we decided to stand all the way back to the Pansodan Jetty. This time we headed to the  front deck, and leaned against the wooden wall.  Being at the front deck was  undeniably way better than slouching  in that small plastic chair. Without the metal barricade blocking our sight, we got the whole river and sky uniterrupted. A flock of seagulls flipping around us happily, escourting the whole journey back. With the view and all, the ferry makes a great place for a romantic rendevous. Replicating Kate Winslet and Leornado DiCaprio moment on the front deck of Titanic was unavoidable. Surely the lovey-dovey couple next to us would agree, although I wasn’t sure whether they ever watch the movie.

One of the seagull that tagged along.

Big ships plying the Yangon River, overshadowed by the small fishing boat. The seagulls like it better too. 

We said our goodbye to Dala, and enjoyed our fine afternoon on the ferry. Soon we found ourselves dropped back to the reality of the bustling streets of Yangon, and a couple hours later into the comfort of our room.

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.

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.

Traipsing around some fresh fish, vegetables, fruits and flowers, which interspersed along the narrow, crowded alley and in dark, dilapidated building was how we spent our first morning in Yangon. In fact, we were the only strangers there amongst the many longyi clads and thanaka smeared faces. We were early, but the market was already bustling with patrons looking for fresh meat and veggies, and the place was lively with loud, melodious call for customers by the boisterous vendors, people chit chatting at the nearby coffee shop and buyers transacting at one corner. It was noisy and full of colors.

DH at the entrance of the market.

Man selling banana fritters at the market.

Road side stall serving local pancakes for breakfast, with the traditional baking style. The flour mixtures were spread into the frying pan on a hot stove, and then covered with embers on top of it to ensure that it is cooked evenly. It reminds me the making of the traditional Malay cake of Bahulu, during the old days.

Woman selling flowers at the market, usually used as offerings at temples and shrines.

A lady at the market selling the sweet traditional cake of Htamanè, a seasonal festive savory in Myanmar. Made of glutinous rice cooked with sesame seeds, ground nuts and coconut oil which are then mixed in a pot using a large spatula. The cooking is something like Malaysian dodol.

A monk doing his early morning alms round.

Thanaka cheeked smile at the market. Thanaka, a yellowish paste made of ground bark applied on the face as an effective sun blocks and to prevent acne. I remember my late grandmother used to make a white powdery paste from rice to be put to the face for the same cooling effect.

A girl minding the flower stall at a market downtown Yangon. 

A pile of bamboo weaved boxes. Wonder what’s inside.

These are what inside the neatly crafted boxes. Strawberries! My guessed they come all the way from the north, as it is much cooler there. The strawberries looked rather wilted though, due to the change of climate.

What else to do in a market for DH, except sampling and collecting dried shrimps which usually ended up in flour fritters back at home. By the way, the guy who minds the shop (the one smiling in the photo) used to work in Malaysia few years back - in Balakong if I’m not mistaken, and he’s glad to assists us in simple Malay language.

Yangon Hot Dogs. Pork to be precise.

This one looks familiar though. Pulut Panggang in Yangon? 

A patron having a quick sniff of lime – to distingush the young from the ripe and the watery.

Burma is indeed photographer friendly.

A lovely rose among the flowers. She looks more of a Vietnamese to me. Off course, thanaka is the beauty secret.

A familar smells lured me to the nearby stall. I was not surprised to see freshly hot and crispy Yau Char Kue, a Chinese crullers simply known as ‘cakoi‘ in Malaysia being fried, after seeing so many familiar food the night before. With only two plain breads we had for breakfast, the smell and the look of it really made me hungry again.

Err…on second thought, thanks but no, thanks. The locals found the view adds up to the appetite nonetheless.

We drifted into the dark building made of zinc at the end of the path, more of an old warehouse actually; which houses the wet section of the market. It was dimmed and damped inside, lit only by a few flourescent bulbs. Weak streaks of sunrays that permeated through the opening and the yellowish windows illuminate the inside with a dreamy and eerie effects. It was a bit quiet in the building though, only to be intermittently disturbed by some chopping sounds. Vendors waiting for customers in the dark, and some of the lot were unoccupied. Life was like frozen in time.

 Halal beef by a muslim lady.

 Another muslim vendor selling fresh mutton.

 Some scenes inside the wet market section.

Trading cat, are they now? such a cute little fella. “I like this cozy basket ’coz it fits me nicely, and the color suits with my dark brown eyes, so I think I would be sitting here to chill out for a while”  that’s what she said, more or less. I think.

 After taking some photos we leave the dark and gloomy building and found ourselves in the back alley.

We loitered a while at the market enjoying the mild hustle and bustle before walking back to the main road. Spotted a vendor selling the red, mouth-watering wax apple on shoulder poles; they looked tempting, but considering that most of the crops in Burma are fertilized by garbage-infested water, I closed my eyes and walked past them. 

I was actually trying to photograph the lady but his son spontaneously appeared from the back, with unabashed smile. What I like about Burmese is that they won’t bother if you take their photos (but off course out of courtesy I will ask permission whenever I’m taking a close-up) and won’t stop for a pose (unless you asked) – which is great for me and my pictures cause they are all ended up looking so refreshingly natural.

Roadside vendors selling fresh fish, prawns and chicken in a street downtown Yangon. 

A kid playing with bubbles kept in small plastic bag, while waiting for his mommy doing the groceries. So adorable, he reminded me a lot of my son back at home.

What stand out the most from my short visit to Burma are certainly the people. One thing about the Burmese that make them so unique other than the longyis and the thanaka cheeked faces are their kindness and friendliness. In fact, some of them are the friendliest people I’ve ever met so far during my travels. There were many occasions while wandering around town we were stopped for the warmest hello and a small chat, and rarely got away with a sincerest smile. At first I was skeptical due to my bad experience in other countries, whereby if some locals approach you it could only means one thing; to trick you for an expensive touristy ride or coax you into buying something that you don’t need. However, after a few cordial meetings with the locals I had my perception changed and learned that they are just simply honored for having you visiting their country, despite the extreme poverty and the rundown environment. Burma has just opened up to the world, and after being so long shied out they are amazed with the opportunity to interacts with foreign strangers just to brush up their English.

A father tied up his son’s longyi. I was quite touched with the show of love and care,  and this is my favourite photo of Burma thus far.

Monk in Yangon.

Another interesting fact is that most of them had in some point of their life working in Malaysia – be it Sg. Besi, Puchong, Kepong,  Penang and Balakong. And they are more than happy to meet us – which I think, brought back their memories of the time they had in our country. They still remember a few Malay words and even share with us some valuable tips, a wish of safety and even come to help us with the directions, when they sensed that we were at lost. All that were given without expecting anything in return. You would immediately feel safe and less of a stranger being around such good people.

A smile of a Burmese Girl.

DH with a Burmese professor that we met at Shwedagon Pagoda. He showed us around the complex and explained about everything, which he said “so that you have better understanding and appreciation of the culture”.

Bubbly faces we met in the train.

Racial diversity is another distinctive aspect of the people. Although they are undeniably all Burmese in nature – similar, yet not the same. Their faces would remind you of every country in Asian; some of them looked like Indian, Chinese, Thais, Tibets while others really looked like Malays. Of course the Burmese will straight away know that we are not one of them just from our dressing, but more than often we are regarded as one by fellow travelers. If not for my passion for photography I think I will easily blend in. Camera is not common in Burma, especially if you are carrying around the obvious looking DSLR. Though some of them are camera shy, most of them (especially the kids) are as much curious as they are eager to get their photos taken. And they look stunningly radiant and candidly natural in photos, against the exotic backgrounds. What more a photographer could ask? I was like a kid got lost in a candy shop, grinning from ear to ear. There is something about Burma and the Burmese that makes me wish that I could just stayed a little longer. And that is saying something.

That’s “Hello” in Burmese. The first word that slipped out from my mouth – more of a whisper actually; as the metal bird that flew us from Kuala Lumpur touched down safely at Yangon International Airport, the country’s main hub to the outside world. While others rushed for their belongings, I streched myself (really needed that after 3 hours seating straight) and glimpsed through the oval, multi-layered plexiglass window. The modern airport stood in silence  amidst the dry and dusty air. It was almost 5.00pm local time and the sun was about to set, thus a hint of red and orange over the horizon. I grabbed my sling bag, put it around my shoulder and quickly followed DH to the exit.

Flight AK850 to Yangon.

As we were approaching the city, the green landscape changed drastically into dry and dusty land.

Yangon International Airport.

Stepping out from the jet bridge we landed into the newish and spartan interior of the airport, and tailed the others to the arrival hall. Immigration was smooth, and as we passed the gate I immediately saw a man in sarong holding signage with my name on it. The guest house that we had pre-booked provided free pickup service from the airport, and that’s great considering we were on tight budget. Every single fresh and crisp dollar was like gold to us, as non-perfect bills are worthless in Burma. Ridiculous, we thought  as money still worth the same no matter how they look but that’s not the case in Burma. Money itself being traded here in the black market, and their values depreciate likewise.

Men in sarongs, or Longyi. It is the country’s traditional dress worn by both man and woman alike, differentiated by the patterns. Geometrical shapes and checkered are preferred by men, and certainly flower motifs are typical to the ladies.  Similar to our own ‘kain pelikat‘ and ‘kain batik’ worn by Malaysian Malays respectively, only that we wear them at home. Being an official attire nationwide; the longyis are considered by Burmese a versatile fashion for work, at school and if you go out on a date. Since it does not come together with a pocket, wallets and cell phones are simply tucked at the side. In fact on our second night in Yangon, the aircond in our room suddenly at fault and when the electrician arrived we were not surprised to see that he’s equipped with all the tools he needed, snugged nicely around his waist. Talking about screwdrivers, pliers, hammer and what’s not.

Locals in longyis waiting outside the airport terminal.

The driver took us, together with another Canadian couple to his van parked outside. It was a poor thing, the van, tired looking with patches of dusts here and there. In fact most of the vehicles in Burma are old and shabby, but still working good. And like most vehicles in Burma, our transport was not equipped with air condition. But that was nothing really, compared to the striking fact that most cars in Burma are right hand drives, but at the wrong side of the road.  A bit confusing especially when taking the turn at junctions.

As a former British colony, cars in Burma previously drove on the left until the military government of Myanmar decided to change the rule in 1970. Unfortunately most of the vehicles in the country are right hand drives, as they are mostly second-hands imported from Japan, Thailand and Singapore.  <source : Wiki>

Road side eatery in Yangon, using small tables and stools similar to Vietnam.

Public transport in Yangon,  packed to the brim.

It was almost dark when we arrived at the guest house, a family owned inn outskirt Yangon. We quickly proceed to our room to refresh ourselves, and changed some US dollar to Kyats to buy some mineral waters and bread. Our first dinner in Burma was simply the cold, home-packed rice that we brought from KL.

Our room in Yangon. Basic, but clean.

Spotted Malaysian made instant noodle at the nearby grocery store along with other familiar household names such as Babas curry powder, and carbonated drinks manufactured in Shah Alam.

Dinner’s over, we took a walk around the hotel which coincidentally located near to a mosque and residential area. Food stalls were scattered along the street in front the mosque, mostly selling halal foods and betel leaves. The foods looked rather familiar actually; fried noodles, capati and pratha, and patrons enjoyed their meals in the dark on small plastic tables and stools. Hygiene is doubtful, though.  

Street stall selling fried noodles.

Burmese swarming the stall selling the local ‘munchies’ – the betel leaf. In fact, in Myanmar it is called ‘Kun-ya’, sounds like ‘chewing’ in Malaysia.

Betel leaf operator at Bohtatung road, Yangon. Chewing betel leaves with areca nuts together with the white, stone lime paste is common throughout South East Asia, but not as much as in Burma. It is a forgotten culture in Malaysia, uphold only by very few older generations  due to its cancerous after effect. In Burma it is still a popular habit, more like a snack over some tea and a cheerot.

There’s virtually betel stalls on every corner, usually consisting of just a tiny table with all the ingredients laid out with operator preparing the chews.

Nothing much to expect at night in Yangon especially if you are further away from the city center, and by 10.00pm shops are already close, the streets are desolate and with not much street lights and ghastly image of old decrepit buildings loomed in the dark,  the area looks nothing more than a ghost town. We loitered around for a while and then walked back to our room for a good night rest.