Sherrill & Bruce, Rangoon, Burma Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 54 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
Bare feet only was the rule in the shrines and pagodas of Burma: so there we were, our second day in Rangoon, skipping across fiery marble floors among the gilded buildings that surrounded the golden Shwedagon Pagoda atop its hill in the center of the city, our toes seeking out any shade they could find. The stupa, itself, rose like a monster gold-covered Hershey's kiss to a spire topped with lacy filigree and a huge diamond. A relic from the Buddha supposedly was encased in it. We'd climbed barefoot up a monumental series of covered stairs, past gigantic gold and white lion-griffin statues, then abruptly emerged, our eyes dazzled by the sun reflecting from the golden surfaces.
It was like, Sherrill said, Dorothy opening the door of her gray Kansas house to find herself in a very hot Technicolor Oz. Some of us, when we adjusted to the glare and heat, joined the line of the faithful buying tiny pieces of gold leaf to have affixed to the stupa's spire.
It was like, Sherrill said, Dorothy opening the door of her gray Kansas house to find herself in a very hot Technicolor Oz. Some of us, when we adjusted to the glare and heat, joined the line of the faithful buying tiny pieces of gold leaf to have affixed to the stupa's spire.
 Schwedagon Pagoda, Rangoon |  |
Just two and a half days before, while we waited with our friend Hala and the others in our little group at the Siem Reap airport for the plane that would bring us from Cambodia to Burma, we had our last chance for more than two weeks to check email or send messages. In the year 2000, the entire country of Burma was still internet free. That was one way the generals ruling the country kept control. All the news filtered through their system. The three television channels we saw were all patriotic songs, speeches, and exercise classes.
"I can't decide which channel is the most boring," I told Sherrill.
"Definitely the speeches," she said. "At least, we can't understand them."
We arrived so late that we couldn't see much as we drove into Rangoon—or Yangon, as it was officially called, just as the generals preferred the name Myanmar to Burma. The country had been closed to the rest of the world for more than thirty years. "David," the guide who met us at the airport acknowledged this, but added that slowly it was starting to open up—and we were among the first to be welcomed under this new policy. Soft-spoken and gentle, he wore the traditional Burmese outfit: a short jacket and an ankle-length sarong known as the longhi tied at his narrow waist, with sandals. Often, he seemed to have a wistful tone when he spoke.
"I can't decide which channel is the most boring," I told Sherrill.
"Definitely the speeches," she said. "At least, we can't understand them."
We arrived so late that we couldn't see much as we drove into Rangoon—or Yangon, as it was officially called, just as the generals preferred the name Myanmar to Burma. The country had been closed to the rest of the world for more than thirty years. "David," the guide who met us at the airport acknowledged this, but added that slowly it was starting to open up—and we were among the first to be welcomed under this new policy. Soft-spoken and gentle, he wore the traditional Burmese outfit: a short jacket and an ankle-length sarong known as the longhi tied at his narrow waist, with sandals. Often, he seemed to have a wistful tone when he spoke.
Our first impressions of the country were that it was hot, green, and poor. We soon realized, though, that the Burmese had been taught to be content with their fate, whatever it was. Although Burma was still officially socialist under the generals, our little hotel in a restored colonial building was independent, managed by a young German couple. Two percent of businesses now were private enterprise/joint ventures. As we explored Rangoon and Burma, we saw that the influence of 124 years under British rule lingered.
"The Burmese are not good at living systematically," David explained. And, of course, the British were great organizers. Apparently, the Burmese generals ruling the country were pretty good at controlling the population, as well.
We were there during the 2000 election in the United States. The weather in Burma that autumn was okay for traveling, but the political climate we'd left behind at home was uncertain. We had mailed our absentee ballots before leaving, but were kept in suspense about what was happening in the U.S. because of Burma's communication blackout.
"The Burmese are not good at living systematically," David explained. And, of course, the British were great organizers. Apparently, the Burmese generals ruling the country were pretty good at controlling the population, as well.
We were there during the 2000 election in the United States. The weather in Burma that autumn was okay for traveling, but the political climate we'd left behind at home was uncertain. We had mailed our absentee ballots before leaving, but were kept in suspense about what was happening in the U.S. because of Burma's communication blackout.
Buddhist monks of all ages in their red robes swarmed throughout Rangoon. We saw, as we visited some of the many temples and pagodas, that religion was an important part of people's lives. Thousands of temples, large and small, dotted Burma, many of them ancient, some crumbling, some turned into historic sites, but most places of daily worship. The precepts of Buddha seemed to be integrated into everyday life, creating an atmosphere of unusual serenity—and, it seemed to us, of docility. We began to wonder if these gentle people were as accepting of their situation as they appeared. Despite the information blackout, had the outside world begun to influence their thinking? Gradually, we began to understand that in Burma the interplay of religion, life, and politics was complicated.
"The goal of Buddhism is freedom from attachments," David explained.
"The goal of Buddhism is freedom from attachments," David explained.
Weaving cloth for Buddha Detachment, the absence of desire, brought peace. At the same time, the Burmese followed other ancient traditions, as well. Often, when we asked David to explain various attributes in the temples and pagodas, he simply said, "It's part of our astrology."
Also, people worked to collect "merit" so they could enjoy a better next life. They believed in reincarnation and karma—what you do returns to you. In one temple, just below a massive Buddha, several women were weaving gold cloth to drape on the statue. They were earning "merit," but also competing for a prize to be awarded to the woman who wove the most cloth.
Also, people worked to collect "merit" so they could enjoy a better next life. They believed in reincarnation and karma—what you do returns to you. In one temple, just below a massive Buddha, several women were weaving gold cloth to drape on the statue. They were earning "merit," but also competing for a prize to be awarded to the woman who wove the most cloth.
We weren't sure, sometimes, what was connected to religious belief and what wasn't.
"What's the significance of that?" Sherrill asked, indicating the pale tan designs and marks on the faces of many women and children.
"Sandalwood paste," David explained. "For beauty and sun protection."
And what about the black and red smiles on many people's faces?
That was from the betel nuts that they liked to chew because it gave them a mild "high." It also explained the red puddles we saw spattered across the pavement.
Down on the waterfront, lean, sinewy men in longhis were bent almost double as they unloaded heavy rice bags from boats and carried them up steep ramps to waiting trucks. Back and forth they marched, in a machine-like parade. Behind them, British-era ferry boats crossed the river, sometimes continuing to other delta ports. Hiking along the narrow streets, dodging pedestrians and carts, past weathered colonial buildings and open markets, we passed unfamiliar vegetables and fruits, hunks of raw meat, and fish of unusual shapes and colors, patient, fatalistic vendors behind the stands.
Heading off on my own to look for bookstalls, I took a cab to a different part of town, riding with a middle-aged cabbie who spoke English. He wanted to talk about the presidential election in the United States. The generals may have imposed a news blackout in Burma, but the people knew about Al Gore and George Bush and had opinions. However, when I mentioned the 1990 election held in Burma, when Aung San Suu Kyi, daughter of General Aung San, assassinated founder of the democratic state, won, but wasn't allowed to take office, the cabbie became silent, then started pointing out places of interest that we were passing.
"What's the significance of that?" Sherrill asked, indicating the pale tan designs and marks on the faces of many women and children.
"Sandalwood paste," David explained. "For beauty and sun protection."
And what about the black and red smiles on many people's faces?
That was from the betel nuts that they liked to chew because it gave them a mild "high." It also explained the red puddles we saw spattered across the pavement.
Down on the waterfront, lean, sinewy men in longhis were bent almost double as they unloaded heavy rice bags from boats and carried them up steep ramps to waiting trucks. Back and forth they marched, in a machine-like parade. Behind them, British-era ferry boats crossed the river, sometimes continuing to other delta ports. Hiking along the narrow streets, dodging pedestrians and carts, past weathered colonial buildings and open markets, we passed unfamiliar vegetables and fruits, hunks of raw meat, and fish of unusual shapes and colors, patient, fatalistic vendors behind the stands.
Heading off on my own to look for bookstalls, I took a cab to a different part of town, riding with a middle-aged cabbie who spoke English. He wanted to talk about the presidential election in the United States. The generals may have imposed a news blackout in Burma, but the people knew about Al Gore and George Bush and had opinions. However, when I mentioned the 1990 election held in Burma, when Aung San Suu Kyi, daughter of General Aung San, assassinated founder of the democratic state, won, but wasn't allowed to take office, the cabbie became silent, then started pointing out places of interest that we were passing.
Glass blowing workshop What, I wondered, might be seething under this silence? On another day, in a distant part of the city, we hiked down a dirt lane that led to a jungle village hidden within Rangoon, where we found a primitive glass factory under the swaying shadows of twisted tree branches and vines. The rustic path was lined on both sides with heaps of broken glass. Barefoot craftsmen in longhi were working with red-hot molten glass in a flaming furnace that had been patched together out of old sheets of corrugated metal leaning against each other like a make-shift teepee. Nearby, we saw bamboo huts half-hidden among the trees—the homes of these glassblowers and workers. Had these men, who worked so hard with no protections from injury and probably no insurance, voted for "the lady?" Did they accept their fate with Buddhist-like stoicism?
"This country needs more lawyers," Sherrill commented. "Or, at least, OSHA."
We both knew, however, the generals weren't likely to start up an Occupational Safety and Health Administration and the Burmese, taught to endure what life handed them, weren't likely to demand it.
"This country needs more lawyers," Sherrill commented. "Or, at least, OSHA."
We both knew, however, the generals weren't likely to start up an Occupational Safety and Health Administration and the Burmese, taught to endure what life handed them, weren't likely to demand it.
That afternoon, we boarded a two-propeller plane at the old Rangoon airport terminal to fly to Heho and Inle Lake. As I started to climb a rolling staircase onto the plane, two short Burmese women with bulging shopping bags crowded in front of me. The stouter of the two, plants bursting from her bags, charged up the aisle and flopped on one of the seats. Two minutes later, a well-dressed young Burmese woman with her boarding card claimed the seat. The stewardess patiently took the peasant woman to a different seat several rows away.
When we arrived at the Heho airport, a trio of military VIPs seated at the front of the plane began to follow a tall bodyguard in a longhi to the door at the rear when the stout peasant woman blocked their way with her shopping bags and large plaid-covered backside. With surprising patience, the VIPs gestured to their bodyguard not to worry and waited while the woman pulled herself together.
When we arrived at the Heho airport, a trio of military VIPs seated at the front of the plane began to follow a tall bodyguard in a longhi to the door at the rear when the stout peasant woman blocked their way with her shopping bags and large plaid-covered backside. With surprising patience, the VIPs gestured to their bodyguard not to worry and waited while the woman pulled herself together.
Inle Lake Village, Burma
Burmese cowboys, cattle, horse carts, and local people carrying bundles slowed our drive across the mountains to the small boats that took us to where we'd stay on the lake. Soon we were smelling unfamiliar flowers, trees, and spices, the distinctive aromas of this ancient land. Yellow blossoms on tree-like shrubs rippled like curtains along the narrow road.
Golden Island Cottages, Inle Lake
We were in the Shan state, now, an ancient part of Southeast Asia that still craved independence, but the military government was too strong for them to break away. By the time we started across the lake, the sun was setting. The pointed prows of our boats lifted out of the dark water, as if directing our eyes to the stars and half moon above our heads. Wind and spray beat against us for an hour until we reached a group of bamboo buildings that seemed to float over the lake. Sherrill and I had one of the cabins standing on wood stilts between the water and the sky.
Sherrill, Golden Island Cottages The next morning, we climbed into one of several waiting long boats, joining a small procession that maneuvered along maze-like channels through continents of water weeds, sometimes passing houses on stilts and floating farms, until we reached a village at which people from different tribes sold fruits and vegetables they'd grown and things they'd made, often directly from their boats. Sherrill and I worked our way among the vendors and shoppers, sometimes on the shore, sometimes on wooden walkways.
"Buy me that, daddy," Sherrill teased, pointing to a copper-colored betel nut cutter on one of the tables. She seemed almost surprised, when I did.
"Buy me that, daddy," Sherrill teased, pointing to a copper-colored betel nut cutter on one of the tables. She seemed almost surprised, when I did.
Putt-putting along the twisting waterways of the lake, we slithered among giant lily pads with purple and pink blossoms, water buffalo soaking in the shallows with birds balancing like skinny-legged dancers on their backs, and floating gardens in which the Intha people raised vegetables. White herons stalked through the reeds, then suddenly rose into the sky, and fat ducks bobbed in the wake of our boats. For a while, we watched bare-legged men, their longhis twisted up and tucked at the waist like oversized diapers, as they constructed one of the floating gardens, laying what looked like sod over a bamboo framework covered with muck. Occasionally, we passed fishermen rowing with one hand at the top of their single long oar and a leg around the lower part, freeing the other hand to catch fish.
We stopped at a village known for its weaving where the women, busy spinning yarn and working their looms, ignored us. Most of the silk and cotton fabric they were weaving would be used for longhis. In the afternoon, we passed boat-loads of children in regulation white and green outfits paddling home from school, pointed bamboo hats protecting their
We stopped at a village known for its weaving where the women, busy spinning yarn and working their looms, ignored us. Most of the silk and cotton fabric they were weaving would be used for longhis. In the afternoon, we passed boat-loads of children in regulation white and green outfits paddling home from school, pointed bamboo hats protecting their
Inle Lake Market
Gradually, David told us, visitors were becoming accepted, but some Burmese were afraid that this would spoil the country, especially the more remote areas. Early one morning, we took the long boats back across the lake to get a bus to drive to a village just opened to visitors. Two months before, this would have been dangerous because of violent rivalry between local tribal groups. More than a dozen ethnic groups have been fighting the military for decades, and still are.
 |  Sherrill at Lake Area Market |
When we pushed off in the boats, the morning mist had evaporated, letting the sunlight shimmer across the rippling green water. We docked at a little port town, where a small bus waited. The round-faced local guide who greeted us wore the dark clothes traditional in her tribe, an orange towel wrapped in an elaborate headdress over her hair. We were late, she said, herding us onto the bus. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, we stopped at a teak monastery raised on teak logs above a grassy field, several tiers of red corrugated tin roof bright against the blue sky. Young red-robed monks stared at us from open windows.
On a large stucco gate to a side road we saw a sign in both Burmese and English announcing a combination golf course, resort, and amusement park.
"Who will go to that?" I asked.
"Chinese Shan," the local guide told us, "rich from the opium trade."
We were in the Golden Triangle that grew opium poppies for the Thais and Chinese. Ultimately, heroin was made from the opium and shipped to other countries, including the United States, so we weren't too surprised when we saw armed soldiers and warning signs in both Burmese and English.
"And they let us get this close?" asked Sherrill.
I shrugged. "Just don't try any funny business."
To be continued....
On a large stucco gate to a side road we saw a sign in both Burmese and English announcing a combination golf course, resort, and amusement park.
"Who will go to that?" I asked.
"Chinese Shan," the local guide told us, "rich from the opium trade."
We were in the Golden Triangle that grew opium poppies for the Thais and Chinese. Ultimately, heroin was made from the opium and shipped to other countries, including the United States, so we weren't too surprised when we saw armed soldiers and warning signs in both Burmese and English.
"And they let us get this close?" asked Sherrill.
I shrugged. "Just don't try any funny business."
To be continued....
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including to several complete short stories and excerpts from my novels.
Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
RSS Feed