Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 55 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.
Snapshots from Burma, 18 years ago:
Sherrill gazing up at an oversized Buddha wedged into a pagoda, representing an imprisoned Burmese king.
A child monk with shaved head and innocent eyes at the door of a teak monastery.
A 1950 bus built from teak in a jungle village.
A forest of ancient Buddhist stupas.
Sherrill gazing up at an oversized Buddha wedged into a pagoda, representing an imprisoned Burmese king.
A child monk with shaved head and innocent eyes at the door of a teak monastery.
A 1950 bus built from teak in a jungle village.
A forest of ancient Buddhist stupas.
 |  |
Two thousand stupas in one place was almost beyond imagining, but when we stopped briefly at the little town of Kakku there they were: 2,478 Buddhist stupas, to be precise, the remains of an ancient hillside display once twice as large. Some of them were 30 or 40 feet tall, others no more than 15 or 20 feet. Sherrill and I had learned in a class we took years before on Indian philosophies and religions that the shape of the stupa represented male fertility. Was this collection an example, I wondered, of over-compensation?
 Bruce & Ancient stupas, Burma |  |
Old teak bus, Burma Bouncing along country roads in northeastern Burma with our local guide, her orange and black outfit incongruously suggesting Halloween, we reached the high altitude city of Taunggyi—once a British hill town—and our hotel. As soon as Sherrill and I were in our room, a power failure put us in the dark. When the electricity came back on, I had to get a bellboy to replace several burned out light bulbs and bring more toilet paper. The rolls he eventually brought turned out to be a third the size of a standard roll.
Sherrill shook her head. "Some poor employee is probably in a back room rerolling toilet paper to make these mini-rolls,"
Sherrill shook her head. "Some poor employee is probably in a back room rerolling toilet paper to make these mini-rolls,"
We were in Taunggyi for the Hot Air Balloon Festival. Each year, thousands of Burmese gathered to send prayers aloft on scores of huge, richly decorated paper balloons powered by little burners producing hot air. Each balloon was studded with tiny lit candles, creating spectacular effects as the balloons surged above the excited crowds.
The next afternoon, before the evening balloon rising, Sherrill and I walked down the hill from our hotel, past guest houses and old homes that had been around since the days when the colonial British came to escape summer heat, to the main street, now lined on both sides of the pavement with temporary booths. Most of them were selling food and drink, but some were hawking posters and photos of Burmese musical stars, souvenirs of the festival, and toys—especially plastic guns, some of them very realistic.
The next afternoon, before the evening balloon rising, Sherrill and I walked down the hill from our hotel, past guest houses and old homes that had been around since the days when the colonial British came to escape summer heat, to the main street, now lined on both sides of the pavement with temporary booths. Most of them were selling food and drink, but some were hawking posters and photos of Burmese musical stars, souvenirs of the festival, and toys—especially plastic guns, some of them very realistic.
 |  |
A dinner in the hotel before we headed to the festival, conversation mostly was about the 2000 U. S. election that had just taken place. A woman from a table across the room came over and asked if we were Americans, then pleaded for news about the election results, but we knew no more than she did because of Burma's communications blackout.
Then, in our warmest clothes, flashlights in hand, we followed our friend Hala downhill to the festival as music throbbed through the trees, joining local people going the same direction, including groups of monks, some as young seven or six years old.
"Look!" Sherrill told me, gesturing to a very small Buddhist monk with shaved head and red robe, eyes wide with excitement, his hands clutching a teddy bear purse.
Then, in our warmest clothes, flashlights in hand, we followed our friend Hala downhill to the festival as music throbbed through the trees, joining local people going the same direction, including groups of monks, some as young seven or six years old.
"Look!" Sherrill told me, gesturing to a very small Buddhist monk with shaved head and red robe, eyes wide with excitement, his hands clutching a teddy bear purse.
Slowly, we moved into a vast area crowded with people, trying to stay upright on the sloping ground—not so easy when being nudged and pushed by people jockeying for the best view of ascending balloons. In the center of this turbulent ocean of bodies, a huge paper balloon was being readied under portable lights to soar into the night. Different groups from the city and surrounding areas competed to make the most beautiful balloon, the one that flew the highest, and the one that released the most spectacular fireworks display.
From our vantage point on a small rise, we watched the undulating sea of human silhouettes, the candles of vendors flickering among them.
From our vantage point on a small rise, we watched the undulating sea of human silhouettes, the candles of vendors flickering among them.
The paper skin of the balloon began to swell, until its full shape emerged, wider than an automobile and several times as tall, quivering in the breeze, its slightly puckered skin decorated with tiny lanterns forming outlines of Buddha and other religious symbols. Then it was fired up, flames brilliant under its mouth. It sucked in the heat, shook, and rose steadily, pulling with it the contraption on which the timed fireworks were fastened. Now, the balloon climbed straight up and began shooting out its fireworks.
As that balloon continued its ascent, another group began readying their balloon and a third brought in theirs on a decorated truck and trailer, led by men and boys playing drums, chanting, and dancing. Seventeen balloons went up that night and more than 400 ascended during the week-long festival.
As that balloon continued its ascent, another group began readying their balloon and a third brought in theirs on a decorated truck and trailer, led by men and boys playing drums, chanting, and dancing. Seventeen balloons went up that night and more than 400 ascended during the week-long festival.
A 35 minute flight on a Yangon Airways propeller plane took us to Mandalay's new international airport. With the longest runways in Southeast Asia, it was built by the Burmese government so that jumbo jets could land in the north of the country, but so far only one Thai and one Japanese jet had landed. Our Mandalay hotel stood opposite the restored moat and walled grounds of the old Burmese palace.
We could enter the temples, now, only through arcades selling religious souvenirs and offerings for Buddha. Shoes weren't allowed in the arcades, any more than in the temples, which forced us to maneuver our naked feet among bird droppings and red globs of betel nut juice spit.
After a barefoot hike through the arcade at the Maha Muni Temple, we came to a crowd of men shuffling toward a platform where we could see only the top half of a serenely smiling bronze Buddha. As we got closer, we discovered that his lower half had been transformed into a lumpy gold mass—the result of countless small offerings of thin gold leaf pressed onto him. Women weren't allowed into the shrine surrounding the statue because they would've had to pass in front of praying monks, which would have been—we were told—disrespectful.
"That," Sherrill declared, "is ridiculous. And sexist."
The other women in our group agreed, but they all had to wait below.
We could enter the temples, now, only through arcades selling religious souvenirs and offerings for Buddha. Shoes weren't allowed in the arcades, any more than in the temples, which forced us to maneuver our naked feet among bird droppings and red globs of betel nut juice spit.
After a barefoot hike through the arcade at the Maha Muni Temple, we came to a crowd of men shuffling toward a platform where we could see only the top half of a serenely smiling bronze Buddha. As we got closer, we discovered that his lower half had been transformed into a lumpy gold mass—the result of countless small offerings of thin gold leaf pressed onto him. Women weren't allowed into the shrine surrounding the statue because they would've had to pass in front of praying monks, which would have been—we were told—disrespectful.
"That," Sherrill declared, "is ridiculous. And sexist."
The other women in our group agreed, but they all had to wait below.
For a couple of days, I'd had a temperature of around 102, even as we visited marble-cutting and marionette workshops, so our hotel called a doctor for me while the others explored more of Mandalay. A slim man about forty, wearing a blue longhi and white shirt and carrying a black medical bag, he studied me from behind small oval eyeglasses while I explained about my fever and chills, then asked me questions, took my temperature and blood pressure, thumped my chest, listened to my heart, and decided that I had an upper respiratory tract viral infection and gave me antibiotics to prevent a secondary bacterial infection. For his examination and the medicine, he charged me $40.
The next day, I still didn't feel well enough to go on the scheduled expedition, so I wrote, drank water, took my temperature, wrapped myself up, and sweat. And sweat. Later, as long as I was hanging out in the hotel, I went down to reception and asked if I could send an email. The clerk told me that I could use word processing to write my email onto a disk. They would send it for me. Well, I decided, it was better than nothing. I had no doubt that it would be scrutinized before it was sent, but my daughter back in California did get the email and it even seemed to be what I'd written.
The next day, I still didn't feel well enough to go on the scheduled expedition, so I wrote, drank water, took my temperature, wrapped myself up, and sweat. And sweat. Later, as long as I was hanging out in the hotel, I went down to reception and asked if I could send an email. The clerk told me that I could use word processing to write my email onto a disk. They would send it for me. Well, I decided, it was better than nothing. I had no doubt that it would be scrutinized before it was sent, but my daughter back in California did get the email and it even seemed to be what I'd written.
Sherrill en route to ancient capital As intriguing as present-day Burma (or Myanmar) was, its long history also fascinated us. Early one morning, we drove across Mandalay to a subsidiary of the Irrawaddy river and boarded a primitive wooden ferry that took us to the opposite shore, where we climbed into battered horse-drawn carts. We were on our way to explore the ruins of Ava, Burma's capital from the fourteenth to nineteenth centuries, until an earthquake in 1838 destroyed it. Passing through an opening in the remains of once massive city walls, we spent several hours in a strange world of gigantic, often beautiful, ruins, viper-filled countryside, and ramshackle villages in what had been a great city.
Another flight on a two-propeller Yangon Airways plane took us to the greatest example of Burma's glorious past: the magnificent temple city of Pagan (or Bagan, according to the new style). Silhouetted against a dimming blue-gray horizon, the elaborate shapes of stupas and temples seemed to grow organically from the open plain. As shades of pink and blue sky faded and darkened behind small stupas and large temples, we might have been moving among strangely shaped monsters hunkered down for the night.
Ancient temples, Pagan, Burma
Our new hotel, in the heart of the archeological zone, was a Burmese version of rambling hacienda. Dinner was at long tables on a lawn near the river, a full moon glowing through the trees. At breakfast the next morning, we could see more clearly the river and the centuries old brick temples around us. We began our exploring with one of the largest, the gold-sheathed Shwezigon Pagoda, built in 1113 to hold a sacred replica of Buddha's tooth, one of more than 4,000 pagodas originally built there, although only about 2,000 survived. According to his astrology, the king was to build a pagoda where an elephant rested, so he had an elephant followed until it stopped, and this was the place.
Shwezigon Pagoda, Pagan, Burma Everywhere we looked across the dry plain, stupas and temples baked in the sun, some small, others large, some crumbling. We tried to picture what this area must have looked like when the great city of Pagan was at its glory, with the population necessary to construct and support 4,000 temples. For 200 years, it was one of the great cities of the world, whether anybody in Europe knew about it, or not.
Some of the temples were decorated inside with delicately drawn frescos, some rose to astonishing heights, manmade mountains of ornate stone, many were covered with otherworldly shapes. One temple built in 1218 rose in two levels to a hundred and fifty feet. A twelfth century temple rose in wedding cake tiers to 200 feet. Several of us climbed the huge Mingalazedi Temple to watch the changing hues of the sky wash over the temples and pagodas as the sun set. Climbing down the precipitous, uneven steps in the dark was less fun.
Some of the temples were decorated inside with delicately drawn frescos, some rose to astonishing heights, manmade mountains of ornate stone, many were covered with otherworldly shapes. One temple built in 1218 rose in two levels to a hundred and fifty feet. A twelfth century temple rose in wedding cake tiers to 200 feet. Several of us climbed the huge Mingalazedi Temple to watch the changing hues of the sky wash over the temples and pagodas as the sun set. Climbing down the precipitous, uneven steps in the dark was less fun.
Sherrill and temple, Pagan, Burma Our group met in the hotel lobby before dinner to toast our friend Hala on her birthday, then went out to the tables on the lawn for dinner. Before we ate, our guide brought out a surprise birthday cake with lit candles. Over the years, Hala had surprised many of us with birthday cakes, so we were glad that this time she was surprised.
Back home, reading a history of the Pagan area, I discovered that it nearly became the site of a major World War II battle between retreating Japanese forces and the allies. Fortunately, one man, G.H. Luce, a scholar who had devoted his life to studying Burmese history and culture, went to the allied headquarters to stop the pursuit through the archaeological zone. For this, whether people know his name or not, G.H. Luce will always be one of the heroes of world civilization.
Back home, reading a history of the Pagan area, I discovered that it nearly became the site of a major World War II battle between retreating Japanese forces and the allies. Fortunately, one man, G.H. Luce, a scholar who had devoted his life to studying Burmese history and culture, went to the allied headquarters to stop the pursuit through the archaeological zone. For this, whether people know his name or not, G.H. Luce will always be one of the heroes of world civilization.
On our Silk Air flight from Rangoon to Singapore, I sat next to a German who admitted that he was a journalist, although on his visa application he'd said that he was a tourist, because Burma wouldn't admit foreign journalists. He said that all the time he was there he felt as if Big Brother was watching him.
"People are afraid of informers," he told me. "Only when we were trekking in the wilderness would they open up to me."
When they did talk freely, he said, they expressed anger about corruption in the government. Despite profits from agriculture, oil production, ruby mining, lumber harvesting, and other resources, the people grew poorer. The money all was channeled, he told me, to the military dictators. The people were angry, but afraid. He'd been surprised to see that the young Burmese were sincere and devout Buddhists, but felt that the religion made them too docile.
"People are afraid of informers," he told me. "Only when we were trekking in the wilderness would they open up to me."
When they did talk freely, he said, they expressed anger about corruption in the government. Despite profits from agriculture, oil production, ruby mining, lumber harvesting, and other resources, the people grew poorer. The money all was channeled, he told me, to the military dictators. The people were angry, but afraid. He'd been surprised to see that the young Burmese were sincere and devout Buddhists, but felt that the religion made them too docile.
He added that he had no doubt that the opium poppies grown in the so-called Golden Triangle in northeast Burma and sold for heroin were originally planted by the CIA to pay for the Vietnam war. I had no way of knowing how much of what the German said was true. The human problem, no matter how it is shaped, never goes away. Now, the world is shocked by the ongoing assault of Myanmar's generals on the Rohingya minority. When we were there 18 years ago, none of this had surfaced, but today we know that thousands of Rohingya suffer in refugee camps.
To be continued....
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 a bio, information about my four novels, along with excerpts from them, and several complete short stories.
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