Bagan (formerly Pagan), Myanmar by photographer, Lisa de Araujo.
This week, my family leaves for an eight-day visit to Myanmar. The last time I ventured to this long-isolated country, it was called Burma, and I had recently graduated from college. That was twenty-eight years ago, and I was traveling to Asia for the first time to visit a friend, Jennifer, who was serving in the Peace Corps in Thailand.
After a month of exploring Bangkok, Chiang Mai and Mae Hong Son, we set off for Rangoon (now Yangon) on a seven-day visa. At the time, the black market was rife, and guidebooks recommended that travelers purchase a carton of 555 cigarettes and a bottle of Johnny Walker to sell. They promised that the money earned from these hard-to-get items would provide enough cash for a seven-day visit. Jennifer and I chuckled as we observed – literally – every person boarding the plane with his duty free bag bearing the contraband.
After landing in Rangoon, we asked a customs agent where we could change money. He looked at our bags and said, “You have cigarettes and alcohol, why don’t you sell them?” After completing our transaction, we hailed a taxi to Rangoon, where we were impressed by the British-influenced colonial architecture. Was that Big Ben towering over the cricket field in the middle of town? We were also amused by the cars, which were large American classics, left over from World War 2. The overall effect was like that of a broken down movie set from the 1940’s.
We traveled north that evening on the train with the cheapest tickets available. This meant we rode “hard seat,” sleeping on wooden benches, and arrived in Pagan (now Bagan) the next morning. It’s difficult to describe Pagan, the ancient capital of Burma, where temples stretch as far as the eye can see. It was certainly the most exotic sight of my life, and the smell of guano and years of neglect as we entered these relics only added to their mystery and intrigue.
Next, we took a two-day voyage on the Irrawaddy River to Mandalay, the last royal capital in the country. The large boat also carried a couple of hundred locals as well as a number of cows and chickens. Mosquitoes the size of small birds attacked in the night and soon our bodies were covered with red welts. We stopped periodically in small towns, where curious children and adults touched our hair and skin and invited us into their homes for meals.
Internal flights were tricky back then. The pilots, we were told, left whenever they felt like it. The manager of our hostel told us we should be at the airport no later than 8 am for our 2 pm flight – “just in case.” Once there, I asked the check-in representative what time the same flight left yesterday. “5 pm,” she replied. “And the day before?” I inquired. “10 am” she said with no expression. On that day, our 2 pm flight left at 11.
Back in Rangoon, we viewed the magnificent Shwedagon Temple and dined at the Strand Hotel. The Strand is now considered one of the best places to stay in Asia, but twenty-eight years ago, rooms cost $6 a night in this rat-infested, crumbling symbol of the country’s colonial past. We opted to stay at the less expensive YMCA, where we paid only $2 a night, which included the company of a bat hanging in the upper recesses of the high ceiling.
This time around, I won’t be sleeping on the floor of trains, selling cigarettes, or sharing my room with bats; nevertheless, I hope to have a few adventures to share on my return.