It's now just after dawn in Nyaungshwe, which is the jumping off point for visitors to Inle Lake. I arrived on the night bus and am feeling very sorry for myself. I haven't slept more than 6 hours in a night since I left Chicago, so I'm not at all sorry that I've booked one more day than I strictly need here. I think I'll take it easy today.
The twelve-hour bus ride up from Yangon illustrated the stage of development in Myanmar at the moment. (By the way, in answer to the question I raised in my first blog post, every local I've met has called the country "Myanmar," pronounced mee-an-mah--the R at the end of the word assumes you have a British accent.) I was on a luxurious bus with comfy seats and plenty of leg room and spent the whole night bouncing around on sleep-denyingly bumpy roads. I think I got a few hours of exhaustion-compelled sleep at the beginning of the night after being lulled by a gregarious young Swede who spent over an hour regaling me with stories of his many travels. Regarding the American leg of his trip, he remarked that the funny thing about Americans is how much they like talking about themselves.
Yesterday was my day of trying to "do" as much of Yangon as I could before setting out. On that score I can be glad that my jet lag woke me before 6. Among other things, that meant I was able to get to Shwedagon Paya before 7, when it was still fairly uncrowded, cool, and under highly photogenic morning light. Too bad I'm not a very good photographer.
Shwedagon Paya is one of the holiest sites in Myanmar, if not Buddhism in general. Its central focus is the 325 ft. zedi (i.e. stupa) adorned with 27 metric tons of gold leaf, and topped by literally thousands of gems and a 76 carat diamond. All this to house (allegedly) a few strands of hair of the Buddha. I shudder to think what they'd do with a jawbone.
The zedi is just the central focus of a larger hilltop complex that contains a few other smaller stupas as well as countless shrines, statues, and other devotional objects. It was interesting to consider the contrast with churches, where there's a single central focal point in the altar (although Catholic churches in particular often have a range of other devotional nooks, but then the Catholics strike me as closet polytheists). The central zedi wasn't itself an object of devotional attention, but rather there was a rich diversity of places of worship, ranging from sizeable prayer halls containing a multitude of statues to little nooks with a single Buddha looking down at you serenely. Many of the Buddhas have halos of kitschy swirling LED lights. I quite like this mix-and-match approach: depending on your current state of mind or general character, you have a rich range of options to choose from to practice your devotions. And while this wasn't news to me, it was interesting to see that this devotion involves prayer and chanting rather than meditation, especially among the laity. There were also twelve "planetary posts," eight of them corresponding to the days of the week (Wednesday, which happens to be my day of birth, gets two) on which one could pour water to cool down the fire that burns within every one of us.
As someone who allegedly practices a form of Theravada Buddhism, I was interested to find I felt no more "at home" in this place than in the mosques of Iran. This is definitely a place of worship for a culture that's not my own. In particular, the noise, bustle, colour, and smell all belong to a hot climate--only a slightly toned down version of the spiritual exuberance I've witnessed in India--whereas my soul is a northern one, more suited to the austerity of Japanese Zen than the lushness of southern Buddhism. But then, thinking about all this, I heard a woman next to me chanting the Mangalasutta in the same Pali language and the same melody as I've heard it--and chanted it--on retreats in Wales and Wisconsin and suddenly it all felt strangely familiar.
Myanmar is one of the most religious countries I've ever visited. Monks are ubiquitous, as are zedi and other places of worship. At Shwedagon Paya, there's a pulley system with which offerings of gold-plated copper are hoisted up to the zedi and hammered in to add to its gold thickness by tireless workers. The merit-seekers have a nice photo op before their offerings are blessed and sent up. I learned that each of these gilt offerings cost $600. And Myanmar is not a rich country. I have no objection to a little devoutness, but I couldn't help but think that just maybe there are more productive expressions of dana (generosity) than hammering more gold into a structure that already has 27 tons worth. I had my own brush with devotion-meets-bling when a monk insisted on blessing me by pressing my hand against the hand of a Buddha statue and reciting a prayer, and kept reciting the prayer when his cell phone pinged, and managed to answer a text with one hand while pressing mine against the statue in blessing with the other.
It was late morning by the time I left, and I spent the heat of the day (mad dogs and Englishmen and all that) walking through some beautiful parks and then up some atmospheric side streets to two gargantuan Buddha statues, one a 46 ft. tall seated Buddha and the other a 65m long reclining Buddha. I'm not sure bigger is always better.
And then before catching my night bus I had time to make a quick visit to the former Pegu Club, once the most exclusive club in British-controlled Rangoon. It's long since fallen into crumbling disuse and is occupied by a number of squatter families and their not-entirely-tame dogs. But no one seemed to mind me poking about in a place that felt like it came straight out of a ghost story. The shady wood awnings and spacious interiors are still there, but floorboards are caved in, dust and cobwebs are everywhere, and there's not a bottle of gin in sight. Even more than the dilapidated colonial buildings in central Yangon, this place really brought to mind just how much upkeep is required to keep our homes and cities look unencroached upon by time.
And now another day begins. So far, it seems the only casualty of my very hasty packing in Chicago is that I left behind my Burmese phrase book. Fortunately my guide book has a short glossary. And on the bright side, if I meet any Iranians during my travels, I'll be able to make excellent use of the Farsi phrase book I did pack.
The twelve-hour bus ride up from Yangon illustrated the stage of development in Myanmar at the moment. (By the way, in answer to the question I raised in my first blog post, every local I've met has called the country "Myanmar," pronounced mee-an-mah--the R at the end of the word assumes you have a British accent.) I was on a luxurious bus with comfy seats and plenty of leg room and spent the whole night bouncing around on sleep-denyingly bumpy roads. I think I got a few hours of exhaustion-compelled sleep at the beginning of the night after being lulled by a gregarious young Swede who spent over an hour regaling me with stories of his many travels. Regarding the American leg of his trip, he remarked that the funny thing about Americans is how much they like talking about themselves.
Yesterday was my day of trying to "do" as much of Yangon as I could before setting out. On that score I can be glad that my jet lag woke me before 6. Among other things, that meant I was able to get to Shwedagon Paya before 7, when it was still fairly uncrowded, cool, and under highly photogenic morning light. Too bad I'm not a very good photographer.
Shwedagon Paya is one of the holiest sites in Myanmar, if not Buddhism in general. Its central focus is the 325 ft. zedi (i.e. stupa) adorned with 27 metric tons of gold leaf, and topped by literally thousands of gems and a 76 carat diamond. All this to house (allegedly) a few strands of hair of the Buddha. I shudder to think what they'd do with a jawbone.
The zedi is just the central focus of a larger hilltop complex that contains a few other smaller stupas as well as countless shrines, statues, and other devotional objects. It was interesting to consider the contrast with churches, where there's a single central focal point in the altar (although Catholic churches in particular often have a range of other devotional nooks, but then the Catholics strike me as closet polytheists). The central zedi wasn't itself an object of devotional attention, but rather there was a rich diversity of places of worship, ranging from sizeable prayer halls containing a multitude of statues to little nooks with a single Buddha looking down at you serenely. Many of the Buddhas have halos of kitschy swirling LED lights. I quite like this mix-and-match approach: depending on your current state of mind or general character, you have a rich range of options to choose from to practice your devotions. And while this wasn't news to me, it was interesting to see that this devotion involves prayer and chanting rather than meditation, especially among the laity. There were also twelve "planetary posts," eight of them corresponding to the days of the week (Wednesday, which happens to be my day of birth, gets two) on which one could pour water to cool down the fire that burns within every one of us.
As someone who allegedly practices a form of Theravada Buddhism, I was interested to find I felt no more "at home" in this place than in the mosques of Iran. This is definitely a place of worship for a culture that's not my own. In particular, the noise, bustle, colour, and smell all belong to a hot climate--only a slightly toned down version of the spiritual exuberance I've witnessed in India--whereas my soul is a northern one, more suited to the austerity of Japanese Zen than the lushness of southern Buddhism. But then, thinking about all this, I heard a woman next to me chanting the Mangalasutta in the same Pali language and the same melody as I've heard it--and chanted it--on retreats in Wales and Wisconsin and suddenly it all felt strangely familiar.
Myanmar is one of the most religious countries I've ever visited. Monks are ubiquitous, as are zedi and other places of worship. At Shwedagon Paya, there's a pulley system with which offerings of gold-plated copper are hoisted up to the zedi and hammered in to add to its gold thickness by tireless workers. The merit-seekers have a nice photo op before their offerings are blessed and sent up. I learned that each of these gilt offerings cost $600. And Myanmar is not a rich country. I have no objection to a little devoutness, but I couldn't help but think that just maybe there are more productive expressions of dana (generosity) than hammering more gold into a structure that already has 27 tons worth. I had my own brush with devotion-meets-bling when a monk insisted on blessing me by pressing my hand against the hand of a Buddha statue and reciting a prayer, and kept reciting the prayer when his cell phone pinged, and managed to answer a text with one hand while pressing mine against the statue in blessing with the other.
It was late morning by the time I left, and I spent the heat of the day (mad dogs and Englishmen and all that) walking through some beautiful parks and then up some atmospheric side streets to two gargantuan Buddha statues, one a 46 ft. tall seated Buddha and the other a 65m long reclining Buddha. I'm not sure bigger is always better.
And then before catching my night bus I had time to make a quick visit to the former Pegu Club, once the most exclusive club in British-controlled Rangoon. It's long since fallen into crumbling disuse and is occupied by a number of squatter families and their not-entirely-tame dogs. But no one seemed to mind me poking about in a place that felt like it came straight out of a ghost story. The shady wood awnings and spacious interiors are still there, but floorboards are caved in, dust and cobwebs are everywhere, and there's not a bottle of gin in sight. Even more than the dilapidated colonial buildings in central Yangon, this place really brought to mind just how much upkeep is required to keep our homes and cities look unencroached upon by time.
And now another day begins. So far, it seems the only casualty of my very hasty packing in Chicago is that I left behind my Burmese phrase book. Fortunately my guide book has a short glossary. And on the bright side, if I meet any Iranians during my travels, I'll be able to make excellent use of the Farsi phrase book I did pack.
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