My friend Noah pointed out to me that "travel" has the same etymological root as "travail"--and I discovered that both come from "tripalium," a medieval torture instrument. Travel's a lot easier nowadays, but thirty hours of transit is no picnic. It was roughly ten hours from Chicago to Istanbul, another eight hours in Istanbul airport, then twelve hours to Singapore. And then this morning another five hours getting to Yangon when you factor in the layover in Kuala Lumpur. Because I'm a sucker for punishment, I have a night bus booked for tomorrow night. So I'd better hope to sleep soundly tonight!
I booked a trip out of Yangon ASAP because, in my experience, big cities are not the best places to get acclimated to a foreign country. But actually, so far, Yangon has really charmed me. Formerly Rangoon, the city was the seat of British power in Burma and remained the capital until the government suddenly and bizarrely migrated north in 2005 to the custom-built-from-nothing new capital of Nay Pyi Taw. At 4.5 million, Yangon remains by far the country's largest city, and its centre of gravity. I arrived in time for a late afternoon stroll through disarmingly picturesque streets of crumbling colonial architecture and busy streets humming with life. Thinking of the two other major cities in this neck of the woods that I've visited, Yangon reminds me much more of Calcutta than Bangkok. The colonial architecture is only a part of it. As much as anything, it's the smells--heavy humid air redolent with incense, dust, overripe fruit, and some other smell I can't identify but sends my memory associations straight back to my time in Calcutta thirteen years ago.
But it's really the architecture that's won me. It would probably give a coronary to a National Trust manager, but the peeling paint and crumbling stone don't give the impression of a city that's seen better days, but rather of a city that sits with a curious equanimity with its past, needing neither to tart up the monuments of the long-gone British nor to reject them or tear them down. The city itself is a bit shabby in a lively way--too busy looking forward to tomorrow to clean up today's mess--and the neglected buildings convey just the right combination of grandeur and scruffiness. Similarly, I see more men wearing the traditional sarong-like longyi than trousers, but that seems more a matter of choice than a matter of not having twigged to what's considered normal dress in London or New York. People here seem comfortable and unfussed with what they've inherited from the past.
And the streets are bustling, with fruit and street food vendors all over the sidewalks, along with tea houses and beer stations where customers squat at kiddie-sized plastic chairs and tables. Tourists are new enough and rare enough that I'm a source of curiosity and friendly smiles rather than a target for various forms of cons and begging. I expected to find the place overwhelming--and tomorrow I might when I have plans more ambitious than just going for a late afternoon stroll--but so far I really like it here.
During my stroll I hit the same dead end as a couple other tourists which got us to chatting, and wouldn't you know it, they're from Vancouver. That called for celebration so we ambled over to the Strand and had cocktails at the same bar that's hosted the likes of Orwell and Kipling. We even had a live duet of rinky dink keyboard and jazz clarinettist doing cheesey versions of Christmas songs. Which will amuse anyone who read my last Facebook post.
I came to this place of relative contentment by the road of exhaustion. I got a bit of sleep on the trip to Singapore but not enough. My long layover in Istanbul did not win me over to the charms of that airport, and don't have me looking forward to a similar layover on the way back. I did get to pass the time with a similarly laid over traveller, who turned out to be Canadian too (they're everywhere, these Canucks), and a former philosophy major no less. And Istanbul's airport does make for some fascinating people watching. The departures board offered a mouth-watering mix of cities in Africa, Central Asia, and the Middle East, in addition to more familiar spots like Chicago and Singapore, and the waiting areas had the faces to match. I was interested looking at the map in the Turkish Airlines in-flight magazine, showing me their various destinations. They seem to cover quite a lot of Africa, including such unlikely destinations as Mogadishu. They also had a special colour for destinations they were not currently serving, which served as a handy primer on current events: Donetsk, Tripoli, Benghazi, Damascus, Aleppo, Mosul. You know you're a hot spot when the airline that declines to serve you doesn't blink at sending regular flights to Mogadishu.
And then there were eighteen hours in Singapore. I feel very lucky in the friends I have and Mei Pin has a special place among this special group. She picked me up from the airport in her unbelievably sexy little white sports car, and after dropping my stuff at her place she took me into town to sample some of Singapore's outstanding eats. We chatted for as long as I could keep my eyes open and then I collapsed at about 10, hoping to be out for the next ten hours. Alas it was not to be and I've been awake since 5:30 this morning after a fitful sleep. Hopefully my brain will be in better shape when I drop in on her again on New Year's Eve.
I also got picked up in Yangon--one of the winning perks of the hotel I booked--but didn't enjoy a pleasant ride in a sleek sports car. Instead I got my introduction to Myanmar driving, which I fear may literally be the death of me. They drive on the right here (although not as consistently as one might like), but most of the vehicles--including the one I was in--are Japanese imports with steering wheels on the right. This didn't keep us from passing other cars on the inside, and taking a couple swings into oncoming traffic, with me on the passenger side exposed like a sacrificial offering. I think my knuckles have started to regain their colour.
And now I really really really need to sleep. Wish me luck!
I booked a trip out of Yangon ASAP because, in my experience, big cities are not the best places to get acclimated to a foreign country. But actually, so far, Yangon has really charmed me. Formerly Rangoon, the city was the seat of British power in Burma and remained the capital until the government suddenly and bizarrely migrated north in 2005 to the custom-built-from-nothing new capital of Nay Pyi Taw. At 4.5 million, Yangon remains by far the country's largest city, and its centre of gravity. I arrived in time for a late afternoon stroll through disarmingly picturesque streets of crumbling colonial architecture and busy streets humming with life. Thinking of the two other major cities in this neck of the woods that I've visited, Yangon reminds me much more of Calcutta than Bangkok. The colonial architecture is only a part of it. As much as anything, it's the smells--heavy humid air redolent with incense, dust, overripe fruit, and some other smell I can't identify but sends my memory associations straight back to my time in Calcutta thirteen years ago.
But it's really the architecture that's won me. It would probably give a coronary to a National Trust manager, but the peeling paint and crumbling stone don't give the impression of a city that's seen better days, but rather of a city that sits with a curious equanimity with its past, needing neither to tart up the monuments of the long-gone British nor to reject them or tear them down. The city itself is a bit shabby in a lively way--too busy looking forward to tomorrow to clean up today's mess--and the neglected buildings convey just the right combination of grandeur and scruffiness. Similarly, I see more men wearing the traditional sarong-like longyi than trousers, but that seems more a matter of choice than a matter of not having twigged to what's considered normal dress in London or New York. People here seem comfortable and unfussed with what they've inherited from the past.
And the streets are bustling, with fruit and street food vendors all over the sidewalks, along with tea houses and beer stations where customers squat at kiddie-sized plastic chairs and tables. Tourists are new enough and rare enough that I'm a source of curiosity and friendly smiles rather than a target for various forms of cons and begging. I expected to find the place overwhelming--and tomorrow I might when I have plans more ambitious than just going for a late afternoon stroll--but so far I really like it here.
During my stroll I hit the same dead end as a couple other tourists which got us to chatting, and wouldn't you know it, they're from Vancouver. That called for celebration so we ambled over to the Strand and had cocktails at the same bar that's hosted the likes of Orwell and Kipling. We even had a live duet of rinky dink keyboard and jazz clarinettist doing cheesey versions of Christmas songs. Which will amuse anyone who read my last Facebook post.
I came to this place of relative contentment by the road of exhaustion. I got a bit of sleep on the trip to Singapore but not enough. My long layover in Istanbul did not win me over to the charms of that airport, and don't have me looking forward to a similar layover on the way back. I did get to pass the time with a similarly laid over traveller, who turned out to be Canadian too (they're everywhere, these Canucks), and a former philosophy major no less. And Istanbul's airport does make for some fascinating people watching. The departures board offered a mouth-watering mix of cities in Africa, Central Asia, and the Middle East, in addition to more familiar spots like Chicago and Singapore, and the waiting areas had the faces to match. I was interested looking at the map in the Turkish Airlines in-flight magazine, showing me their various destinations. They seem to cover quite a lot of Africa, including such unlikely destinations as Mogadishu. They also had a special colour for destinations they were not currently serving, which served as a handy primer on current events: Donetsk, Tripoli, Benghazi, Damascus, Aleppo, Mosul. You know you're a hot spot when the airline that declines to serve you doesn't blink at sending regular flights to Mogadishu.
And then there were eighteen hours in Singapore. I feel very lucky in the friends I have and Mei Pin has a special place among this special group. She picked me up from the airport in her unbelievably sexy little white sports car, and after dropping my stuff at her place she took me into town to sample some of Singapore's outstanding eats. We chatted for as long as I could keep my eyes open and then I collapsed at about 10, hoping to be out for the next ten hours. Alas it was not to be and I've been awake since 5:30 this morning after a fitful sleep. Hopefully my brain will be in better shape when I drop in on her again on New Year's Eve.
I also got picked up in Yangon--one of the winning perks of the hotel I booked--but didn't enjoy a pleasant ride in a sleek sports car. Instead I got my introduction to Myanmar driving, which I fear may literally be the death of me. They drive on the right here (although not as consistently as one might like), but most of the vehicles--including the one I was in--are Japanese imports with steering wheels on the right. This didn't keep us from passing other cars on the inside, and taking a couple swings into oncoming traffic, with me on the passenger side exposed like a sacrificial offering. I think my knuckles have started to regain their colour.
And now I really really really need to sleep. Wish me luck!
Thank you for such a great read, David. Looking forward to learning more about your adventures.
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