Rangoon, Burma

Burma is a country of amazing absurdity, vast corruption, and shocking cruelty.
After the 1988 uprising and the resulting international condemnation due to gunning down thousands of unarmed protesters, Burma's new dictator changed the name of the country to Myanmar. Ostensibly, his reasons were that "Burma" is a colonial name, and not representative of the populous of the country. More likely is that he hoped the fresh new name of Myanmar would not be easily associated with repression and death. Most citizens still refer to their country as Burma, as do many international organizations and nations.
Absurdity: Burma's government has an unfortunate habit of declaring it's own banknotes to be worthless: In 1985, the 20, 50 and 100 kyat notes were demonetized and replaced with new kyat notes in the bizarre denominations of 25, 35 and 75, chosen because of dictator Ne Win's fondness for numerology; the 75-kyat note was introduced on his 75th birthday.
Only two years later, the government once again demonetized the 25, 35 and 75 kyat notes with no prior warning, rendering some 75% of the country's currency worthless. This time 15, 45 and 90-kyat notes was issued, incorporating Ne Win's favorite number 9. The resulting erasure of people's life savings led to serious riots and eventually the 1989 coup by yet another repressive general. Today the Burmese government sets an arbitrary and ridiculous exchange rate of 6 kyats to the dollar. If you exchange dollars at any bank, that is the rate you'll get. However, on the street, the exchange rate hovers around 1000 to the dollar, a mere 20,000% difference! Not surprisingly, the government owned airlines, trains, and hotels don't accept their own worthless kyat, only US dollars!
Burma's time zone is set not one hour behind it's neighbor Thailand, but a half-hour. Burma sees fit to break with the mold of time zone changes in one hour increments. Burma is one of only two nations that does not use the metric system. I won't mention the other one.
In 2005 the reclusive and paranoid military junta moved Burma's capital from Rangoon, a city of 6 million, and the hub of all economic activity, to tiny Naypyidaw, a remote mountainous region in the center of the country. The new capital is built like a fortress, and foreigners can only enter with pre-approval. No foreign embassies have been allowed to make the move. It is theorized that the government moved here to have a better chance to survive an American invasion by land, or a revolt by it's neglected population.
Burma is ranked #178 on the Transparency International Corruption Perceptions Index. That means it is more corrupt than any nation in the world other than Somalia (which isn't really a a nation, but an anarchic Mad-Max like desert)
Burma is ranked fifth from last on personal freedoms by Freedom House. It squeaked by such vacation hot spots as Somalia, North Korea, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan.
Burma is ranked last in Asia for per capita income by the World Bank, with an estimated annual income of $233 per person. That's about 12 cents an hour for you forty-hour-a-week cubicle dwellers.

Foreign Policy magazine ranks Burma in a three way tie with Sudan and Somalia for worst Human Rights violator in the world. I guess the junta needs to create a Burmese pirate navy to claim first outright.
Pure evil: In 2008 the junta denied international aid to cyclone Nargis victims, adding thousands to a death toll of over 140,000. Government troop shot of over 3,000 protesters in 1988, many of them unarmed monks and students. Slave labor camps are believed to exist in the north, no access is allowed to any outsiders to confirm. Burma is #2 in Opium growing only to lovely Afghanistan. Burma is the only country who has jailed a Nobel Peace Prize winner, Aung San Suu Kyi.

Knowing all this, I looked into the global opinions on the morality of visiting Burma. Many organizations promote a boycott of all tourism to Burma. Their argument is strong and compelling. I was fully aware that the government owned all domestic airlines, the trains, the ferries, and the top-end hotels. I did not know that thousands of Burmese have been forcibly relocated and/or enslaved in forced labor camps in order to upgrade popular tourist areas. There is absolutely no denying that by visiting Burma, you are directly putting money into the hands of the junta. I'd be paying $20 for a tourist visa, $10 in departure tax, and $5 to visit the famed Shwedagon Stupa. To put it very clearly, that is at least $35 that I'll be handing to a group of murderers and rapists. There is no getting around it. How do I justify that? I'm not sure I have the correct answer. I would be staying at a small privately-owned guesthouse. I'll eat at only small street vendors. I'll hire trishaw and taxi drivers. I'll put dollars in the hands of regular folks. I'll make sure my contribution to the government is limited to getting in and out of the country. Is that enough? What else can I do?

Yangon is a sad, neglected, isolated city. Crumbling British colonial architecture abounds. The best buildings have been appropriated as government offices and freshly painted. The rest are disintegrating in place, untouched since the military dictatorship took over in the 60's. It is the only city I've ever seen that has no evidence of American consumer products. There is no McDonalds, no KFC, not even Coca-Cola. For that matter there are no ATM's, no tourist infrastructure, and no tourists.

I arrive as sparkling new Yangon International Airport and was quickly waved through immigration and customs. First impression is that the Burmese are really skinny. .I was met at the exit by an Indian man bearing a placard with my name on it. It really is such a wonderful thing to see someone holding up your name when you arrive bewildered in a strange land. It was even worth the $4 I know I overpaid in pre-arranging a taxi. Aru welcomed me to Burma with bloodshot eyes and red stained teeth. Chewing betel nut is popular here. He led me to his battered 1980 Nissan with tires so smooth and treadless, they may have been the original set. Though this was the most dilapidated taxi I had ever ridden in, it would prove to be the best I would see in Burma.

Just five minutes into the ride Aru turned to me and said "Do you know we have a lady under house arrest here?" Not shy to tell me about Aung San Suu Kyi, he pointed out the street on which she is imprisoned. "Can we drive by?" I asked. ""No way, blocked off." Instead I checked into my air-con, ensuite bathroom, single room at the MayShan Guesthouse for the princely sum of $15, then set out to walk the city. view of Sule Pagoda from the MayShan rooftop

I struggled through the shattered sidewalks among throngs of Burmese, feeling extremely self-conscious. I received stares from nearly everyone I passed. Mine was the only white face in the street. Children pointed and hid behind their mothers. When I travel to Asia, I feel like I'm getting an insight into the life of an NBA player. I'm only 6'1", but in Asia that makes me a freakish giant. No one wants to stand out as an obvious tourist, but it is unavoidable in Burma.

Yangon is fascinating to walk through. It is the most unusual city. The streets are packed with people selling everything imaginable. Yangon has no department stores, or hardware stores, or clothing stores. It has only tiny individually owned shops. There is one street selling screwdrivers. One big building is full of people working on 1950's era sewing machines. Another street is all underwear sales. It's all very interesting, but if you tire and want to sit in a shaded cafe, sip a cappuccino, and watch the world go by, forget it. Yangon's commerce caters to subsistence living. A hot meal from a street vendor is only 20 cents, but you'll have to sit on a child size plastic chair to eat it, just inches away from bus exhaust on one side, and an open sewer on the other. These are not the quaint, delicious hawker food courts of Malaysia and Singapore. I couldn't bring myself to risk the unrecognizable street food, so I walked and walked in hopes of finding and actual restaurant. Meanwhile, the mercury rose to 97.

I felt heat stroke was near, and sat on a kindergarten chair and drank an "Orange Crusher" soda. I passed orange robed monks, pink robed nuns, a few abaya clad women, and thousands of Longyi garbed, staring Burmese. Despite the poverty of Yangon, I saw no beggars, only nuns asking for alms.

novice nuns

Finally I reached the New Delhi restaurant. I was invited to pick any table by one of my six personal waiters. I was the New Delhi's only customer. My curry was decent, and I was brought generous helpings of extra rice. Midway through the meal the power went out to the city.

my Shwedagon tour guide

One item of pure beauty in Yangon is the world renowned Schwedagon Pagoda. Anyone who has travelled extensively in South-East Asia will eventually suffer from wat weariness/pagoda paralysis/Buddha boredom. Buddhists build a lot of temples. They are everywhere, and Lonely Planet will convince you that unless you see at least 37 of them in each city, you are missing a cultural experience. Well, I can say that if you only ever see one Buddhist temple, make it Shwedagon. It's the biggest, at 321 feet tall. It has 5,448 diamonds and 2,347 rubies, including a 76 carat diamond on top. Best of all, it is actually covered in gold! Several million dollars worth of gold plates cover the rounded part of the spire. I spent a couple hours walking around it (clockwise of course) at sunset. My tour guide was enthusiastic and knowledgeable, though not so fluent in English. I had to ask him if he felt it was normal to have a hundred million dollars worth of gold and diamonds sitting here, while people are starving and homeless due to cyclone Nargis? He replied, "Yes, because the Shwedagon Paya will always be here for every generation, and one man's life is short and temporary."

Sunset brought a shocking blackness to Yangon. No streetlights, almost no lit businesses, no bars or restaurants, just darkness. The upheaved sidewalks, the crush of people, and the smell of fried crickets no longer seemed exotic, just frightening. I group of urchins approached me begging for money. A boy of six or so displayed his bleeding head wound for extra credit.

I retreated to the one tourist quality restaurant I had seen, the only building with lights for several blocks. I prefer to "eat where the locals eat" when I travel, but this would take courage and much sleuthing in Yangon. Here I felt like a visitor from the future. With resignation, I gave in and stopped trying to bridge the gap.

Upon leaving the next morning I noticed how empty the airport is. For a city of six million, mine was the only international flight leaving all morning. Yangon truly exists outside the world economy. A pariah, propped up only by China, India, Singapore, and Malaysia; no one comes here. Burma is on the outside looking in.