Pyay - A Place Untouched

In an attempt to do justice to the beautiful people of Pyay, I have endeavoured to relate my experiences in a place seemingly untouched by the frenzied world that is ours. Included are many photos, as only they can portray to you, in a far more effective manner, what my words attempt to convey.

Thank you to my two precious friends, Htet Aung and Htet Htet. Without your kindness and your friendship, this journey to your home-town would not have been possible. You shared your childhood memories, your family and your world with me. There is no better way to explore a place than through the eyes of those who have a profound love for where they grew up. May you be safe and healthy during the evil Myanmar is now enduring. Until we meet again.

Pyay is located on the banks of the Irrawaddy River. The sleepy town greeted us as the road curved through clusters of wooden houses. Motorbikes and their riders rested on areas beside the tar. Brightly-coloured plastic chairs dotted the scene. Providing colour to the usually dusty environment, and comfort to weary bodies. There existed an aura of warmth and sincerity in this communal living. I noted the silence. And the simplicity of life. Enchanting in its presence. My excitement intensified. We had planned this journey for so long and now it was a reality. I was about to step into the world where two of my precious Myanmar friends had grown up. Had met. Had married. Bringing this personal touch into travel is unique. For it allows one to see things as they truly are. The authentic side of life.

Our car journey of six hours, in a north-westerly direction from Yangon, along what seemed a dead straight road for the entire 260 kilometres, was effortless. Htet Aung, being the capable driver he is, proved to be a remarkable tour guide. Together with Htet Htet, they shared stories at certain places along the way which held precious memories for them. Needless to say, they had travelled this particular road on and off for years. Htet Htet brought even more happiness to the car when she suggested that on our first stop, we enjoy the traditional Mohinga for breakfast. This was to be a fabulous trip I thought, as we had only left Yangon an hour earlier and were already about to fill our stomachs with the heavenly foods of the nation. Bowls of steaming hot Burmese fish soup were placed before us. The blend of fish sauce, ginger, banana stem, lemongrass, onions, garlic, rice noodles and chickpea flour lifted my spirits. The boiled egg looked smug afloat the delicious broth. This, an essential part of the Myanmar cuisine. 

We chatted. I took endless photos. Every scene en route was fascinating to me. Each stretch of the road bringing with it a deeper awareness and understanding of the Myanmar culture. The many beautiful faces we saw, proudly displaying Thanaka, the natural sunscreen used by people of all faiths in the country, from Muslims and Buddhists to the many ethnic tribes. For over two thousand years, people in Myanmar have pounded the bark of the wood-apple and sandalwood trees, amongst others, on a stone slab, called the kyauk pyin. A pale yellow paste is made by adding drops of water. Men, women and children use this amazing paste. I too, have made good use of it in the past, whilst enjoying the beaches of Ngapali. It certainly keeps one’s face cool and free of bacteria.

Huge signs, in red, green and gold, proudly displayed one of Myanmar’s gems, the locally produced beer. The quality, I can vouch for. There was nothing quite like an ice cold Myanmar Lager on their everyday hot days. Men in the traditional longyis sat perched on hard-wearing stools sipping the golden liquid. Their flip-flops covered in dust. Smiles always generously shared. Cigarettes dangled between bony fingers as gestures, huge and bold, enhanced conversations. 

I remember clearly, on arriving in Myanmar for the first time, staring, in a combination of total disbelief and awe, at the sight of both men and women wearing  the ankle-length wrap-around skirts, the longyis. Not long after, did I purchase my first piece of brightly coloured cloth with a tight-fitting top to match. The effect was most distressing for myself. I spent the evening learning how to take tiny steps. And ensuring the skirt was securely tied. Longyis  are not unisex clothing. The patterns and the way they are worn are different between the genders. Men make a fold on either side in front and secure it by tucking the two ends together at the waist. The ladies wrap a fold in front and the end is then tucked in on one side. The fabrics are quite exquisite – ranging from stripes and squares for the men to incredible designs for women.

Further along the journey we passed a series of markets. Simple structures, if any. Most produce was placed on large plastic sheets on the bare ground. Women chatted away in their beautiful melodic language that is Myanmar. Creating their own recitals. The sounds of the language are rounded. Presenting a sense of wholesomeness. The voices of Myanmar. Deep and sincere. Their script portrays a sense of abundance and generosity. A form of art in itself. Extraordinary. Exceptionally beautiful.

As I have lived in Asia and Africa, I have seen a wide and rather amusing variety of vehicles in my life. This trip was no exception. A local biker gang managed to wave at me without losing their pose. Returning immediately to their seriously sweet stance of supremacy. Nearby, the blue contraptions, with their innards exposed, fascinated me. The raucous noise of those engines sent tremors through the earth. Their drivers chuckling at the expression on my face as they later negotiated the potholes. 

Once more we were out on the open road. At times, there were vast expanses of desolate emptiness. The earth tones of the landscape mingled with the sunlight to create God’s own paintings. The sky seemed bigger. Along the sides of the road, kilometre after kilometre, the tallest and biggest trees stood side by side, as they had done forever, signalling our route forever north. We passed through villages in which time stood still. Each one having a character of their own. Each one seemingly serene. Providing the simple life. People seemed very poor. But there was a certain contentment. As I write this piece now, my heart aches, for I know this is no longer so. Suffering and pain beyond belief is taking place in those exact places I passed through, not so long ago.

The toddy palm trees stood tall and regal. Their splendour owning the horizon.  Bearing a certain edible treasure. One I discovered in Myanmar. Jaggery is produced from the sap of these elegant trees. Historically, it has been used in sauces, as treats and in many other culinary dishes in South East Asia. It is a traditional dessert in Myanmar and is often eaten after dinner to help with digestion. Personally, those hard golden cubes of decadence create the best-ever sticky toffee sauce. One with which to smother my ice cream, mango cheesecake or simply late at night, savoured by the spoonful … With each mouthful of that heavenly substance, I gave thanks to the men who courageously climb the toddy palms and who engage in the palm sugar boiling business. For it is truly dangerous. Jaggery is produced by reducing palm sugar syrup on a wood burning stove in large pans. People often suffer severe burns whilst working with the excessively hot syrup.

We were in need of yet another experience of the culinary kind. Up ahead, a courageous woman stood bending over a small fire, alongside the extremely busy and dangerous road. Seemingly ignoring the heavy trucks passing metres away, this woman took the concept of initiative to higher levels. In her own style, she went about earning the meagre living she could. As best as she could. Her smile lit the day. Her gentle demeanour welcoming. With caution, we joined our lady beside her simple wood and iron structure. Her motorbike stood laden, on either side of the bike, with huge baskets containing the day’s produce.

The aroma of that corn on hot coals was overwhelming. The flavours wafting through the air, carried me back to my childhood. Memories of cooking over a wood-fire erupted. My sister and I would find any excuse to cook outdoors. For there is nothing quite like the aroma and taste of smoked food. Whether it be yesterday’s pasta leftovers, eggs and bacon or simply a piece of fried bread. The more smoke we created, the better the food tasted. The more our eyes watered. Yet more memories flooded. The smell of the earth. The gentle hot breeze. The dryness. The bird-calls. For a few wonderful minutes, I cherished my past. The bushveld of South Africa. The bushveld of Myanmar. I stood in silence, merging the chapters of my life.

To be continued …