Yangon - Garden City Of The East

Understandably, Yangon, previously known as Rangoon, was called The Garden City of the East. Every type of natural greenery could be found within the city and beyond. My clothes, my carpets, my shoes. In fact, most of my possessions carried the green symbol of living in a steamy monsoon climate. That dreaded mould seeped into every imaginable corner of available space. Smothering items and furniture in its cloak of dark green. Rearing its ugly head within minutes. Spreading its influence across one’s home. It ruled supreme if left untouched. 

 Mould was a nightmare. Bringing with me pearls of wisdom from a life spent in China, during which I experienced the SARS epidemic, I resorted to wiping almost everything down in white vinegar. An attempt to keep the green monster out of my home. In her beautiful French accent, a friend had described Yangon as being so incredible because, “The plants, the trees, the orchids. Ingrid, everything grows in great abundance. AND the plants and small trees - they even grow out of the walls!”  Romantic that seemed, whilst sitting in a dry Beijing. In reality, I shuddered to see plants growing out of the walls.

Each day I sat in silence, taking an hour to sip the first coffee of the day. I watched  as the scene played out before me. A remarkable performance of river boats. Bird sounds. Cars crossing the bridge. Clouds growing darker. Moving slowly towards me. I loved nothing more than that beautiful view from my lounge. My daily dose of soul food it was. I was blessed. Watching Mother Nature at work. She was both gentle and robust. Rains could be seen. And heard. The corrugated tin roof below created a platform on which the sounds of massive raindrops fell. The rain was hot and sweet. Heavy too. The monsoon rains deluged the peaceful scene in minutes. Adding their own powerful beauty. My view changed drastically when construction started on the massive apartment block destined for the green fields below my apartment.  I continued to appreciate the old – whilst watching the new being created.

As much as I loved being home, I needed to get out and explore my new world. Digging deep into the reserves of courage, I headed into Yangon.

On my first outing to explore the city, I made a stop at the famous Rangoon Teahouse. The name on the board conjured up a medley of romantic notions. Of bygone times. It led me to find out more about the changing of names of both country and city. Under British rule, the country was officially known as Burma. After thousands were killed in a pro-democracy uprising in 1989, the ruling military government changed the name from Burma to Myanmar. An attempt to eliminate reminders of the colonial past. It was also believed that the name Burma only covered the Burman, the largest ethnic group in Myanmar. Thus excluding the other 134 ethnic minority groups. Hence the politically correct name for the country became Myanmar. All the people of the country were now recognised. Other changes were made. The city of Rangoon became Yangon. The Ayeyarwady became the Irrawaddy.  It’s no wonder that plenty of amusing conversations still arise when I tell people of my life in Myanmar / Burma. And of the incredible home and career I had in Rangoon / Yangon.

Myanmar shares a border with India in the west. With China and Thailand in the east. At the convergence of the Yangon and Bago Rivers in the southwest of the country, lies the city of Yangon. I was thrilled to discover that we were only about thirty kilometres from the Gulf of Martaban. The Andaman Sea was literally on my doorstep. The Yangon river is approximately forty kilometres long. It flows from southern Myanmar into the Ayeyarwady delta. The two main ports of Yangon are Thilawa, situated sixteen kilometres downstream and the actual Port of Yangon, in the downtown area. I would drive past the Yangon port in my first few weeks there and wonder exactly where my shipping container was. No doubt, stacked amongst the thousands of others waiting for delivery to their destinations.

Yangon’s skyline is dotted with endless pagodas and modern high-rise buildings such as the Centre Point Office Tower, the Shangri-La Hotel, the Melia Hotel and the Pan Pacific Yangon. Magnificent British colonial architecture threads its way through the city. A certain gem on my list was the lovely Strand Hotel. This luxurious hotel became a focal point in my adventures around the city.  Always ending the day in the welcoming bathrooms. Splashing cool water on my face. This ritual was followed by the inevitable ice cold gin and tonic. To be enjoyed in the famous Sarkies Bar, built way back in 1901. The dark wooden panels, black and white photos and ceiling fans beckoned one to step back into a  bygone era. To a time when life seemed elegant. And time was made for such grandeur. The luxurious leather couches in the reception area welcomed me. As did the elegant black high-backed chairs. Grand vases displayed their arrangements of fresh white roses. Tables were polished to reflect the essence of grace and style. I loved being in that space. That quiet energy of the past. Where famous explorers would meet. Where friends did meet.

Yangon is a city full of excitement. Of  promise. Of youth who are vibrant and courageous. Daring to explore new horizons. To accept new ideas. The spirit of Yangon pulsates. Releasing an energy that is contagious. An aura of colonialism filters through the fibre of the city. The old world and the new live side by side. In harmony.  

In 2008 Cyclone Nargis destroyed hundreds of the treasured trees in Yangon. A devastating sight it would have been, to witness centuries of growth come to a violent end. Each time I visited the city, my love for the trees deepened. One wonders what those trees had witnessed through the years of providing shade to all beneath their branches. Wars, death, suffering. Celebrations and the joy of life too. The Burmese have always respected trees. As the city developed towards the Shwedagon Pagoda area, it was decreed that space be made to include lakes and public gardens – of which there are many. I often thought of how to describe the massive trees of Yangon. The word, luxuriant came to mind. 

Saturdays were often spent walking through the great parks of Yangon. Taking in the natural beauty. Witnessing the people of Myanmar enjoying family outings. Identifying with the elderly who may simply have desired serenity. Inya Lake Park is home to an artificial lake. The British built it as a water reservoir in  1882 in order to provide water to Yangon. 

Kandawgyi Park, with its sixty-hectare lake, was my favourite place to meet my wonderful Myanmar friend, Thet. The bustling Yangon Farmer’s Market was a gem. Filled with the sound of happy people. Children ran around laughing. Some creating havoc between the crowds. Silk scarves, baskets, lacquerware and longyis, the traditional Myanmar costume, consisting of an ankle-length wrap-around skirt worn by both men and women, were on sale everywhere. As were fresh juices, vegetables, handmade soaps and health foods. I was most impressed by the ‘no plastic’ policy which was firmly upheld by the participants. The selection of local foods enabled us to enjoy fabulous breakfasts of my favourite crispy rice cakes, Yè Mote. Fried in a metal pan, the crisp round savoury pancakes are full of deliciousness. The batter includes rice flour, quail eggs, spring onions and chickpeas. One of my teaching assistants at school brought utter joy into my classroom most mornings when she delivered a parcel of these piping hot delicacies. At the market we also enjoyed the ‘palm toddy cakes,’ Htanthee Mote. Made with coconut milk and palm sugar, they were befitting to old friends engaged in hours of chatting.

At sunset, the entire Kandawgyi Lake was bathed in gold. The added beauty was the reflection of the Shwedagon Pagoda nearby. Surreal moments. Those of which will be held captive in my memories forever. Especially when soaking in a luxurious bath overlooking the lake. The People’s Park boasts over 3,000 plants including seventy two species of trees. Each tree displaying a combination of power and grace. Twelve different species of bamboo grew profusely in the park. It was evident that whatever one planted in the ground, would grow to huge proportions. As did the plants and trees within the walls of buildings.

Yangon is the largest city in Myanmar, as well as the industrial and commercial centre of the country. With a population of approximately seven million people in 2022, the city is made up of thirty three townships and four districts. Each one displaying a sense of charm. At times, full of mystery and intrigue. The Mingalar Taung Nyunt Township is one of the oldest in Yangon. It is home to the Norman Kyaung Kyi Htaik Monastery. One of the oldest surviving buildings in the city, it has supported the progress of educational and religious development through the years. The Sanchaung Township  was a popular choice for foreigners. Much to my delight, it brimmed with great places in which to eat and quaint coffee shops too. One of which I often shared with the resident chicken. 

Living in Yangon, there were of course endless frustrations and challenges to be confronted most days. However, together with developing my attitude of acceptance and understanding, I am proud to say that most of the challenges became part of day-to-day life. I no longer paid them much attention. When walking through the streets of Yangon, armed with my camera and the desire to capture life visually, I needed to focus completely on where my feet landed. Sizeable potholes in the pavements could seemingly devour a man. Incredible chunks of concrete were missing. Terrifying at times. Most were covered in plants. An indication of how long they had been in that pitiful condition.  Without a doubt, they serve as a harsh reminder that somewhere in the system there is either a serious shortage of finances or grave mismanagement. Probably both. 

On the 1st February 2021 the evil darkness of a military coup viciously engulfed Myanmar. Until then, the growth and development in that incredible country, on every level, was intense. Myanmar had only really opened up to the rest of the world a few years earlier. Bearing that in mind, my gratitude for being there was magnified. There were days when I walked those magical streets of Yangon in absolute elation. Emotions playing havoc within my soul. Sharing smiles with old ladies and children. Hiding tears from the suffering of some. Witnessing extreme levels of poverty. I experienced Myanmar during one of its most exhilarating periods in history. Living there was a celebration of what was and of what is to come. 

To be continued ...

My deepest appreciation to my dear friend Sian, for sharing her incredible painting above of Myanmar.

And to my Debbie, for your panoramic photo of the Yangon we both love.