Myanmar - A Place I Called Home

With each outing to the city, my return journey involved crossing the expansive Thanlyin Bridge. Cars and trains shared the bridge. In close proximity. Trains would trundle past. The bridge would actually sway. However, at a certain point along the bridge, the familiar muddy waters of the Bago River below, offered confirmation. Home was not far off. The golden sunsets embraced me. Throwing their arms outstretched around the taxi. Welcoming me. I knew I was home.

My bags were unpacked. The contents strewn across my double bed. I had somehow managed to find a space for each and every one of my treasured possessions. Much to the amazement of my lovely friends. I too had secretly feared that the size of my new apartment and the amount of furniture I has shipped across from Beijing, would not correspond. My concerns were unfounded. Within forty-eight hours, I had created the perfect home for myself.

Having walked to school for a couple of days, my fear of snakes had intensified. I needed to buy a bike. Any form of transport would be welcome. As long as it carried me safely and with speed past those ghastly creatures. And so it was that Sally entered my life. She became my best friend. Together we explored many a dirt road in the neighbourhood. The day I bought Sally, I needed to cycle back to the estate. Alone. It was nerve-wracking. The heavy traffic. The actual route. Roadworks added more confusion. Sally and I formed a deep bond that day. 

I celebrated my bike and the freedom she gave me. In every direction there was a new world greeting me. Presenting itself on a canvas. Deep tropical greens played host to vibrant hues. Brightly coloured houses and buildings were embraced by the lush vegetation. A happy place it seemed. Cycling alone, in complete safety, was something I never took for granted. I treasured it. Sadly in my home country of South Africa, it is not common practice.

With each cycle complete, I would stop and take in the sheer natural beauty of where I lived.  Witnessing splendid gardens. Appreciating the huge skies. Spectacular cloud formations. And often, I simply leaned on my bike, listening to the silence. Weekend cycles always began with the most delicious breakfast served in one of the many restaurants in the complex. It filled my senses. Was beautiful to look at. And more importantly, it filled my belly. Giving me the energy to up and off on Sally.

It was time to venture further out. To discover more of my hood, Thanlyin. Formerly known as Syriam, Thanlyin is situated in the Yangon Division of Myanmar. On a good day, we could drive across to Yangon in twenty minutes. Depending on the traffic. There were other days of course, when I could read half a book en route. Situated on the banks of the Yangon River, Thanlyin is today the largest port in Myanmar. It became part of the British Empire in 1852 after the Second Anglo-Burmese War. The area then housed an important oil refinery which was later destroyed during World War 11. To be rebuilt in 1957.  Throughout history, Thanlyin has witnessed many fierce battles. A turbulent past.

Cycling along the quiet road, not a soul in sight, it was difficult to imagine the eras past. Eras when suffering and turmoil prevailed. In open spaces amongst the thick foliage, stood the most intriguing colonial-style houses. Outer walls covered in thick mould. A sign of time passing. They emanated an aura of old grandeur. Yet, I sensed a deep sadness. Nostalgia. Making me feel as though I was intruding. As though the houses were a sacred memory. Never to be touched. Only to be seen for brief moments as one cycled past. 

In 1993 Thanlyin was connected to Yangon when the Thanlyin Bridge was built. No doubt making life much easier for commuters and opening the area up to economic development. The huge Thilawa Economic Zone, spanning 2500 hectares and situated in the area, houses many universities. A far cry from times when the vegetation provided a sanctuary for elegant homes.

I cycled slowly so as to be more aware of snakes. Those which may have chosen to cross my path. In a clearing stood an odd site. The ruins of the old Portuguese church. Vegetation crept in and out of the sturdy red bricks. The Immaculate Conception Church as it was also known, was built in 1750 by an Italian priest, Paolo Nerini. When the Portuguese arrived in the area in the 1500’s, a settlement was established – hence the church being referred to as the Portuguese Church. Sitting on a rock, as I love to do, with the sun on my back, I wondered what stories hid within the thick walls. The church had suffered at the brutal hands of wars. Of cyclone Nargis in 2008 and the passage of time. Yet still, she stood elegant and with strength. Her oval shape forming a cocoon in which humanity could find comfort.

Weekends were such a treat. Being the Toddler teacher, I had students in my class whose ages ranged from two to three-year-olds. As much as I loved them, I was exhausted by the end of the week. Sunday mornings brought with them a spiritual encounter. I would relish the sight of the young monks walking patiently in line. Tin bowls in hand. Waiting for their gifts of rice from worshippers who lived in the complex. A sight to behold. Together with my mug of steaming hot coffee, I was moved to my own state of heaven. On special occasions, candles were placed along the steps that ran alongside the main communal area. A gentle display of golden light reaching out. Bringing hope.

I love seeing homes around the world. The different designs. The charm and character that each radiates. They speak of the people living within. Of status and of the love or lack thereof for their homes. Each one of the houses I came upon during my outings spoke to me. The colours and textures, the age-old wood, the vegetation surrounding them. Present in each home, was pride. No matter how quaint, how simple or even how run-down some may have seemed. Each structure was home to someone. Offering protection and shelter.

Just after the break of dawn, my friend Minn collected my mom and myself. We drove through the streets of a sleepy Thanlyin. Silence hung heavily in the air. It was wonderful. We followed the narrow road. And stopped the car. Minn fetched a chair from his home and placed it in a strategic position on the side of the road. Mom sat in peace and simply appreciated where she was.

They appeared at the top of the road. Walking in absolute silence. The monks approached us. Offering a gentle nod of the head. The kindness and generosity of the community was evident. One beautiful lady walked towards us. Her smile could light a thousand candles. In her quiet manner, she spoke to us whilst Minn translated. She and Mom were of the same age. Another spritely eighty-eight-year-old. I could only speculate how extremely different their lives had been. Or perhaps not. Two wonderful women. From the opposite ends of the world. Coming together. Laughing and sharing so much.

Minn often shared our company. He had great pride in our neighbourhood. He shared stories of growing up in Thanlyin and is very knowledgeable about the history of the area. We enjoyed visiting his old school. A reminder that no matter where we come from. What our heritage is, what we look like or what we experience during Life, we all have childhood memories which are precious to us. Minn was so eager to share that part of his life. Within his school complex stood an old church building, no doubt having witnessed the laughter and chatter of the young ones receiving an education. 

Minn adored spending time with Grandmother, as he lovingly called Mom. Visiting the floating temple, Kyaik Hmaw Won Yele Pagoda, with us gave him so much joy. He took pride in caring for Mom. Ensuring she could hold onto his arm for support. Yet another display of compassion the people of Myanmar possess.

Yele Pagoda is unique in the fact that it is seemingly floating on the river. Not so. The beautiful structure covers a tiny islet. Creating a magnificent image as the muddy waters of the river swirl around it. Our first siting of the Yele Pagoda from the shore held us captivated. There was just so much to see. Dozens of people clambered onto small wooden boats. Vendors made their way through the crowds. Women sold flowers to worshippers. Beyond this busy scene, Kyaik Hmaw Won Yele Pagoda stood in silence. Holding her own.

As one needs to be barefoot in sacred spaces, we took our shoes off and left them in an open-air safekeeping area. This always amused me, coming from South Africa. A country where anything left outdoors, without being locked up, would be stolen in a flash. We boarded our wooden boat with Minn guiding us across the slippery gangway. As foreigners, we needed to take a bigger boat, at a higher cost. Apparently, this rule is for safety reasons. 

Our boat set off for the pagoda. Cheerful chatter danced across the muddy waters. A cluster of small wooden boats made the short journey across the river. Clothing of bright colours filled the scene. People were celebrating that which is sacred. I was so at peace. Contentment and fascination filled my soul. Approaching the pagoda, I tried to imagine the process of constructing something as complicated as what lay before me. Bearing in mind its location and no doubt, the difficulties facing the workers. Our captain stood barefoot at the helm, guiding the boat so as to rest alongside the steps. As he had done for many years before. As his father and grandfather had done before.

Visiting the pagoda was a beautiful experience. The architecture was both powerful and refined. The intermittent dark red colour, together with old gold and deep greens provided an unusually colourful palette of splendour. We wandered around. Took time to sit on the concrete steps to feed rice puff balls to the catfish. As everyone else did. Except for the odd monk who took time to take a selfie. The atmosphere was gentle but jubilant. I felt privileged being amongst the people. Sharing their joy as families. Witnessing something each one held sacred. 

Our return journey was just as colourful. In every way. The Myanmar flag lead us home with pride. The brilliant blue of the boat providing a platform on which the flag could stand in honour.

Every weekend I was out exploring more of my neighbourhood. Some days I would simply walk around the Thanlyin Market. Stopping to buy fresh flowers. Or feed my love for baskets. I would buy fruit. Or stop to drink fresh coconut juice. Or simply sit on a bench and watch the world go by. I was fascinated by the warmth and the togetherness the people displayed towards each other. One gentleman sat in meditation in the middle of a busy pathway. Nobody bothered him. He was respected. 

The joy of colour was everywhere. Reds and greens displayed in bunches of hanging bananas. On the old green doors. On blue plastic piping. The multitude of colours stood exquisite in brilliant blue buckets of water. Deep orange was found on display in the fruit. The joy of colour was even found tucked between old baskets and in the trash. The Thanlyin Market was a collage of colour. Of noise and laughter. Of bargaining and vendors. Each visit there, filled me with deeper understanding of people’s lives.

On one of Debbie’s visits to Myanmar, we met a little girl at the market. The three of us somehow felt a deep connection. We could not communicate due to the language barriers. That child spent a short period in our company and we will forever be grateful. The local barber shop was one of the happiest places to be. We would sit quietly and simply watch those who placed their faith in the barber’s hands. It seemed as though each hair-cut was a celebration of old friends meeting. Laughing. Chatting.

A morning spent at the market was thirsty work. The heat and humidity called for an ice cold beer at the local restaurant. As always, it’s the people who make a place worthwhile. Who add richness, meaning and quality to my life. Their kindness and warmth touched me in ways that words cannot describe. When thinking back to my life in Myanmar, my eyes still well up. I then realise that a huge part of my heart remains there. In that country which is suffering so much pain now. So much devastation. So much evil. Every day I send love and prayers to each person I met along the way. 

Pagodas, stupas, temples. Myanmar has an abundance of these sacred structures. Each one beautiful in its own right. Each one offering sanctuary to many. One afternoon Minn drove my mom and myself to the The Kyaik Khauk Pagoda. Located on a hill on the outskirts of Thanlyin, the pagoda overlooks those in her vision for miles and miles. This glistening work of art, much like Shwedagon, was built about two thousand years ago. I have never been one for historical facts and figures. Preferring to sit on a step. To breathe it all in. The atmosphere. The worshippers.

There was so much beauty to see. The richness of the ancient rocks. The various colours melting into each other. Natural and sturdy. The lotus flowers. Delicate and extraordinarily beautiful. Absolute perfection. 

Within each pagoda, ancient treasures provided jewels of the past. The workmanship of such items was quite unbelievable. Certain tiles upon marble floors included deep reds, embossed with old gold. The attention to detail was astounding. How is it possible that Man can create such beauty? Witnessing that level of magnificence was food for the soul. Being within the great walls of such spaces, brought a coolness to what was a scorcher of a day. The serenity and the sacredness brought complete peace of mind.

There were days I would set aside to experience one of my greatest loves. That of furniture shopping. Always my treat to myself. Especially in countries with cultures foreign to my own. I wanted authentic. I found authentic. Housed in a tin shack. Minn knew exactly where to take me. We stopped outside a corrugated iron shack. I then stepped into my version of heaven. There were literally piles of treasures in every room. Items from eras past. Rich in history and character. The smell of old leather mingled with dusty wood. Making time to stop and show respect to the chairs, the tables, the desks and the piles of old chests, was the least I could do. These items had belonged to somebody at one stage. Had been useful to somebody. Had helped to create beautiful living spaces. They had provided support in various ways. Now they stood in silence. Each one with its own memories. They held their dignity.  I simply had to take one or more home with me …

The greatest gifts of my hood were the wide-open spaces. Each one producing a vision to cherish. Whether the skies were painted in golds and reds, or gentle blues, they reminded me of the greater power that is ours to see. To touch. To feel. Each evening I had the thrill of witnessing the day closing. Waiting to be enfolded by the gentle darkness. Bringing a time for rest.

To be continued …