Yangon - Where Old Greys And New Colours Harmonise

Starving and in need of coffee, we followed the alleyway, passing under the welcoming shade of a huge bougainvillea. Its cerise flowers catching the brilliant sunshine. Adding intense colour and beauty to the surrounding grey walls. We entered a somewhat dilapidated doorway and sat at a small table. The coffee was good. Strong and black. The simple menu had three choices of foods. Two out of the three were not available that day. Our beautiful waitress simply smiled. She was not bothered at all. Reminding myself to apply this laid-back attitude to more of my life, we settled for our favourite dish. The local breakfast of Mohinga. The steaming hot noodles soaking in coconut cream were exactly what we needed to fuel our bodies and curious minds.

A lady wearing a mask, clearly aware of health and hygiene in a restaurant, washed the dishes to the side of the small room. She stopped to remove the mask. Picked her nose using two fingers and went back to the dirty dishes. 

Debbie was visiting me from Cambodia. Together, we enjoyed nothing more than immersing ourselves in the local culture by means of walking the streets. Being with the people. Witnessing their reality. The streets of Yangon were my happy place. I would walk for hours on end. The extreme heat and unrelenting humidity eating into my skin made the experience somehow more authentic. A great excuse to grab a cold beer, pop into luxurious bathrooms in renowned hotels along the way or sink into armchairs in the coolness of air-conditioned restaurants. 

Yangon as a city was grey. Various shades of grey emanated from walls, from surfaces. The darker hues powerfully projected a symbol of age. Of materials that have witnessed the passage of time. Of forces of nature. Interwoven with the deep smears of darkness was an artist’s palette of rich creams, mustards and shades of browns. Each hue proudly displayed its specific coat of splendour. Signifying the marvels each structure once resembled. 

I loved the darkness of everything. I felt as though I was part of the history. Part of the former magnificence. The stately buildings. The curious walls running alongside broken pavements. The crude steel gates. Everything bore testament to the past. A past deeply embedded within each staircase. Each pillar. Each huge stone. A past rich in complexities and consequence. The city paid homage to a respected history. The  shades of darkness having blended into the actual backbone of an established memory. That of a once glorious Rangoon.

One’s imagination would run wild. Certain buildings presented themselves in dismal mystery. Their heavy cloaks carried the burden of turmoil. They remained as the darker legends of the city. Bearing solemn memories as they shared their rustic beauty and status with us. They became the caretakers of the people. Offering shelter to many. Witnessing the circle of modern life as it moved before and within their great solid walls. These buildings played significant roles in the past. Their worth increased day to day as those Grand Old Dames enfolded the city in their embrace.

Yangon was certainly not a dull city. The darkness of which I write about, created a bold, stark backdrop to a kaleidoscope of vibrant colours. Setting the scene for a symphony of sights and sounds. The streets pulsated with life and energy. People were busy. Working towards a successful day. Others though, made time for friends. Sipping tea and chatting. For hours on end. I noted a few had spent a glorious six hours sipping tea with the same friends. Board games of all variations were popular. Usually attracting a few onlookers. Other souls stole a few precious moments to catch up on much-needed sleep. There was no end to their many tiresome hours spent on hot pavements. Trying to earn a living.

Deep within the side streets of Yangon children played and giggled. A lady diligently kept her restaurant as clean as possible. Wooden panels and corrugated iron sheets had been painted a brilliant blue. An attempt to bring colour into what was an undeniably dark world. The shack held a certain charm for me. It was somebody’s home. They had taken time to make it just that. A place which sheltered them from the elements. A place in which they could eat, sleep and grow. A home.

Against the greyness of the city, splashes of colour made themselves known. They were everywhere. In tools and resources. On pavements. In windows and on doors. Markets were a tsunami of colour. Plastic chairs and tables scattered along streets for communal use added blasts of brightness to grey pavements. The contrast between old grey and new colour served to add richness and depth to the city. One’s spirits were lifted upon seeing the collections of colour everywhere. A reminder of just how important colour is in our lives. The city was all about contrasts. Dark and light. Quiet and rowdy. It became obvious to me that gentleness and harshness too lived side by side.

There were those thoughtful and very talented folk who gave their time to beautify the city through means of art. Yangon Walls is a project led by Delphine de Lorme. Entire walls, doors and windows served as a canvas on which to paint. The incredible street art served to uplift the back alleys, bringing life and colour to the grey spaces. I spent many afternoons admiring the hard work and dedication that went into creating such beauty. Art that could be shared and enjoyed by the population.

The Grand Old Dames of Yangon stood proudly in eras past. Their exteriors and no doubt, their interiors too, are now dilapidated. Showing signs of neglect. Damp had taken its toll on the once unblemished walls. Shrouding the gems in a mantle of despair. I would stop and decide on which buildings to purchase. To restore to their former glory. And then walk on further with my dreams tucked into my pocket.

Most dwellings were seemingly swathed in clothing. In a strange sense, bringing a certain charm to the buildings. Restoring their dignity and purpose. Washing hung out to dry. It could be seen hanging from improvised washing lines. It could be seen draped over balconies, windows and door frames.  It certainly was decorative. It also had its uses. Offering privacy to exposed windows. The colours mingled. Creating a barrier behind which children hid from each other. The exhibited clothes certainly provided their own stylishness to Yangon. 

Many modern buildings had colour included in their design. Whether it be blue or orange satellite dishes, green bricks or blue roofs, colour played its part.  Even on the gloomiest days of heavy monsoon rains, the streets of Yangon shared their colourful spirits with all. 

As in all cities around the world, by various means, traders promote their goods. Somehow the streets of Yangon brought about a certain charm to this age-old platform from which one’s daily livelihood was generated. Some sold books. Neatly piled up on plastic tables. Others sold apples. Reading and sipping hot tea whilst doing so. There were those who concocted interesting pastes from equally interesting ingredients. And the gentle soul who provided piping hot fried Indian nibbles. Tiny spaces provided scope for talented tailors to earn their keep. Each trader took pride in their service. They projected a calmness. Dignity too. Always generous with their smiles and greetings.

Some traders simply owned an umbrella and a cart of fresh coconuts. With those simple assets, they too created a daily income. They carried out their tasks with quiet confidence and a strong sense of duty. Stopping to share simple meals with family on the street. I saw many a trader grab their goods and run for cover when the mighty monsoons released their powerful torrents of water. The streets would be flooded within minutes. Canals filled to capacity and over. People huddled in groups. Waiting. As soon as the deluge was over, back into their specific spaces traders moved. Looking as elegant and calm as ever. They managed to remain serene, often under very trying circumstances.

Most traders not only looked elegant in their longyis, but their workspaces were well-managed too. A certain gentleman was always impeccable. His selection of paraphernalia was perfectly organised into sections according to size. He read the newspaper first thing each morning. Another impressive display of tools was spread out on a plastic sheet beside him. The interaction between buyer and seller was always polite and friendly. An admirable characteristic of the Myanmar people.

Yangon was a bustling city. In sections, the streets were wide. Buildings were painted in bright colours and there was an abundance of parking and space. Shops displayed their goods in colourful spurts. There were those who added to the tapestry of colours simply through their hair. 

In other areas, life seemed more humble. Boldly coloured roosters paced outside the front doors. Establishing authority. Signposts everywhere were a brilliant blue. Displaying the beautiful well-rounded Myanmar writing. One or two buildings were of a deep plum colour. Adding depth and mystery to the pavements. Plants sprouted from decaying bricks. I was intrigued by these buildings and sadly never had the opportunity to explore them further.

Most streets were narrow though. Often filled with people enjoying other people. Soaking up the excitement of the day. Gaining the most out of any promotions. The city was a marketing beehive. Always buzzing with new schemes and opportunities. It was filled with contrasts and irony. Huge modern posters displaying wellness and financial status hovered above a man eating a simple meal. Beside him on the pavement, a lady cooked noodles. Her resources were simple. She had very little. Her food was good. She took pride in the meals she prepared on that dirty pavement.

Yangon suffered from a poor infrastructure. Her streets provided their fair share of obstacles. Potholes appeared as gaping wounds in old bodies. Funding for such hindrances was not a priority. Clumps of hanging wires certainly kept our concentration levels on high. During the electric storms that frequented Yangon, we made sure to remain indoors. The streets flooded within minutes, carrying an assortment of weird and questionable objects. Crossing intersections proved to be hazardous at times with humanity and vehicles vying for space.

Another hazard for us tall people was the charming selection of containers used in which to place the post. Hanging packets, metal containers and hooks were lowered onto street level and there they remained until post or anything else was placed within. They were then hoisted up to the relevant homes to be emptied.

I am grateful that I have the eyes with which to see the colour in even the simplest things. We need to make the effort to find the colour in Life. To look deeper. Each and every day. For it is there. Staring right back at us. To see. To appreciate.

To be continued …