Living on a few dollars a day, under a military regime, can be pretty challenging; few luxuries, few opportunities.

Yet the motto could be; “Life is difficult, let’s try to be happy” and the welcome you receive will be as warm as anywhere, maybe more so because Myanmar gets so few visitors and needs friends.

See the sights and get off the beaten track to find people, influences, landscapes and settlements of great variety; the Bamar, the Rakhaine, and the Shan; Britain, India, Thailand and China; golden pagoda, silver beaches, mile-wide rivers, deep jungle and high mountains; two stunning big cities, tiny villages, hill stations, railway towns, fishing ports and just a few holiday resorts.

Public transport can be basic. Waiting for it is a national pastime. But you can travel widely, quite easily and relatively freely, as a companion traveller moving amongst the Burmese.

Some of your tourist dollar will inevitably go to the government. So spend your time and money in locally owned hotels, teashops and restaurants. Make a small effort to pick up a bit of the language and you’ll have a trip to remember for ever, as one of your best ever.

The food’s great too.

He does.

There’s a little debate going on the guardian website.  Tim Garton Ash has explained why he says Burma, not Myanmar having written a piece about a videolink with Aung San Suu Kyi at the LSE.

I quite see why he uses Burma.  I often do.  But I use Myanmar too.  So do my Burmese / Myanmar friends.

Yes, the junta imposed Myanmar but they had a bit of a point when they described the use of Burma as the ‘last vestige of colonialism’; Burma’s what the British called somewhere much more than simply where the Burmese live.  They make up the largest group in the country coming from the flat lands at the heart of the country but on the mountains and along the coasts people call themselves other names.  My friend’s Rakhaine.  Calling him Burmese is akin to calling a Welshman English.

Myanmar has become widely used not least because it means The Golden Land and the locals, in the main, go for that.  A generation of young adults has grown up with it.  Little resentment of it is expressed.  People speak Myanmar.  The number one beer is called Myanmar.  People are proud to be from Myanmar.  Proud to be Myanmar.

People do say Burma as well, especially older people and when they speak in English, but Burma exists more as an abstract now.  A time and place before.  When things were better than they have been, than they are.  A time and place to which they hope to return some time soon.  When change eventually comes.  Maybe they’ll all agree to call it Burma again when that comes about.

Either way it is a golden land.

 

Paul Butler at facebook made it; it’s a visualisation of pairs of facebook friends around the world. He said this of it; “My curiosity was the locality of friendship. I was interested in seeing how geography and political borders affected where people lived relative to their friends. I wanted a visualization that would show which cities had a lot of friendships between them”.

Look beyond the biggest, brightest lights and you can pick out some of the smaller, yet visibly identifiable stars in this social-network-milky-way.  Just to the right of India there’s an almost Y-shaped cluster that has Bangkok at its centre.  (Click on the map it gets bigger.)  Just to the left of the Y there’s a small lonestar.  That’s Rangoon that is.

Rangoon has a population of five million and it’s not even as facebook-bright as The Faroes with its population of fifty thousand.

But it’s there and that’s a good thing.

The government in Myanmar is not internet-friendly, never has been.  Most people cannot afford to spend 20% of the average daily wage on an hour in an internet cafe and cafe owners have to report regularly to the authorities (and reportedly are now required to install and record CCTV).  If you want to use WordPress, or a lot of other sites, you need to know how to use a proxy server, but facebook gets through and is allowing some small number of Burmese people to reach beyond their closed (to them) borders and to make international friendships in cyberspace.

And that’s got to be a good thing too.

I’ve been to this checkpoint just down the road from Aung San Suu Kyi’s house a few times. But the first time I was in Yangon / Rangoon in 1995 the checkpoint was not there because The Lady was ‘enjoying’ one of her brief spells of relative (but very limited) freedom and on a Sunday afternoon in December we took a taxi from Schwedagon Pagoda and wandered up the street to join a crowd of a couple of thousand in the street outside her house.   Aung San Suu Kyi appeared as she has done today at her front gate (though on a higher step, more of her was visible) and spoke to those assembled to hear her, with obvious humour and charm.

Squatting beside the road I met a man who explained that his shaking was a result of vitamin deficiencies endured during his time in prison. He pointed at the (not so) secret policeman taking photographs of all present and said that he feared the government not one jot.  He knew already the worst that they could do to him and he believed that if they came for him again he would endure again or die trying. He was absolutely confident that however long it took there would come a day when the Burmese people would be free.

That day is not today.

Today Aung San Suu Kyi is not free.  She’s just less captive.

The 2000 political prisoners still locked up remain as captive as ever.

For the ordinary Burmese people, excited as they may be by the events of today, their pre-occupation will remain the challenge of their daily lives; the release of Aung San Suu Kyi does nothing about the rising price of rice or of a bus ride. It does nothing about the intermittent electricity supply, nothing about the limited healthcare and education, nothing about the lack of opportunity to make the most of your talents.

It’s unlikely, but something very extraordinary and unexpected could happen in the next few hours or days; Aung San Suu Kyi is someone very extraordinary. If she has it in her to take to the streets and can have the impact she had in 1988 anything might be possible. But it will take a hell of a lot to shift the (now elected, haha) China-backed military government and I wouldn’t hold your breath.

I’m hoping that people don’t see today’s great news, as a problem solved and that there’s nothing more to do, because this is not a Mandela moment, this is not a short walk to freedom.  There’s a long way further still to go.

Bono knows that.

Somewhere in Bulcote

All good things come to an end (hopefully a temporary one) and the journey back to the ranch went pretty much without a hitch.

Back at that ranch spring has sprung and the grass in the garden is tall beyond the reach of the mower.  So I went boating.

If you’re new to the site then below you will find a string of stories about my recent trip to Myanmar. With more to follow.

I hope you find some of it worth the read.

1. Taking it as red

This afternoon I took a motorcycle over to Siam Square where normally you can while away hours in some of the finest shopping centres you’ll ever come across. When Nottingham’s Broadmarsh Centre sells Lamborghinis and Ferraris on its fourth floor I’ll start to believe in the top five retail destination. In the meantime let’s just settle for saying that Bangkok has even better shopping than Nottingham. Normally. This week the Siam Discovery Centre (which used to be great), the Siam Paragon Centre which put it in the shade, (such a modest name. Will it be bettered? Can it be bettered? Siam Nirvana Centre?), a bunch of other shopping centres and lots of restaurants and other businesses are closed because, as you will have seen on TV (though obviously not since GB called that bigoted Rochdale woman a bigot), the red shirted supporters of that nice Mr Shinawhatsit – who got a mention in post one all those weeks ago – shifted camp following the exchange of blows with the army and police that killed 25 plus and injured many more. Their occupation of the commercial retail centre of the city is very sizeable, there are a lot of people there making a lot of noise and there are no signs of the security forces (they are elsewhere where yesterday’s – rain interrupted – clashes and stand-off took place).

The Lamborghini and Ferrari (and Paul Smith) shops are all shut. Sorry folks, no glitzy gifts upon my return this time. According to the Bangkok post businesses are losing more than a billion Bhat a day. A couple of months of this and they will have lost as much as Thaksin had seized as ill-gotten – and about which all the fuss really.

That the FCO should issue a travel advisory saying to avoid all but essential travel to anywhere in Thailand is bonkers. Like saying avoid all of the UK because Covent Garden has been taken over and shut-down by a bunch of folks from the sticks threatening violence and Civil War with sticks (Countryside Alliance anyone?) if they don’t get their man back. That kind of advice scares the horses and sends foxes running when they really need not. (Tally Ho!). OK the pack did kick off right by Kao San Road in mid April so I can understand Middle Class Mum and Dad urging their little chickens to get out of town, but it’s a damned big town and life in most of it goes on pretty much as normal. Right now I can hear some guy in the bar next door knocking out ‘You’re so vain’ so all in the world must be well enough. To see the Kao San Road area with only ten to twenty percent of its normal numbers is interestingly weird but not interesting enough to write about at any length. Wannabe super-shoppers, road users and the business community, particularly any relying on tourists, are getting more and more pissed off with the Red Shirts. Why don’t they just go home? Before they get hurt. Which they will. Thailand’s government is no more elected than Myanmar’s; it too kills civilians.

I wonder where have all the (often-self-defined-adventure)-seeking backpackers gone at the first sign of trouble? I bet there are few beds to be had ‘on the islands’. That will have been a very Full Moon Party last night, or the night before. Or have they transferred their rabble rousing to Pub Street (no really) in Siem Riep (where Angkor Wat is, Cambodia)? . Or are they floating-stoners making their way down the Mekong on inner tubes at Vang Vieng (Laos)? Wherever they are they are being missed here.

2. Ping Pong not Pat Pong.

I met Jessica on the bus from the airport this morning. She had been on the plane from Yangon but we only spoke on the bus. Did she have a good time in Myanmar? Yes she did; she got married. Her husband was one of Myanmar’s leading table tennis players when three of them defected during a tournament in the USA. One of them was a soldier so political asylum came easy enough. Like so many immigrants to the US getting residency was harder. He’s sorted for citizenship now.

To get to his own wedding in Mandalay he had to enter and leave Myanmar illegally crossing a river to and from Thailand in the south, easing his path with ‘gifts’ along the way – including at one point ping-pong lessons. Yesterday he left Yangon at 11am and was in Bangkok only 18 hours later. I think it would take longer doing it the legal way.

His Mum lives close to the Hotel that’s my residence-de-choix in Mandalay. Jessica stayed there at the same time as me during water festival but we did not see each other before today. Maybe we’ll meet up another time we’re all in Mandalay; for sure we’ll all be going back.

Ping Pong might be a minor league sport but it gave one guy (with an out-sized head apparently) the chink of opportunity he needed to get out of Myanmar and get on with his life (and if he wants to get up at 8 every Sunday to go to the pub to support Liverpool that’s his funeral). Now Jessica and her new husband live in Miami and I wish them all the very best in their life together. Nice lady.

* The name of a sport has been changed to protect the innocent.

There is still much to say about this trip, so many reflections upon the state of the nation, its government, its religion(s) and its people.

There is news of the reappearance of the fortune-teller’s daughter, Te Yew, and of her new plans to become a fluent English speaker.  There is the story of my earlier meeting with the fortune teller himself (I’ve been saving that one, it will benefit from some crafting).  Because I think she’s worth it there’s the brief tale of my brief meeting during my brief return to the beach with a L’Oreal lady (the sea was, impossibly, even warmer).

There is an idea for how something might be done (by me, with your help if you’re so motivated) to give just a few opportunity-starved young(ish) people here a leg-up in life.

But all that will have to wait a day or two.

It’s 10pm Yangon time and I’ll be in Bangkok for breakfast.  It looks like there is some kind of something going on there that might be worth a look – whatever the FCO travel advisory says (does that invalidate my insurance I wonder?).

All that remains is to pack my bags and see if I can’t muster the energy to watch the special one put another one over Barcelona.

It’s been a special one.  I’ve enjoyed writing this stuff.  You’ve been reading; thanks indeed.  Do come back for the more that will appear here soon.

So … let’s get back to Mandalay and the motorcycle-madness of the Thingyan water festival and Buddhist New Year.

You’ll probably have heard about the Palio horse racing in Siena, the festival of burning things in St Sebastien (?), the running of the bulls in Pamplona, that messy tomato throwing weekend somehwere else in Spain.  You might know of Glastonbury, Burning Man, Lake of Stars and Exit. But any idea about what’s involved in Mandalay’s Thingyan.  No?  Well I’d put it up there with that other lot.  You’ve not got the set until you’ve been to this one.

Thingyan is the Myanmar version of Songkran (Thailand) etc celebrated all over SE Asia.  In Myanmar the festival takes place all over the country and all over every part of every the country.  Once upon a time it was probably a pretty sedate affair involving gentle pouring of water – careful not to get the hair wet – over each other.  People gather on the roadside outside their homes to soak any passers by in a ritual which – allegedly – washes away the sins.  People are keen to be soaked.  They stop walking or their car in order to be soaked.  You spend the whole day soaked.  There is no saying no and no not getting soaked.  Riding your motorcycle will just mean getting soaked with water thrown at you that hits at 40kph plus with a stinging slap across the face and neck if the aim was good or water that is hose-piped at you.  It goes on for four days.  Non-stop until nightfall.  If you do not submit to it you will just be annoyed by it.  You have to submit to it.  You can’t beat them; you have to join them.

Away from residential districts there are major destination sites – Kandawgii Park and Inwa Road in Yangon, Mandalay palace in Mandalay.  The done thing has been to hire a car or pick-up to drive around the palace walls and moat and get wet in.  Water pouring into the car wet.  No caring how wet wet. (So wet it’s not really for taking pictures wet.) The palace moat is two kilometres by two kilometres square and full of water.  The arrival of the petrol-powered pump has raised the game in terms of the amount of water one person can shift onto others and the pandel (stages) from which water was traditionally thrown onto a passing crowd have become bigger and bigger as the numbers willing to pay-to-spray go up. Over the four days most of the (not very clean)water from the moat is transferred form the moat to the street – where it can be calf deep – into cars and onto people.

Now the newly arrived motorcycle has added another dimension.  The orderly procession of four-wheel vehicles has been swamped by bikes driven mainly by the new younger generation that’s so very apparent in Mandalay.  It’s gridlock at times.  Gangs of (good-natured) kids sweep around town, many dressed in the new uniform of non-conformity, the punk-lite / emo kid fashion choice du jour.  Others stake it more seriously.  Punk’s not dead apparently.  There’s a lot of alcohol about (and who knows what else?) and road-rules are suspended for four days (only two allowed on a bike normally – four or more a common sight during Thingyan).  Imagine if a muddy Glastonbury were to ‘benefit’ from the addition of a motorcycle for every tent.

Millions of people take part in Thingyan in Mandalay every day.  I joined in to the full. I took my bike around the palace several times.  I stood in the sweltering (rave-like heat, outdoors) evening crowds to watch the bands and dancing. I risked riding around after dark among so many light-less vehicles, riden by drunk kids.  And on day three and four I joined my friend Htun Htike, his girlfriend Su and their friends form the PES monastery English class (and Evanna and Patrick) at our very own pandel from where we belted out the latest tunes and, constantly supplied by pump, threw water in the faces, through the car windows, into the buses over children and old ladies, at whatever, whoever passed by on 62nd street.  We behaved like nine year olds.  For about four hours.  I can’t remember having so much fun.

Some readers – hello Mum – might think some of the above sounds a bit dangerous.  Maybe.  But in what must have put a bit of a dampener (haha) on celebrations in Yangon’s Kandawgii Park three (small but deadly) bombs were exploded in the midst of a crowd in front of one of the major stages (it was in the UK papers).  Nine or more people were killed, 70-plus were wounded. Moe Naing had been there five minutes before. No-one claimed responsibility; no-one ever does (though it has been a few years since the last ones).

I’ll be in Yangon for another week.  And avoiding crowded places.