Yangon, Myanmar

On the short flight over green forests and small communities, excitement built by the minute. Myanmar and I had a special relationship. For months, I'd been borderline obsessed with researching its history, political system, attractions, and inspirational figures. Friends would comment that although they never had a desire to visit, they felt like they were missing out on the opportunity every time I started ranting and raving about my travel plans.

I did my due diligence to find out that after 26 years of military dictatorship, a less restrictive government had been put in place -- exactly two years ago. Democrats weren't being hauled off to jail for indefinite sentences without trial anymore. Ethnic cleansing and drug operations still occurred, but the Burmese government would never let foreigners near those areas even if the required permits were requested. The country had an image to uphold if they wanted new international investment and trade partners.

Exploring Myanmar a few years after military rule softened had its perks. The country hadn't had time to heal its wounds and I got to experience firsthand what a country recently released from a dictator's hand really looked like. It was also a way to support the country and its people by helping out the local economy. I was aware I was probably an anomaly among human beings.

The flight to Yangon passed with a speed that hardly allowed the flight attendants to sell their snacks and drinks. Stepping into the airport, I couldn't help but notice its modern flair. It was comparable to the one that had just been built in my hometown; although, the lack of people and arriving flights set Yangon's airport apart. As we stood around the steel baggage carousel, my bulky olive backpack was one of the first to arrive. It threatened to pull me down to the ground as I swung it over my shoulder. With a sense of excitement, I waddled off to the gates and thought this must be how turtles feel.

I made it to the young Burmese man holding up a sign for MotherLand 2, the Lonely Planet approved hostel that actually had internet and an e-mail address, rarities in this country in 2013. After the other travellers joined us, we all hopped in a minivan.

We drove through the city center and kept going long past it. People watching entranced me as I could finally put images to all the books I had consumed on this country. My initial fascination grew out of work I did back home with the friendliest and happiest refugees from Myanmar whose love for life inspired me on weekly basis. The students are Karen people of northeast Myanmar who had fled to neighbouring Thailand until they could seek refugee status in Canada. The military regime in their area typically destroyed villages and displaced its residents to plant opium. Yet they still dreamed of going back one day, singing on their way to work in the mountains.

On the streets of Yangon, the traffic moved slowly and vehicles drove on the right side of the road, a change from Thailand. The vehicles were either from the 1980s and earlier before the country banned imports, or newer models from the past two or three years. Steering wheels were mounted on either side of the cars, depending on their country of origin. Buses right out of the eighties still operated and flew down the bumpy streets at high speeds alongside the trishaws, carriage-like carts pulled by hardworking people on bicycles, and the occasional goat pedestrian.

Alongside the traffic, people walked down sidewalks and wore long coloured and patterned cloth skirts tied at the front near the waist. The men tucked their wallets in the back of cloth skirt named the longyi, which I construed as a pickpocket's dream but also a symbol of trust. Some Burmese women and children wore white plant-based paste called Thanaka on their face as sunscreen. The occasional person balanced groceries and other objects in baskets on their head.

Twenty five minutes later, I checked into my room and they showed me to my lovely little bed in the dorms. It was a little cramped, but I didn't want to be picky. I had spent few weeks e-mailing just to find a place with an available bed under US $50. This one even had a heavy wooden drawer under the bed. I pulled it out and tested the semi-functional lock. l would have to rely on a combination of hoarding my valuables and trust in this city.

I settled in as much as a nomad could before getting directions downtown from the friendly woman at the front desk who was a bit surprised I wanted to walk it, especially given that it was midday and at least forty five minutes away. I headed for a market and famous pagoda courtesy of Lonely Planet's advice. Most travellers carried some form of travel guide out here and used it religiously.

For some reason, most likely the fact that reducing clutter in my pack-rat apartment had consumed the past three weeks of my life, I wasn't feeling too inclined to shop at the markets. I continued onward to Shwedagon Pagoda, the city's revered religious monument. The sun beat down on my exposed arms, but each step tasted of freedom from the past ten months of deadlines, stress and responsibility. Here, I was free to do as I pleased and if that meant walking an hour in 40 degree Celsius heat midday, so be it.

A smaller temple just before Shwedagon gleamed gold in the sun. A small bridge and pond separated me from the zedi. I alternated between looking at the turtles in the pond and following a family and two red-robed monks. They noticed my apprehension and waved me forward with a smile. It was sometimes hard to tell what you were able to visit as a tourist or if you were heading for a locals only area.

Although it is near Shwedagon Pagoda, Maha Wizaya Pagoda was built much more recently in the 1980s based on General Ne Win's orders to commemorate the alliance of Theravada Buddhism in Myanmar. 

Inside the temple, I left my shoes with a lady at the front. In the middle of the temple, an intricate forest decor covered the dome ceilings with a light blue undertone. The portraits extended down to the floor where trees grew in pots as well. As I exited the main prayer area, I wandered the indoor circuit of the circular pagoda. There weren't too many tourists around, mostly families and a few young novice monks.

One of the young monks was marveling at the ceiling portraits, causing me to notice their beauty. The Buddha figures had golden auras painted around their heads and knelt on clouds in prayer. With a sense of contentment, I left, paying for the shoe babysitting service, and crossed the bridge to go back to the street. In the pond outside the temple, painted turtles basked in the sunlight.

Next, I went to People's Park with an entrance fee four times the price of a local. The park was fenced off in some areas and other parts of the garden had been replanted. There was a nice lake, but I didn't make it too far before I turned back.

Despite the lack of attractions, the dynamics of the people visiting the park were interesting. Couples hid under the shelter of umbrellas to shield a touch more than sunlight. There was also a lot of romance on the secluded benches and in the bushes between teens or young adult couples. I tried not to be too much of a creep as I walked by alone. It felt like I had a big loner sign stamped on my forehead. I was surprised to see such open affection in a country I imagined being so repressed over the years. Maybe it was the start of a new beginning or the way things had always been.

Big white letters that read 'Love' reflected off a pond while groups of people took their picture in front of it. The park staff broadcast 1990s and early 2000s English pop tracks I recognized on loudspeakers. At one time, the park must have been magnificent, but now it felt a bit like the older vehicles still chugging along on these streets. The greenery just wasn't as tended to and nurtured as it could be. Construction and fenced off area left me questioning the sources of their destruction -- human conflict or natural erosion?

I walked around a few times to justify handing my money over to the Burmese government, something we as tourists had been advised against doing. The area was also surrounded by metal fences, forcing people to enter and leave by a single guard-monitored gate, evidence of the military regime control.

As the sun dropped closer to the horizon, I finally made my way to Shwedagon Pagoda, a large temple covered in gold. It played an important role in Burmese history. Legend had it that two merchants had visited Buddha and received eight of his hairs as a gift. They returned to Myanmar and enshrined them with other relics. The golden temple was built on this spot, Singuttara Hill, 2600 years ago. Archaeologists credit the Mon people for building the temple between the 6th and 10th centuries. It has suffered through earthquakes, cyclones, fires, protests and wars, and has been rebuilt several times. It was even raided by a Portuguese explorer and the British during the Anglo-Burmese wars. I thought it similar to the spirit of the people of Myanmar that I've met, still strong despite hardships.

At the bottom of the escalators to the temple, we were given plastic bags for our shoes. It is customary to remove one's shoes at a temple, hence the bag. It was quite shocking to incorporate escalators into the historical religious monument, but to each their own. With the presence of fancy gold-painted pillars, it was like ascending to a modern palace.

I paid an entrance fee at the top since I was a foreigner. With blonde hair, blue eyes and relatively pale skin, I was clearly not going to be able to walk around unnoticed. Once I paid, I received a little sticker and every worker scrutinized my clothes and bag from afar until they found it. This was more cash dropped into the hands of the government. Tourists were still advised to avoid doing this; although, it was a necessary evil in these cases. The government still wasn't entirely for the people.

Every corner of the 325-foot pagoda and surrounding structures bustled with Burmese and foreigners walking the circuit or resting on a ledge. I joined action with my camera at the ready. Gold gleamed in the sunlight from the main pagoda to the smaller adjacent ones. There were four indicating the cardinal directions, four more medium ones for the four corners of the plinth and 60 smaller ones. Emerald undertones peaked out from behind the gold trimmings on the roofs and in the statues. 

Flags hung from another small golden structure to the surrounding rectangular areas of worship, which housed large Buddha statues, some with their palms held up or extended. As was the custom at most temples, flowers, wreaths, candles and other offerings had been placed on tables by a few merchants. Others would take water flowing freely from the tap and pour it over Buddha statues.

After completing half the path and feeling the dizziness induced from hours of walking in this heat, I found a little water area with communal cups attached by a strong coiled wire. Had people stealing cups really been such a concern at the temple? The water came from commercial coolers, which was typically a sign it could be drunk without too much fear of sickness. I put a bit in my water bottle and continued on my slow wander.

The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in warm colours. Artificial lights clicked on to illuminate the golden pagoda. Locals knelt down with long wooden matches to light candles at the base of the stupa. Afterwards, they dipped their bodies, arms and heads to the ground in prayer while the flames swayed lightly in the soft breeze.

While the sunset provided a great show, it also signaled the arrival of nightfall in a country I had just arrived in this morning. I descended the temple stairs, without escalators this time, in hopes of finding food vendors or restaurants, but all I found was a solo cab ride home.

Supper was an almost sweet lemon chicken dish with thick noodles at the hostel. I didn't particularly like eating at hostels or hotels on principal. It took away the opportunity to support the economy of the whole country and usually the food was less authentic -- made to fit Western tastes.

At this point, I was too tired and it was too dark for me to be bothered. I wasn't about to start wandering the streets alone, after sunset, just to have something 'authentic'. You could call me paranoid, but I was not about to give natural selection the opportunity to have a go at me tonight over tasty noodles and fish sauce.

Afterwards, I retreated to the dorm exhausted and exchanged some travel tips with a man from California who had come back from the Burmese cities of Bagan and Mandalay. They sounded like great places to visit, brimming with ancient temples and culture. Once he learned where I was from, he was shocked I had never been to the northern part of my province to see polar bears. That was a rich tourist's game. Based on the ten-dollar dorm I had chosen to stay in, it clearly wasn't my style to throw my money away.

I snuggled into my bed with a smile. Time for some sleep that wouldn't be disturbed by a cell phone alarm clock.