Yangon, Myanmar

Yangon was one of those cities I stayed in just a little too long. Its cozy nature lured me to sit in tea shops, ordering hearty and spicy noodle breakfasts at lunchtime and sipping teas so sweet they could induce diabetes. 

I wandered for hours to find out that random national holidays rendered my long walks to museums useless, only to turn around, open up a map and venture on. My only requirements were water and food. I saw the infamous Burmese ATMs, which were popping up like fast food joints in North America. Okay, I saw three or four, but they were supposed to be rare in the country according to guidebooks and the blog-sphere.

From my observations, Myanmar was a land of contradictions. On the street corners, women and men sat next to fold-up tables with telephones at least two decades old, acting as portable phone booths. Even the rotary dial telephones, which used to be so fun to use but a pain if redialing was necessary, made an appearance. On the other hand, kids stopped and occasionally asked to snap photos of me with their brand new cell phones.

At mall entrances, security searched Burmese people while a foreigner walked right in with just a smile. In downtown Myanmar, young monk beggars approached foreigners for donations because they knew it was a high traffic area for tourists. I guiltily gave to the first one, but to the subsequent five, I simply smiled and apologized, trying to keep to my budget.

The contradictions even applied to major political aspects. The former twenty-year socialist leader who won Burma the title of Least Developed Country and severely restricted the freedoms of their people, Ne Win, and the Nobel Peace Prize winner who spent over a decade under house arrest, Aung San Suu Kyi, both had homes on the same urban lake.

Four days into my trip, I still stayed in Yangon. Even my Malaysian dorm mate, suffering from food poisoning, was surprised that I had stuck around this long. Today was another Myanmar holiday, which meant no buses available. My grandmother and mother always believed everything happened for a reason. At this moment, the events I couldn't control actually worked out in my favour.

While travelling, some people were easy to connect and others made me happy I chose to travel alone. The same questions become the stock conversation with travellers.

"Where are you from?

How long have you been travelling?

Where else have you been?

Where are you going next?"

Travellers were bodies in constant motion so these questions fit quite well. If somewhere in these answers I picked up a vibe we may share similar interests, I would consider joining them for an indeterminate amount of time. As a naturally shy person, the thought of asking a complete stranger out for drinks twisted my stomach into a few knots. Occasionally, my desire not to come off as a clingy psycho made me somewhat antisocial.

My first morning in Yangon, I had picked up my breakfast at the counter from the cheerful teen waiters. A quick look around confirmed not a single table was open. There were plenty of available seats at tables already occupied by others, so I thought, it was time to make new friends and be spontaneous.

I had picked a table with a man a few years, or possibly a decade, older than myself who was eating some toast. We got to talking and I found out this man, Mariano, was from Sicily in Italy and he would be travelling around Myanmar for the next two weeks before exploring Thailand and Vietnam. He had quit his job as a photojournalist to journey out here. I couldn't help but be quite envious that he used to get paid money for his photography. He curiously took a small helping of my Burmese style breakfast with roti and lentil curry to see if he'd order that the next morning

Breakfast that day met my socialization with strangers quota, minus chatting with the friendly restaurant boys who were no longer strangers, so Mariano and I went our separate ways. Living in Asia had caused me to develop a bad habit of joking back and forth with playful locals like the servers. At least I could practice my Burmese and have fun doing it.

I was generally happy to wander solo because all travellers had their own agendas. But after four days in this country, I opted to be more social. All it took was a quick conversation in the dorms to find someone to connect with. I bit back my fear of asking a person I had met just fifteen minutes prior out for drinks to avoid a lonely trip. Colleen, the Irish newcomer, was pleasant and easy to talk.

Any woman who looked at her life, her job and thought 'this is an opportune moment to drop everything and backpack around the world solo for a year' would be fun to get to know. I could only imagine what a whole year travelling abroad would feel like. I had lived abroad for ten months and counting, but working and travelling were not the same animal. Travelling involved constant adaptations, never staying in one place too long, readjusting to new people all the time. Her laid back style drew me in, not to hyped into the tourist party scene of full moon parties, but still enough of an edge to still have fun. I could see how she had already pulled off three months on her own.

Colleen and I went for beers on the hostel patio. Shortly after, we joined another Irish traveller, Bryan, and two German women who were also staying at the guesthouse. Bryan travelled alone by principle despite having others like his girlfriend to travel with. He advocated that nothing compared to the people you met on your own as well as the ability to come in go from a group at will when others might be poor travel companions. His points resonated with me; although, I pitied the poor girlfriend he refused to travel with on principle. As much as I loved the women I had travelled with in the past during my time living in Thailand, sometimes our interests hadn't always lined up and we had found ourselves disappointed.

Partway through our conversation, I made my way over to the drink counter in the restaurant. Apparently, I had been enough of a loner that the Burmese restaurant boys were excited for me when I ordered two beers, one for myself and another for Colleen. First, they joked that I was a bit of an alcoholic, which wasn't too far-fetched at the time.

"For your friend?" asked the grinning waiter.

"Sure."

"Boyfriend?" he asked raising his eyebrows.

I laughed and shook my head. Single life was far less complicated. I always seemed to have one foot out the door regardless of the travel bug.

We spent the next day biking around town as a small pack, brought together by patio beers, led by Bryan. As others hadn't stayed in Yangon as long as I, they chose to visit Shwedagon first. I had done everything I wanted in this city already so following was an easy enough choice.

Once they went inside, I began to walk outside the pagoda to find a nice place to sketch and pass the time. Yes, I had been so hard-pressed to adapt to tourist life that I had thought of trying out a new hobby instead. The previous day, I had searched for a sketch pad and drawing pencils at the mall.

I descended the stairs that would allow me to capture Shwedagon Pagoda at the perfect angle. I decided a photograph would be nice to compare to the sketch I had yet to begin. I was switching camera lenses while walking. Typically, I could change these lenses competently enough. However, as I juggled my backpack, camera, camera bag and sketching materials, something had to give, and that something was my new fixed lens. It tumbled toward the bushes and landed with a heartbreaking crack on the cement steps.

My stomach dropped with the smash of a three-month-old, $400 lens. I had already sent a lens home to Canada earlier in the year due to humidity wreaking havoc on the sensors, hoping the warranty would treat me right. This time, the lens abuse was in hopes of completing a sketch that would probably more closely resemble a jester's hat than a pagoda (it actually turned out rather well in the end, if I'm honest). But like most of my luck to date, it was good and the camera still functioned. Cheers to lens filters!

In the afternoon, we did some tea shop hopping from the classy British historic hotel lounge, where we clearly didn't belong, to the outdoor stop with plastic chairs and wooden tables under the shelter of a tent. My inner Burmese history buff rejoiced when I saw the small flag of the National Democratic Party hanging freely from the tent roof. People had been arrested and imprisoned a few years prior for showing their support or even having family members support Aung San Suu Kyi's party. But presently, they were free to do so in the open.

With nothing else to do after returning the bikes and under the influence of two Irish comrades, we went for some afternoon beers. The streets near our hostel didn't boast modern buildings or host old British colonial-era architecture. We walked down the streets where the road couldn't commit to one level or material. We looked onto this area where people dumped buckets of mystery liquid out of their faded, mold coated apartment windows. On our ride out this morning, we had watched goats and chickens cross the street beside the rickshaws.

People chewed betel leaves, a plant that stained teeth red or brown if used for long periods of time. Betel chewers were easy to spot based on their stained smiles. This also meant red stains painted the pavement and gravel. The monks at this end of town were legitimately confused when foreigners gave them money because they weren't part of the tourist traps. In the end, they did accept it.

The outdoor restaurant where the three of us sat had been built near train tracks. When the train came, a small Burmese man came running out to swing the railroad divider into place and wave a green flag to the conductor. It was such a scene from the past that it warmed my heart. Bryan and I ran off with cameras to capture this moment. The women in the restaurant had fits of laughter while they watched us, engaged in our touristic acts. It was great we could entertain each other out here.