Who cares about Myanmar?

by Vivian Chan (Singapore)

I didn't expect to find Myanmar

Turn on the TV, and Myanmar sounds like news flashes of Kachin civilians being displaced and housed in camps. It looks like 900,000 Rohingya Muslims fleeing their home, children in tow, with nothing but clothes on their back. It presents Aung San Suu Kyi’s composed indifference which masks layers of unsolved political tension with the junta as the weary years go by. But the Myanmar I know is home to bustling cities in Yangon and Mandalay, and vast desert plains dotted with hot air balloons in Bagan. It’s an alpine floral town at Pyin Oo Lwin, and a hidden enclave with deep rivers and cascading waterfalls in north Lashio. “How long are you in Myanmar for? If you’re traveling around, stay away from the coastal areas, and the North. They’re still fighting there.” The hostel receptionist chimed in. “Fighting? Who? We’re not affected, right?” I asked. “Yeah, you’re safe here,” he replied, as if war was as normal as a season of rain or just another Christmas. Previously so closed off to the world, it’s no wonder that Myanmar has built up its own reputation of mystery, inviting a 40% increase in travellers from just Asian countries in 2019 — all here in search of rugged adventure. The people of Myanmar are culturally diverse — a 54-million population, with 68% belonging to the majority Bamar group. However, with only eight recognised national ethnic races, minority groups such as the Rohingya and Burmese Indians are marginalised, discriminated, and stripped of their national identity. Here, identity defines access to human rights, and the beauty of Myanmar’s diverse people — a traveller’s dream — could be a local’s nightmare. In contrast, home to me is this small, geopolitical sterile country called Singapore. Overly-identified, we’re organised into racial categories, live in apartment boxes, and even park our bikes in yellow boxes — never going out of line with the rulebook. My original reason for visiting Myanmar was to partake in the annual Thingyan Water Festival, a five-day epic fiesta where the whole city shuts down and becomes a massive water fight to celebrate the start of the new year. From dawn, anyone who steps outdoors is pelted with pressure hoses and dunked with buckets of iced water by the cheeky locals. At noon, there’s a truce. We indulge in the festive dessert of Shwe Yin Aye — bread, sticky rice and jellies soaked in coconut milk prepared by the local mothers. As I draw water into my Super Soaker, it hit me how just on the other side of the country, people my age are drawing real guns in Lashio — and it’s not water that’s shot but blood that’s shed. As most are celebrating the new year, others tremble at the uncertainties of the next day. My next stop was the revered Hsinbyume Pagoda; classically painted white and resembling the Buddhist sacred mountain, Mount Meru. Pagodas and temples are a common sight in Myanmar — close to 90% of Burmese are Buddhists. In an ironic twist, there’s rising conflict and military Buddhism that plague the benevolence and compassion the religion represents. Taking out my worn-out Fujifilm, I noticed looks of curiosity from a few local kids. Gesturing them over, I showed them the camera and pressed the shutter. They ran away laughing. I ended my trip with a visit to U Bein, the world’s longest and oldest teak wood bridge. I rode my bike in the dark to the bridge which extends over the ocean’s undisturbed waters just in time for sunrise. Everything’s quiet but the sound of Burma’s Sa-gele Khaley — luck birds. There are few around except monks who tread softly across to make their daily prayers. Beneath the bridge are wet padi fields, and I see shadows of a straw hat bending down, as if in prayer.