Yangon 2020

I couldn’t wait to land. 

It was only going to be a tidy check mark on my Indochina list after Luang Prabang and Phnom Penh, a handy way to burn some of those pending days off. But a casual Come with, then during an equally casual conversation turned a standard solo weekend trip into an infinitely more intriguing rendezvous.

Then again, I hardly needed to romanticize.

The sun was setting as I touched down, soft and vivid orange all at once, a cinematic hue that lingered as we inched our way through the city. Traffic was several notches short of chaotic but also not the tranquil experience that the speed with which I’d zipped through the airport had led me to expect.

Finally we pulled up at the lakeside Sedona Hotel. It was a gentle, civilised welcome to Yangon, all fragrant flowers and familiar smiles, already feeling like home.

***

The great advantage of not having an itinerary is that you can do everything and nothing, and not feel frantic about missing out. 

And so we had the luxury of spending hours absorbed in the surprising collections on display at the National Museum.

I remember sitting on the beach all those months ago, learning about my roommate’s faint familial connections to the Konbaung dynasty and Burma’s last monarch, and not quite believing it; now here we were in front of the original Royal Lion Throne itself.

It was the same throne that had been taken to India upon King Thibaw’s defeat and exile by the British in 1885, and later returned by Lord Mountbatten. There seemed to be something a little forlorn about the throne’s solemn majesty, all ablaze though it was in that gold and crimson hall.

The ceremonial regalia was also on display, some of it behind bars and under watchful guard.  Have you ever had the chills when confronted with all the weight of history? I certainly did, impressionable romantic that I am, and the king wasn’t even my royal ancestor.

We also went on the requisite pilgrimage to the Shwedagon Pagoda, taking the long way through the park, walking barefoot between the leogryphs at the western entrance and up a jarringly modern escalator to the graceful gilded stupa, the most sacred one in the country. Buddhist or not, you cannot help but be awed by a display of faith expressed so beautifully, and I found a curious, if ephemeral, sense of peace that afternoon, so akin to the restorative calm of Luang Prabang.

Then there were drinks in the colonial Sarkies Bar at the The Strand Hotel, a century-old landmark by the river. The bar, I find out later, was named after the Sarkies brothers, the hoteliers behind that other icon, the Raffles in Singapore, whose Long Bar I once visited purely on account of its Singapore Sling and Rudyard Kipling (who was also said to frequent The Strand). 

There was dinner at Nova, a sleek brasserie glittering within the hushed interiors of the newly opened Rosewood. The grilled octopus with potato, espuma, olives and artichokes was a marvel and so was the main course – Wet Ther Hinlay Chat, pork belly with all the comforting flavours of turmeric, mixed fruit gravy and shallots. A cheese platter, salmon pastrami, hibiscus tea, Earl Grey ice cream and a Cloudy Bay sauvignon blanc completed the lovely meal with our generous host. (Shoutout to my boss! 😉 )

We also visited a jewelry shop for those Burmese rubies, scoured an antique store for brass frog drums and dancer figurines (found the drums, but no dancers were in evidence), and browsed stacks of books one hot, dusty morning- where we actually found an old tattered copy of a book written by another one of my roommate’s ancestors. And I, fully invested in this royal saga now, came away with two somber titles about the exile of King Thibaw and a lighthearted compilation of palace tales, first printed in the Rangoon Gazette fifteen years after the monarch had departed for India. 

So we managed to see quite a fair bit. But then we also woke up late and lolled about and indulged at breakfast and took naps and generally enjoyed the creature comforts that came with this sort of hotel: room service and wine upon arrival, and chocolates and shots of whiskey and rum delivered daily.

***

Our last day was not so placid, but I managed to enjoy a fortifying bowl of mohinga – that Burmese staple of rice noodles and fish soup – and by sunset we were taking off on our connecting flight home. 

Didn’t visit the markets this time (so unlike me!), but my roommate had very thoughtfully picked up a little silver and ruby keepsake. I have got my books to anchor me to that fleeting sense of place in old Rangoon, and the indelible memories of being with someone discovering a part of their heritage.

As I said, I hardly needed to romanticize.