Burma: Day 1, Yangon

Istanbul was Constantinople. Now it’s Istanbul. Not Constantinople. Continue singing They Might Be Giants in your head while I tell you about another little spot on the planet that lost its name.

I landed in Yangon, Myanmar’s largest city, at 9pm last night. The country of Myanmar was once called Burma. Her largest metropolis was once named Rangoon. 

When the Christians wanted to convert those furry, Pan-worshipping animists of the forest into tax-paying, Polo-shirt-wearing Christians, they actually chose December 25^th as Jesus’ birthday. Why? Because one method of converting a group to different way of life is by easing them into it. If they already party on December 25^th, it’s easier to let them keep partying and just substitute in a new cause. If you don’t believe me, look into it. The North Star is only visible in late summer in the Middle East, and most records point to the fact that Christ was more likely a Leo or a Virgo on the Zodiac calendar. I’m willing to bet Mary Magdalene was a Scorpio, but that’s another discussion for another blog.

Anywho … the other way of bending an established society to your fanatical whims is to pour bleach on their national identity, wipe the dry erase board of history clean and start fresh. This method usually brings with it a not-so-fresh feeling. In this instance, you take a country and tell everyone it’s no longer called Burma. You kill anyone that argues otherwise.

I woke up at 6:30 am this morning and went wandering on the streets of Yangon. Sweaty and curious, I ventured down her back alleys and snuck a peek up her proverbial tribal skirt. Know what I think 20 hours later? This town is still Rangoon in its heart. And Rangoon is still located firmly in a soul called Burma.

Myanmar? Myanmar sounds like the name of an antibiotic you give a kid for swimmer’s ear.

Burma, however, is the name you give a dark-skinned beldame, with ample breasts and a voice like Etta James. Half in shadow and half in light, with the smoke from some chap’s cheroot curling lazily around her face, she stands at a microphone … just waiting for someone to turn the power back on so she can sing again.

This place has been wrapped up and locked down for decades, and it definitely shows. Want to place a long distance phone call? Stop by a rickety table out on the street and use the old rotary phones hooked into the jumble of power lines that sag too low to limbo beneath. I kid you not, they still sell cassette tapes on the street here. There are no ATMS for Western banks and when you want to swap American dollars for Burmese Kyat, you follow a teenage boy to a dark corner behind a trashcan and quickly do your business for the decided upon rate of exchange. 

Buses and cars from the 1970s putter along, back firing with the same frequency that the locals spit. Everyone chews betel nut here. Everyone. EVERYONE. It’s masticated with such fervor and sent flying with such gusto, the sidewalk is covered in puddles of what looks like bloodied spit. Point-in-case, I walked out this morning and screamed because I thought someone had been murdered outside my guesthouse.

Nope, no axe murder. Just betel nut. And thanks to it, there are very few teeth in Burmese mouths. Those that remain are nub-shaped and permanently purple. 

In spite of the troubles she’s faced and the ones still in sight, Burma’s jovial, gregarious, lively and fun. Yangon just might have won me over today and earned the title as my favorite city in the world.

I’m going to post more concrete travel suggestions for anyone headed over in the future in my next blog post as well as a full Photo Post, but it’s 1 am and I’m sleepy so it will have to wait. Although, just to convey how vibrant and alive this city is visually, I refrained from doing any editing on these photos. None have been altered in any way in terms of saturation or original color. I know, I know … it’s blowing my mind too.