Visit Burma, a Land Once Loathed and Loved
Visit Burma, a Land Once Loathed and Loved
Dosas in Yangon
Visit Burma. Walk among the overt opulence of pagodas plated in solid gold tiles, crowned with rubies and diamonds, surrounded by visages of Siddhartha of unimaginable value. Jade columns. Marble floors. Gold leaf pasted onto a sitting Buddha until it is so thick that his features are smudged, flakes of yellow richnesses trembling in the gentle breeze that kisses fluttering flags and chiming brass bells. The high heat along the Tropic of Cancer becomes bearable. It’s a quiet escape from the treacherous sidewalks stained red by masticated betel nut, or white and black by pigeon shit.
Dust clouds kicked up by one of the city’s newest birds—the construction crane—coat mildewed colonial buildings. Second-hand buses from Japan and Korea cloak themselves in black smoke, barrel through traffic with brakes and suspension absent, final breaths prolonged by decades. This city is where decommissioned public transportation comes to die.
Flat, stable surfaces to write on are luxuries. For most restaurants, rickety metal frames do the bare minimum to be called tables. If they sit atop a particularly slanted piece of pavement, beer-bottle placement becomes a game of chance. After two or four or six bottles of Myanmar Beer bussed over by staff aged ten or twelve, the game becomes even more difficult.
Most things in Yangon are a little crooked, a little exposed, a little vulnerable.
Have an Indian breakfast in the morning. Hit up Ingyin Nwe in downtown Yangon, where the service is unpretentious and starts at 5 am. Order a masala dosa. It comes with three sides: curried potatoes, vegetable stew, and some manner of spiced tomatoes or beans. It just depends on what the cook decides to make that morning. The metal tray it’s served on makes it look a bit like a school lunch, but who cares? Dig in with your fingers. Before you’re done, a waiter will come by and refill at least two of the three. Wash everything down with a lassi spiked with a little too much simple syrup (I ask them to cut half of it). The entire spread is only a buck sixty, and you’ll be ready to brave another brutal, grinding day in a land once loathed and loved by Orwell and Kipling.