YANGON // Before arriving in Myanmar, I did what any lazy traveller does and queried Google for “things to do in Yangon”. The results were worrying: either I was going to be looking at a lot of pagodas, shrines and Buddhist temples or I was going to have to find new ways to know the city. Having exhausted two days wandering around the ancient ruins of Bagan, I knew which of the two options was for me -- and it didn’t involve temples. Fortunately, with the help of a Yangon-based Singaporean friend who works for an internet start-up called work.com.mm and who was hospitable enough to let me sleep on her sofa, I was able to learn some of the city's secrets. Here's the alternative guide. 1. Watch locals play 'Chinlone' I read a lengthy article on my flight about Myanmar and the traditional Burmese sport of chinlone, which is a mixture of hacky sack and football freestyling. It involves a ball made from bamboo cane, can be played by anybody and everybody, requires immense amounts of talent and there is no winner. For a demonstration by some guys who would put Cristiano Ronaldo to shame, try this. One of the best places to catch a local game is at the docks close to Bahatoung Pagoda. Head down just before sunset and you’ll witness everybody from monks to construction workers to Burmese businessmen hiking up their longyis and laying down some impressive skills. 2. Browse art at Pansodan Scene If you wander down the bustling Pansodan Street until you get close to Maha Bandula Road, you might just find one of the city’s most creative hubs. I say ‘might’ because, such is the lack of signage, the chances are you’ll walk right past. It’s upstairs at No144 and for the eagle-eyed, there is a small chalkboard on the street outside. Inside, when I visited at least, was a hive of activity with artworks, music and video production all going on simultaneously. Order a coffee, browse the walls and try not to blow your holiday budget with a spontaneous purchase. If you manage all three, you will have done better than me. 3. Eat Myanmar Hand-Noodles Anyone who knows me even a little will be aware that when it comes to sampling strange local dishes, I’m always game. Every morning in Yangon, the streets are peppered with weather-beaten women selling bowls of cold but spicy noodles. The women throw the noodles and a plethora of mystery powders and oils into a bowl and mix it all up using only their bare hands. No wooden spoons, no disposable plastic gloves, no health and safety measures. Once finished, she dips her hands into a bucket of murky water, dries them on an old rag and prepares her next bowl. It’s not pleasant to watch — but they are surprisingly pleasant to eat. And, incredibly, no after-effects. 4. Train 'Lethwei' at Thut Ti gym This place really deserves a blog post all of its own, or better yet a four-page spread in a magazine (Hey editors: contact me here). Located on a dark street on the outskirts of town and behind a corrugated iron fence sits Thut Ti gym — which is less of a gym and more of a rundown garden with a homemade boxing ring, some apparatus reminiscent of medieval torture and a swarm of mosquitoes. Here on the concrete, Lone Chaw — a legend of Burmese boxing — trains locals and clued-up foreigners in the art of lethwei, a combat sport similar to Muay Thai, but involving bare-knuckles and headbutts. Sign up for an hour-long session and prepare for pain. 5. Chew on a Betel Nut A controversial inclusion on this list, the mind-altering betel nut is omnipresent in Yangon. Made and sold on the street by independent vendors, it provides a quick high equivalent to six cups of coffee. It is also addictive, carcinogenic and ruins your teeth. First a betel leaf is painted with slaked lime, a white liquid that looks like icing sugar but is actually a bleaching powder most commonly found in plasters and cements. Next, some perfumed tobacco is sprinkled on and the chopped nut is added. Everything is then wrapped up in the leaf and chewed vigorously, but not swallowed. If you want to do as the locals do, you should then spit your blood-red saliva on the road, leaving an ugly stain on the pavement. 6. Slurp Mojitos in China Town Visit 19th Street on any given evening and you will find a narrow, smokey alley filled with local people sat in plastic seats enjoying cheap and cheerful food. All manner of meats, fish, noodles, tofu and vegetables are available and when I visited, every restaurant was thronging. There is one, however, that famously offers 800 kyat ($0.60) mojitos — although they deliver to any of the establishments on the street. If you’re feeling particularly brave, or have built up some mojito-infused Dutch courage, you could also try crunching on a fried grasshopper, a common snack among Yangon citizens. 7. Dance with the locals at Club Pioneer Wandering around Yangon is a bit like going back in time. The city is largely unpolluted by western consumerism, the people are still curious of foreigners, and everyone appears to be conservative, respectful and in bed by the time the country’s 11pm curfew arrives. In many ways it is the direct opposite of its Thai neighbour, Bangkok. At least that’s what I thought before I visited Club Pioneer. Attached to a hotel and thus immune to the curfew, the nightclub is a symbol for a modern Myanmar: Young men with spiky haircuts dance to blaring beats while local women in tiny skirts and high heels stand on the sides. A genuine eye-opener. 8. Visit Shwedagon Pagoda OK, so I said I wasn’t visiting any more temples or pagodas, but you cannot come to Yangon and not go to Shwedagon. The 110-metre golden stupa seems to be visible from almost anywhere in the city, which is probably courtesy of a governmental law forbidding nearby buildings from being taller than their most sacred structure. The pagoda itself is covered in hundreds of gold plates and the tip is encrusted with more than 4,000 diamonds. The main temple is also surrounded by hundreds of gold stupas and statues. Local citizens display impressive devotion by visiting regularly, although a cynic might suggest the lure of free-wifi is an additional incentive. ISWAS.
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YANGON // Having managed only a few hours of sleep before catching Air Asia’s red-eye flight from Bangkok to Yangon, and then immediately taking an 10-hour bus north to Bagan, much of my first day in Myanmar (formerly Burma) passed in a haze appropriated more to sleep deprivation than the common Asian issues of smog, fog or Sumatran smoke. Three of my initial, eternal impressions can be found below:
...Post-ScriptYANGON // It’s been six days since I arrived in Myanmar, so I now feel better positioned to comment on the place and whether my initial impressions were accurate insights. Certainly the longyi continues to look like a bath towel and the billboards for Coca-Cola and Ooredoo remain positioned along the roadside. The traffic, however, may not be quite as bad as first thought.
Yes, the roads are busy and the city could benefit from a few extra lanes, but ironically sorting out the pavements would likely have a more positive effect on traffic flow. As it stands, it is arguably safer — not to mention easier — to walk on the road than it is to walk along the pavement. Sure, such actions add to the traffic, but it also saves the local hospital from what would otherwise undoubtedly be a conveyor belt of broken ankles, legs, wrists and arms. Do you remember the 1980s video game Paperboy? The sidewalk is like a real-life version, complete with open sewers, mangy dogs and wet cement just waiting to catch you out. Yesterday, I had to duck and jump simultaneously in order to avoid a low-hanging electrical cable and a deep, dark pothole. My friend Lynette has lived in Yangon for six weeks and works for an internet-based start-up called work.com.mm, which is aiming to make it easier for Myanmar's youths to find jobs. When I first arrived she spoke about how much of the Myanmar population don’t understand the internet; they think Facebook is the internet. “Ask them to search for something and they search on Facebook,” she said. I was dismissive of such a claim until, having bought a painting from a local gallery, the curator asked for my email address. I provided a Yahoo account to which she then asked whether it would work with gmail. I said it would and so, to clarify, she repeated my email address but switched the @yahoo.co.uk for @gmail.com, inventing for me an entirely new address. There are several examples of such misunderstandings; of a population that is running before properly grasping how to walk; a society that has fast-forwarded two decades in the space of two years. As recently as 2010, foreigners had to physically leave the country in order to withdraw money because there were no ATMs and not too many years earlier it was prohibited to even publish the word 'internet'. Nowadays, the internet and money are here, construction work is omnipresent and local establishments are trying to meet western expectations -- sometimes too much so. The other day I went to a dirty old tea house that had brand new urinal cakes in the gents. Not only that, but the cleaner had put a urinal cake in the sink too. ISWAS. So, after almost a year without blogging, I figured now might be a good time to return. I am in Thailand having signed up for a month of intense muay Thai training in a town called Khao Lak, located an hour or so north of Phuket. I train once in the morning from 7.30-9.30am and again from 4-6pm. The rest of the day I am free to do as I choose - which, today at least, is write a blog. KHAO LAK // Darkness has fallen by the time I arrive at Rawai Muay Thai, my home for the next five weeks. I chose this particular camp after reading a series of unanimously positive reviews. The camp was based in Phuket for many years, but forced to relocate in 2012 after the landlord of the gym got greedy. The founder used the opportunity to take his project north, away from the distractions that had sprouted up near to the gym. Khao Lak, a quiet coastal town, is recognised mostly as Thailand's worst-hit area by the Indian Ocean tsunami of 2004. More than 8,000 people died as the village was flooded and flattened, yet the spirit of recovery is strong and Khao Lak has reinvented itself as a retreat for those who want to detox, get fit or train in muay Thai, MMA or Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Of course, with its picture-perfect beaches, it also caters to tourists keen to enjoy the country free from the sleaze and salaciousness of the bigger cities. I am walked through a small garden towards my bungalow by a smiling elder, who speaks no English. The apartment is large and clean and, with a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living area, far better than you would expect for 15,000 Baht ($450) per month. Financially, this is the middle option of the three Rawai offer: dormitory, private-with-fan or private-with-AC. I'd been hoping a staff member would be around to brief me before I went to sleep, but the reception is closed. Whether it is a fortunate oversight or a clever way to force you to speak to other people, the result is I get chatting to Michael and Robbie, two guys who have been training here for the past few weeks. They are sharing a beer -- and swatting bugs -- at the side of the communal pool. As well as a general overview of what time to wake, where to go and what to expect, the advice that stands out most proves to be this: Never hit a punchbag without checking it first -- some are filled with what feels like concrete. I am up at 7am and waiting by the shop when it opens at 7.15am. Inside, I purchase gloves, wraps, shinguards and a large bottle of water. Total bill: 2,750 Baht. There's a lovely crispness in the air as the first class starts with skipping, which is not as easy as I remember it being. I feel like a prize tit as the plastic rope continually hits my toes and I wince in pain. Hopefully they toughen up as the month progresses. After a rigorous stretch, I'm paired up with a trainer called Loon, who is looking after all the beginners. As I am the only one, essentially it's a one-on-one session. Ideal. After showing me how to wrap my hands, he runs me through some of the moves: jab, punch, hook, uppercut, elbow, knee, kick and tat mala, which is a kind of upswinging-elbow that has the intention, to paraphrase Mobb Deep, of stabbing your brain with your nose bone. Worryingly, I find myself dropping my guard more often as the session runs on, but I feel like I'm doing OK. I'm not particularly flexible and struggle to get my legs up in a balanced way. I also can't kick with my left without looking like a geriatric trying to climb into a high bed. By the end, there is not a single dry patch on my grey t-shirt. Perhaps that's why I am the only one wearing a top from the 20 or so guys training here: Two sessions a day, six days a week means a lot of sweaty t-shirts. There are also more six-packs than a well-stocked off-licence and I'm seemingly the only guy who doesn't shave his entire body. My t-shirt will be staying on for the foreseeable future. In the afternoon session, Loon teaches me a few defensive moves and also has me kicking his mitts full force before sending me to a bag to practise. "No worry too much about power," he says. "Focus technique." The bag he sends me to is rock hard. Not quite concrete, but not far off it -- maybe setting concrete. I give it a few punches (with gloves on) and a couple of gentle kicks and conclude I couldn't hit it powerfully even if I wanted to. My feet feel bruised already, despite my kicks being about as vicious as the frogs that hop pleasantly in the grass outside. Next to me is a little guy of maybe eight or nine years old. He is pummelling his bag, which is presumably a lot softer than mine. The kid, wearing nothing but a shiny pair of red muay Thai shorts and some gloves, has an enviable eight-pack -- not like a skinny kid with a flat stomach, but a properly toned, sculpted midriff. He stands, straight-faced, focusing quietly only on his bag before erupting with an almighty, ferocious kick. He does this over and over and over. I have no doubt he could pulverise me let alone my 13-year-old cousin with whom I immediately compare him. At one point, as the kid is stepping back to position himself for a left kick, I am stepping back for a right "kick" and we lightly touch. He turns around and smiles for the first time. It is a smile so innocent and genuine that it could light up the whole gym at midnight. Suddenly he is just a little boy again; the kind of kid who might wave at you as you drive past him on your moped. A second later, he is back aggressively thrashing his bag. When the two hours are up my hands are wrinkled from the moisture in the afternoon air mixed with the heat of the gloves. I feel shattered, my knees and feet are swollen red and I need my third shower of the day. I'm instructed to do a few press-ups, which I just about manage, and we do another rigorous warm-down before lining up to thank the trainers in Thai ("kob khun krap"). On my way out, my curiosity gets the better of me. I give the kid's bag a gentle prod with my fingers to see just how much softer his is. It feels like a brick. His concrete has set. ISWAS |
Gary MeenaghanSports scribbler. Pedant with prose. Alliteration addict. Omnivore. Archives
July 2016
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