Shwedagon and the Golden Rock

Friday 17 December - Sunday 19 December

Rangoon is an interesting but tired looking city.  It has only been Myanmar’s capital for a little over 100 years; in fact it became the capital in 1885, when the British completed the conquest of Upper Burma and Mandalay’s brief period as the centre of the last Burmese kingdom ended.  Superficially Rangoon is a pleasant, open city with trees lining the boulevards and green open spaces; but it is also a run down and neglected place with a somewhat seedy air of dirt and decay.  

Rangoon's streets are lined with stalls of all different kinds selling everything from food, clothing, cheap local cigars and books.  Bookstalls seemed to appear everywhere, from the main boulevard to side alleyways and even on the pavements at street corners; a bizarre, random collection of books and magazines, many old (judging by the proliferation of Woman’s Weekly and equally outdated 1950/60s publications, probably leftovers from the last of the British inhabitants), some obviously castaways from earlier travellers and others perhaps illicit copies that had found their way into the country and not been confiscated. We were surprised at this apparent book-craze, but given the strict restrictions on published material anywhere within the country, it is perhaps not surprising that those who can afford it will buy or recycle anything they can read and gain insights from, particularly concerning their own country.  After out tenth sighting of George Orwell’s Burmese Days (a copy of which we had brought with us to read), we realised upon closer inspection that all the recent or Burma-specific books (doubtless those in greatest demand) were in fact photocopies.  Entire books, photocopied with a cover that at first glance certainly looked authentic.  Perhaps this was not motivated by profit so much as necessity.

Hidden away down one alleyway, we found a small, cluttered bookshop with a similarly bizarre collection of books decorating its shelves, and on talking with the owner managed to get a small insight into this strange but intriguing business.  Original copies were scarce but given the demand for written material, the idea of photocopying originals to allow for greater circulation had become widespread.  The original versions were treated like prize possessions and deemed to be as valuable as gold dust and certainly not for sale.  But even this friendly book-loving Burmese man was cagey in his answers and not as forthcoming in his responses as we might have liked.  His parting plea was for any books we may be able to bring with us should we visit the country again;  sending them to him by post would be futile as many had been sent previously and yet, as if they had entered the Bermuda Triangle, disappeared without a trace.

The most impressive sight the city has to offer is that of the Shwedagon Pagoda, a huge and sacred Buddhist temple that dominates the entire city from its hilltop location.  At almost 100 metres (300 feet) high, the temple can be seen for miles, including from the plane as you come into land at Rangoon airport.  The current stupa dates from the 18th century, but the site itself is much older.  The current spire is now encrusted with more than 5,000 diamonds and over 2,000 other precious and semi-precious stones. 

You enter Shwedagon up a huge marble staircase lined on both sides with shops selling everything from Buddha images, gold leaf and lacquerware to monk’s paraphernalia and more.  The staircase crosses the old fortifications (a now dried up moat) and as you reach the top, you pass through a glittering  shrine hall.  There is a pell-mell of people from all walks of life who have come to worship together with monks and, of course, the occasional tourist.  At the base of the stupa are eight planetary posts (shrines) that represent the eight days of the week (in Burmese astrology, in case you'd didn't know, the week has eight days, Wednesday being split into morning and evening).  Those born on a Sunday, would take flowers, light a candle and pour water over the image in the Sunday corner, while those born on a Tuesday would do the same in the Tuesday corner. 

Some of the pavilions surrounding the Pagoda contain beautiful wood carvings, others are shrine halls containing statues at the base of which people can leave their offerings.  As dusk fell, we were surrounded by the warm red glow of a setting sun and impressed by the splendor of this spectacular place, filled with pilgrims and people lost in prayer fulfilling acts of devotion at the different stations of worship.  It was a wonderful experience… not to mention a great photo opportunity.

Shwedagon is a famous temple, one of the most renowned in the Buddhist world.  And as a work of art, this seemed to us well-deserved.  But as a place of devotion, the Golden Rock is incomparably more impressive.  Our first sighting of the Golden Rock (otherwise known as the Kyaiktiyo  Pagoda) was in Bangkok.  Looking for distractions during the wait for our visas at the Burmese embassy, we happened upon an advertisement flyer for the Golden Rock Hotel and, within seconds, Pippa had determined that if we saw absolutely nothing else in Burma, we were going to see this.

Situated a few hours drive south east of Rangoon, this small pagoda is one of the most sacred sites in Burma and has, in the past, been off limits to tourists (even more reason as far as Pippa could see to ensure we saw it this time around lest it be closed off again).  The stupa is only about 8 metres (25 feet) high, but what makes it such an incredible sight is that it sits atop the Golden Rock, a massive gold-leafed boulder that balances precariously on the very edge of a cliff at the summit of Mount Kyaiktiyo. According to legend, it is held in place by a strand of Buddha’s hair and throughout the year, thousands upon thousands of devout Buddhists make their pilgrimage to this holy site.  Their fervor is what makes this not just a sight but an experience not to be missed.

The small town at the base of the mountain was teeming with people of all ages.  It seemed to consist of one massive bus depot with trucks and other vehicles over-laden with both bodies and luggage arriving and departing in a continuous stream.  We watched this huge hubbub through a cloud of dust that never seemed to settle before the next set of wheels ploughed its way through the dirt.  People stepped off the buses in which they had arrived and transferred into what looked like cattle trucks for the 35-minute drive up the mountain to the end of the road (and, happily in our case, the hotel in which we were staying).  After acquiring permits for the ascent, our driver set out up the winding road that looked almost vertical in parts.  We wondered if the car would make it to the top given how hard the engine labored on some of the slopes.  Twice we were asked to get out and walk as the car, in first gear, came to a standstill and began a slow, steady roll backwards.

The lot at the end of the road was bustling with people, some resting or stocking up on refreshments, others piling their bundles of provisions and clothing onto their backs and setting out on foot to begin the remaining ascent.  From here, it was a steep 45-minute walk to the summit but for the faint-hearted, four-men teams carrying bamboo sedan-type chairs could be hired, for a price.  It became apparent that many of the locals could obviously not afford such luxuries, as we passed several old men and woman who had stopped at the roadside, leaning on their sticks to catch their breath.  However much in pain they appeared to be at times, gasping for air or even being sick as their bodies labored under the intense physical exertion, it seemed as if nothing would stop these people making it to the top after they had come such a long way.  Even for us, the climb was long and arduous, and although we set out with plenty of time to spare, we realised sunset was fast approaching and we still had a long way to climb.

About three-quarters of the way up, we were rewarded with our first glimpse of the pagoda, still looking a long way off in the distance across on the next ridge; the pagoda looked tiny perched up on its huge boulder.  The last part of the climb was along an irregularly bricked, stepped path with stalls selling weird and wonderful curios lined along each side, those on the right having been carved into the hillside.  Some resembled Chinese market places with traditional medicines, skulls, bone parts, massive black beetles, snakes and other insects of varying shapes and sizes (all dead, thankfully), leopard skins, bear skins and stuffed animals of all kinds, all for sale.  Presumably many of the latter were considered to contain medicinal properties, but we didn’t stop too long at any one stall to find out; as soon as you were spotted taking an interest, the stall keeper and his family would be dangling objects in front of your face as if they expected you to be more impressed by the quality of their wares upon more detailed inspection.

And so, tired and breathless, we finally reached ... a police checkpoint!   And after the necessary arrangements, we made our way to a huge marble staircase leading up to the platform that looks over the Golden Rock.  Hundreds of pairs of shoes were scattered across the ground but, cautious as always, once removing ours, we attached them to our backpack and carried them with us, opting to leave our socks on after a closer inspection of the cold and filthy pavement ahead of us.

It was a strange and curious sight at the square on the summit.  The pagoda sits slightly below the square to the left, but there is activity all around and in a strange way, the whole place had almost a fairground feel to it.  There was a large carousel in the centre of the square with shops and restaurants built up around the edges.  Some of the shops sold a bizarre collection of toys made from bamboo and other kinds of wood ranging from fairly innocuous looking flutes and cameras to not-so-heavenly looking rifles and sabers.  There was a constant babble of noise accompanying this spiritually charged atmosphere, overridden only by frequent prayers booming over the loud-speaker system.  Many people had laid their mats on the ground and were either praying or sleeping (we realized on our return at sunrise the next morning that some people actually spent the night here) and, every now and again, we would spot a solitary monk sitting in meditation seemingly oblivious to the mayhem around him.

The pagoda itself was accessible, but only to men.  A queue formed on the bridge leading over to the golden rock and with gold leaf in hand, men come to kneel at the boulder, pray and apply their gold leaf.  The women watched from their own platform across to the side and prayed as their husbands or sons apply leaf on their behalf.  It seemed as if the more daring a place you find to apply your gold leaf, the more likely your prayers would be answered, and we saw some alarming displays of bravado as men would crawl right to the edge of the precipice to stick their gold on the underside of the overhang (there were, of course, no barriers or signs warning of the inherent danger of being so close to the edge of a sheer drop to the valley below).  In the meantime, there were several collections of people meditating, praying and observing, offering gifts of flowers and incense at the various shrines and lighting handfuls of candles that they had either brought with them or bought at the numerous stalls on the way up the mountain.  As the sun set, the Golden Rock burned in a reddish glow and as night fell, more and more candles lit up the darkness.  People kept streaming in to carve out a place in front of the shrines overlooking the pagoda, and as we left to head back down to our hotel, we were in no doubt that this was a 24 hour vigil.

At sunrise the next morning, after another breathless ascent, the air was as charged as it had been the previous evening and we saw much of the same ardent religious fervor, but instead of bunches of flowers, incense and candles, trays of food were being offered ... and recycled!.  People would pay for the food trays at makeshift stalls that had been set up overnight, and placed these on the shrines, where they rested until people swept them away and took them back to the food stalls to be resold.

As with sunset, sunrise created a mysterious aura around the golden rock and its surrounding platform.  It was a moving experience by any standards, watching the various different rituals of worship unfold around this important relic, regardless of your religion.  Both visits had given us an insight to how important this pagoda is to Buddhists, particularly in Burma, and both had proved to be magical and awe-inspiring in their own way.  That morning, as we departed to once again make our descent, we saw many more monks meditating in the shadow of the pagoda and then lining up to receive alms from the pilgrims who had come to offer their prayers. 

And so we concluded our brief tour of Burma.  As we made our way back to Rangoon, we reflected on the two weeks we had to explore this amazing country, and were so glad we had made the decision to visit.  While we had not had a chance to squeeze in other sights such as Inle Lake, where they have perfected a peculiar form of boat-rowing, or southern parts of the country that are still off limits, we did manage to get first hand accounts and photos of places we had missed from Iain that have convinced us this will not be our last trip to this remarkable country.  But for now, our next stop was to be India, and so once again we headed back to Bangkok where we were to have a few hours stopover before flying on to Delhi via Bangladesh.