Me in front of Shwedagon Pagoda, Yangon.
This picture gives me conflicting feelings. On the one hand, true, AUTHENTIC, responsible tourism in Myanmar does NOT include a visit to this pagoda. The money from the entrance fees goes into the hands of the evil government, and tour groups who visit Myanmar see this and mistake it for a realistic picture of the state of things there, like it's some kind of gold-plated manicure that the country waves around to seduce visitors and illustrate its florid wealth. THERE'S NO TROUBLE IN BURMA, THAT PLACE IS FREAKIN' COVERED IN GOLD! However, even though I WAS extremely careful about my money distribution and responsible tourism, I chose to go. The pagoda called to me in its twinkling bell voice wherever I went. And when some teenage girls--with their cheeks covered in a powder made from tree bark that is part make-up, part sunblock--convinced me that I have to go see their "number one pagoda," my mind was made up. Shwedagon Pagoda is a place in which the people of Myanmar take a lot of pride. People urged me to go all day long until finally I did. Yes, I felt guilty as I hired a tour guide (whom I annoyed to no end with my zillions of questions, and my constant requests to take pictures of me here here here here here kthanksalot), I poured water over the Buddha that corresponds with my birthday, and I rang a temple bell three times, as is the custom. However, after the tour was over, I sat there, surrounded by hundreds of devotees who had come to the pagoda to pray, socialize, and even eat--spreading out a blanket and a delectable picnic on the marble platform that slowly began to cool after the sun started to set. And that's when I was approached by two university students, and we began a three hour conversation. We talked about the animistic beliefs in Burmese Buddhism, The Godfather, and books they had read. They loved their country, but they got the faraway look in their eyes that most people did when talking about it. They weren't allowed to tell me their grievances, the things that angered them, the things that had been done to them. To do so could cost them their lives. I posed for pictures with a group of young girls from the countryside who had never seen a white person before. I didn't want to leave. To be honest, it was nice being in such a bustling place with very few tourists.
I exchanged e-mail addresses with the two students I had met. It was strange saying good-bye to them. I was sad. I loved the energy of the pagoda in the evening, I loved the feeling of being a (welcome) outsider, I loved this sharing that was happening. They walked me to the exit where I could claim my shoes (and, um, there are, like, a zillion exits there, so I was grateful for their help!!). They left me at the elevator and walked back down the long corridor leading back into the main part of the pagoda. After they had walked a ways, I looked back over my shoulder at them, at the two young men cloaked in green sarongs, and felt a strange pang of sadness. They must have sensed that I was looking at them, because they also looked back over their shoulders at me and waved one more time.
I e-mailed both of them after the cyclone and haven't yet heard back from them.
This pagoda has been a witness to so much.
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