A Yangon infusion

Among the Asian cities, Yangon is unique. It looks like no other, with its downtown architecture stuck in a time warp patiently waiting the kind of Western infusion that struck Hong Kong, Bangkok or Singapore. There are no skyscrapers, giant digital adverts or any public transport beyond the bus or taxi. Walking its streets, or trotting when in search of shelter from a sudden downpour or the horrendous traffic, it's not hard to see that the British thought a lot of this place and weren't prepared to compromise with the East when it came to design. Grand colonial nineteenth-century buildings loom over you, a few appearing from the outside to be in pristine condition. Some sport neoclassical flourishes of Art Deco, others still display signs of their former glories - Government Telegraph Office, Inland Water Transport, Ministry of Agriculture and Irrigation, Internal Revenue Department. Most, though, are in a state of disrepair. Trees grow through the windows, broken pipes sway in the breeze ready to fall into the street, the marble flooring has cracked or collapsed completely, paint has faded and chipped like an old farm house coffee table. Such underinvestment feels surprising, or maybe not, when you learn that the larger buildings housed government departments up until 2005. This is the moment when employees were suddenly told to pack their bags and relocate to a new capital, Naypyidew. Many of these buildings now home small businesses, with employees sweltering in the heat, working by torchlight each time the power cuts. Other buildings have been accosted by growing families, likely the same ones who run one of the endless market or food stalls that line every street. A complex network of power cables crisscross above the road. Once in a while a cable hangs down, insulation tape added to cover the frayed wires. At its worst, families have no running water, no electricity, no sanitation. Down side streets rubbish piles high. My natural reaction is one of disgust but then I realise how much I take for granted the bin man's weekly visit back in the UK - my overconsumption hidden from the world's prying eyes. 

 

 

 

We wander downtown Yangon for hours, skipping around the people who are either selling or sleeping. The staring that was so prominent further south is less here, we are nothing new. After almost two weeks in Myanmar the locals are also starting to look the same to me. I'd thought it might be different in the city, but almost everyone wears traditional dress: a shirt, longyi and rubber sandals, men and women alike. A man sits in the road chopping mangos and placing them in small clear bags. A woman pushes rain from the tarpaulin with one hand, while holding a baby that she uses to point at a carved Buddha with the other. An old lady swats flies idly from six whole, skinned chickens. Most people, though, play with their mobile phones. Everyone has one, from the taxi drivers watching the news while sitting in traffic, to a Buddhist monk taking a selfie in front of a pagoda. How important must the impact of these cheap smartphones have been? The world opened up, the truth after a lifetime of suppression revealed. Sporadically we run into the future; groups of rich Burmese youths dressed like Westerners, acting like tourists, taking selfies. 

Yangon feels like a city where everyone departed in a hurry, leaving it deserted for decades of ruin and where the current inhabitants have only just moved back in. Of course, the only thing that actually left quickly was money. Compare it to the endless sprawl of air conditioned shopping centres in Bangkok, with its Skyrail smoothly connecting much of the city and digital advertisements selling beauty products on loop and you can see how much the people of Myanmar must feel they missed out. 

 

But when we look a little closer their are signs of change. Even before Aung San Suu Kyi's NLD party swept to power in 2015, a colonial architecture restoration society was set up aiming to protect the buildings and restore them. Many of the smaller streets house restaurants or noodle bars packed full at lunchtime, some have swanky new coffee or clothes shops. These may be no use to the poorest local people but the amenities and services that come with them are. Dotted among the windows that frame a family's poverty are one or two with new shutters, a lick of paint and a solar panel. The NLD promises electricity often via solar panels to the 69% of communities that still live with no electricity; they are literally handing power to the people. Just round the corner from The Strand, the swankiest hotel in Yangon, Sofia hunts down a small charity shop called Pomelo that sells products made by the most underprivileged in society. Bags, belts, coffee, toilet roll holders shaped like dogs. We read beforehand about the challengers faced by these companies in a country primed for investment, they are constantly threatened with relocation to make way for a bigger business. This bittersweet outcome of economic growth is only further highlighted as we leave the shop just as a Hummer trundles by.

 

 

Further afield, we stroll through the parks in the north of the city, they are serene, grass cut to perfection. As the sun sets our attention is drawn by a water fountain and light show which has the Shwedagon pagoda - the holiest place in all of Myanmar - as its backdrop. Around these parks, hotels are on the rise ready for a huge influx of tourists. We had to choose our accommodation carefully, though. Many are owned by the 'cronies', the elite rich of Myanmar with links to the former military rulers. Our guidebook makes this social obligation clear but it's reiterated by many of the taxi drivers. "Please. Use me, money to my family. Use hotel taxi, money to money."

The hotel we settled upon is brand new, although in Myanmar this comes with a caveat. Nothing is ever quite perfect as you might come expect from a fresh new building; the grouting is already chipping away, the paint has run down the door from the frame. This is not meant as a criticism, more an observation of what the people of Yangon and maybe much of Myanmar hope for. If in fifty years the only problems we notice are the finishing touches, then it will have been a truly remarkable transformation.