Yangon

I'm gonna come straight out and say it: I'm not a huge fan of Paris.

Maybe I lack the imagination to make the city's history come to life. Its symmetry and grand boulevards leave me indifferent. The fabulous museums, the iconic metro signs, the triumphant arcs that stand guard on every roundabout, are like the distinctive traits of a woman that is altogether too beautiful to approach. Better to appreciate them from a distance and save myself the embarrassment of rejection.

Yangon, on the other hand, steps right up and lets me smell its armpits. The former capital of Myanmar is poor, dirty and always recovering from some major natural or man-made disaster. Yet at the same time it's one of the most romantic places I've ever been to.

Telephone cabin Yangon-style (credit It says tourist)

Where else can you find an entire block dedicated to the ancient art of umbrella repairment? Or stumble upon a man singing his drunken heart out through a tinny sound system in the shadow of a crumbling, Victorian building that used to belong to the port authority? Palm readers still work their trade in Yangon and there are no phone cabins, only foldout tables with snoopy operators behind them.

Sounds like Havana

Sounds like Havana, you might say. And you might be right. I've never been to Cuba, but the socialist island republic seems to have a number of things in common with the former British colony. In both countries the leaders like to wear military uniforms and, perhaps more tellingly, the women smoke huge cigars.

Looking at the dignified faces of the inhabitants, at the dogged resolve with which they endure yet another year under an indifferent leadership, you get the sensation that Yangon is a giant waiting room, an exquisitely detailed movie set from which very few are allowed to leave. Even the golden spire of the Shwedagon pagoda, the spiritual heart of the country, seems to rise up against a backdrop from The Truman show. A very convincing rendering of an Eastern sunset, but cardboard all the same.

Shwedagon pagoda (credit It says tourist)

Poverty feels different here than in Indonesia, because for tourists like myself it's easier to know who the bad guys are. There's less of the ambiguity that goes with development. This might all change very quickly in the next decade. Hillary Clinton visited Yangon in November and there have been a number of changes since then. Myanmar might become an Asian tiger yet.

The uncle in Austria

While we watch an endless flow of worshipers and tourists circle the base of the pagoda, a group of young girls sit down next to us. They offer us a snack and we gratefully accept. Then a couple of university students in longyis - the traditional skirt worn by men in this country - come over and ask if they can practice their English on us. We're most happy to oblige. One of them studies medicine and has high hopes of escaping the waiting room by joining his uncle in Austria.

“What did you study”, he asks me. I answer that I dabbled in law at university.
“Human rights?”
“Also, yes.”
“We don't have that here”, he whispers. Aware that he said too much, he quickly says goodbye and rushes off with his friends.

Hannelore and I enjoy the cardboard sunset a little while longer, then walk the long way back to our guesthouse through the dark streets of Yangon. Despite the paranoia I already like it here.