South of Mandalay.

Nothing, quite nothing prepared me for my first sight of Myanmar from the slowly descending plane. A fan of tributaries, criss-crossing streams cutting into one another bordered by coloured stamps. Green flooded paddy fields, brown harvested patches, yellow ripe rice and ready for the thresh. And most mystifying, all these culminating in a vast delta, textbook triangle and photographic in form.

I checked into the Sedona, a luxury hotel, the pavilion in the pool surrounded with water invited, pavilion in the water was inviting. There was a barbecue ,an intriguing Mongolian style barbecue, with thin cuts of meat, and best of all a charming Chef ready to cook the noodles of my choice on an enormous Mongolian BBQ upturned like a television dish. I hesitantly chose some sauces my favourite fine bee hoon (san knar san) and lethal looking orange chilli oil. The tossed dish cooked quickly on the heated grid., and came to me beautifully balanced with soy sauce, garlic, and dry roasted prawns finished off with a dash of roasted and pounded red chilli, maroon red with flecks of golden- yellow seeds and a trace of light sesame and chilli oil, adding warmth and crunch to the greens and bang kuang ( jicama )stirred into the dish. I was expecting the chilli and garlic to masked the flavours of that delicately conjured dish, but, no, it did not, strangely enough… the fried prawns and the crispy fried garlic and the chilli seeds did not burn it added to the w\excitement, the dish so carefully blended came to life and I eagerly slurped the last few mouthfuls cleaning the plate and greedily looking for more.

But the markets, “ are you sure you want to see the markets? They are dirty, wet”

I knew all about “ wet” markets, so off I braved ventured with my tiny guide, Pyait Pyait, feeling like an Amazon beside her!) We wandered into a street, a maze, of cluttered huts and woven bamboo platforms; Women (ruling the markets of course) sat framed by a pendant 45 with brass pendants … weighing scales. Behind her spread an amazing collection of small dried shrimp graded by size colour and quality, no sand in them, (I checked), local cloud -ear mushroom, lily buds by the basketful used in a stock based breakfast soup “ kyaukswe “ cooked in a delicate stock with beef, chicken or with a coconut milk, different, emerald green ladies finger spread out like fans, finger-sized purple flecked egg plant (I refuse to call it by that French name aubergine which sounds too pompous for our favourite and versatile vegetable. There was a great selection of chilli, dried to a jewel-like maroon red, in a bright grading of colours, small crunchy jalapeno, commonly grown long red ancho chilli were all there, in sacks piled to obscene fullness, long-bean in pliant lengths tied with hemp, not pink raffia ,what relief!

Then the most educational, my introduction to the Myanmar essence: as many Burmese quantities of rice that one can find: white long grained, what we call Jasmine, many other superior long grained closely resembling basmati in size and aroma, polished and unpolished, short and round grained, glutinous and more.

Another surprise, as I watched a hefty mama seated cross-legged, seize her weighing scales to count out a viss . Were they Indian weights ? I wasn’t sure

The woman was vending pulses, dhal, dried beans and lentils. Indian again ? I remembered the Indian connection Memory sync? My old Grandfather used to cook dhal curries which he said were Burmese
The traditional food in Myanmar is simple, soups for breakfast lunch or dinner, balachaung the “ sambal relish sprinkled on noodles, on fish soups, Mohinga, on vegetables, thankfully not on coffee !

I enjoyed sticky Roselle leaves, sour in taste, something different, cooking into a sticky conglomerate puree tasty with dried prawns and mush use of the tender banana stems used as garnish and crunch in their mohinga (thin soup with beef chicken or prawns). Dahl was used in stock , and besan or chick pea flour was used to thicken sauces.
There wasn’t as much coconut milk as I expected but there was the ubiquitous fish sauce with everything.

I enjoyed chilli roasted and pounded with our small Kalamansi limes, daily salads made up of pennywort leaves , tamarind leaves and assorted leaves tossed with pre-fried crispy garlic and an interesting snack made up with a base of pickled green tea leaves called La phet thoke .

Tea leaves are used for more than salads. Old women and men chew tea-leaves for their narcotic effect and it has become a social custom. I can only think that tea leaves must have been available to them as the Assam hills north of Burma and Calcutta .Tobacco is also grown in Burma and I visited a tobacco factory where cigars were being rolled. A betel chewing people, chewing tobacco and now tea leaves. I wondered what else I would find.

I found warmth in the people who were proud and did not whinge although they had so little . They greeted me warmly at each turn. They were friendly and gentle, dignified in their simplicity of life. They were clever in their ingenuity, improvising with whatever they had, often with hilarious results.

It was startling to see tyre-like receptacles turned into water buckets. I first looked , to see type markings on the buckets , looked again to realise the bucket was stretched from a used tyre, flattened somehow to stand upright. Thongs were also made from recycled tyres, wooden clog tops and bamboo weaving looms that turned out the most intricate patterned brocade cloth . Their women sat at these looms a clacking their weaving pedals.

The roads were limited to one lane traffic, cars were old and noisy, belching petrol fumes, ancient taxis had bumpers in different models soldered onto old cars . Burmese inventiveness reminded me of war-time Malaya when we had to patch, recycle or mend everything often many times.

Away from Yangon, I crossed river to the small fishing town Bago. Across the Ayerawaddy I found wooden attap- thatched single room huts. Inside the room, bamboo slatted platforms instead of beds covered one half of the room where children, and parents used the beds, clothing and boxes under the bed for storage, and the only space available was left for the weaving loom and an ancient sewing machine .
These were jobs cut out for them in the monsoon months when fishing was not possible. In the small town I needed to go to the toilet. There was nowhere I coujod go to. My guise took me to one of these little houses and whis[ered something: the woman smiled and held out a hadn as if tyo say” wait a minute” she walked to the back, cleaned the toilet with water , and came out with a smile. It was clean although it was a hole in the cement structure , but it did nots stink and she even had a small towel and soap for me when I came out> she refused the tip I gave her, smiling a toothless grin although she could not have been more than 40 years old. Dental care is non-existent , obviously .

I loved Yangon, the people who would welcome me into their homes, allow me to walk into their homes, into teashops, mostly small stools in a roadway where people sat to drink tea, to chew la phet, to smoke and to solve the problems of the world. Most tables were set outside on the main road in the midst of traffic , away from prying microphones, ears and eyes.
There was always a stool for me, though. I must ahev looked tired or old. No-one knew me, no one saw me as an intruder, and an offering of tea followed always (and a cheroot in one case was taken as an a normal gesture , one human being to another.

I noticed that the women seemed to be older. There were fewer teenage mothers. I was surprised to find women who looked in their early 30s and 40s with babes in arms. They were all beautiful women ,looking a mixture of Indian Malay with almond eyes and caramel coloured skin.
I noticed that most Burmese women had perfect skin: No Max Factor but a bark ground into a paste, to smear onto their faces that works wonders for their complexion.

I was looking for an old Burmese home where I could see life in action and my guide Pyet Pyet (Pi Pi) said, “I want to show you antiques.” So off we went to Daw Mien Mien Sein, who had the most wonderful antique lacquer, pots, tables and blows, brass ware and somewhere in the midst of this dusty collection in her garage I saw a huge coffee table book open. There were pictures by Luca Tettoni. I was familiar with his work and bent down to look more closely at the book. It was Daw Mien Mien Sein herself, pictured in her palace in the Shah, amidst her glorious collection of paintings, lacquer and gold Buddhas. Yes, she was a princess of Shan, now living in Yangon.

The lady herself was here in front of me , now I could see her regal nature shining through, though dressed in an old htamin – long skirt and top. She spoke impeccable English and held her hands gently folded in front of her, a calm and regal pose. We spoke of antiques, tradition and history and as she warmed to me, she suggested very offhandedly that I follow her upstairs to see the rest of her collection.

At the top of the stairs, I was stunned to walk into her bedroom filled with the most amazing collection of Buddhas: they were not for sale but I felt privileged to see them all there, a personal collection for a deeply religious Buddhist princess .
We looked at other old collections of brass; silver rice bowls rounded like the monks begging bowls, intricately carved and surprisingly heavy because I lifted one up and almost dropped it with the weight. Pure silver, of course. I put it back safely on it’s stand.

On our leaving she suggested that I might like to come and visit her a few days later when her birthday celebrations would be in process. She had a team of Shan cooks who would prepare sticky rice, a celebratory dish reserved for special occasions. This was a huge process, as she would be feeding 1,000 of her people.

We returned on her birthday to see her dressed in a light blue cotton top with gold buttons and a neatly folded skirt, overseeing the cooking of the sticky rice in 5 bath-sized sized woks perched over wood fires built at one end of her coconut- tree lined courtyard. There were five stages to the process and a continuous circle of five wok stations arranged in this courtyard and at each step in the process the wok was carried to the next station and the people handling each stage remained stationed at their own spot , each repeating their own specific task.

One was frying 15-20 kgs of sticky rice in coconut oil, which was stirred with cooking paddles by hefty hill tribal ,man form the Shan plateau. A second person was adding desiccated and dry roasted coconut, once again stirring until the rice turned golden brown. In a third bathtub of a wok. Then nuts were added, chopped peanuts, chopped roasted cashew nuts, white and black sesame seed and fried split peas cooked slowly.

During the fourth stage water was gradually added allowing it to steam in its own heat. When it clumps together into a darkish brown mix it is ready and salted and coconut milk added in the fifth wok and stirred vigorously by three people, two on either side of the wok and a third in the middle literally sitting down and folding it into the mixture with a larger oar like paddle. At this stage when the sticky rice can be spooned, it is then wrapped into banana leaf parcels wrapped into tiny gifts for her guests.

I too was given a packet of rice and beans called Ponggal rice in Ceylon to take home. I enjoyed and enjoyed it thoroughly but the rest of the day was lost to me as I blundered around Yangon visiting the Strand Hotel and markets. I was depressed at having reached the end of my stay and was genuinely sad to leave this city of brave people.

The Strand Hotel, part of Yangon’s past, was built at the same time as Raffles in Singapore and the Eastern and Oriental in Penang by the Sarkis Brothers, Armenian entrepreneurs in the late 19th century. Still part of colonial history, it looked much like Raffles Hotel did during my school days. The ballroom is still there, untouched. The place is now the home of the British and Australian Embassy. I didn’t have time to explore it in detail.

I left a country with lovely memories of a great people who have managed to survive their problems with dignity and courage. My main talk : to cook for Aung San Su Kyi was not achieved but I had a group of noble and dignified people.

Carol Selva Rajah