Exploring Yangon: One of the most jarring experiences I've ever gone through

Yangon is a thriving city with restaurants, movie theatres, hotels, and a rich sense of culture. I decided to explore the area with an Australian guy from my hostel. And we had a very interesting day- good and bad. We walked around the neighborhood, tried various types of street food, drank this great sugar-cane drink, and eventually came to the river.

Once at the river we realized there was a ferry, and we got on. Our side of the river was very industrial, with shipping containers, docks, and various boats taking up all the space- and we just wanted to walk along the water. So we crossed to get to the other side, which looked much more peaceful.

While Yangon is a big, busy city, the land across the river is just small villages, schools and temples. Crossing this one river feels like you’ve been transported, not only to a new country, but back in time.

We walked around a bit, just taking in the change of scenery. There were many bicycle taxis on that side of the river, all of which were a bit too pushy for us. But soon this young guy on a bicycle taxi started talking to us- he was nice, had good English, and told us he’d charge us a little under $2 for a thirty minute tour. We said, “Why not,” and hopped on.

The guy showed us around the area and told us about life in this part of the country. He told us about the culture, and taught us how to say “Hello,” and “beautiful lady.” The people we passed were incredibly friendly and genuinely looked excited to see us. So many people waved to us and said hello. When we responded in the local tongue, saying “Mingalabar,” they laughed and smiled and waved. It was a lot of fun.

We tried betel-nut, (pronounced like beetle) which is similar to chewing tobacco. Most local men do it, and you can see them spitting this blood-red mush out of their mouths periodically. It’s gross. But we tried it anyway, and we spat just like the locals did. I won’t be trying it again- it burned the inside of my mouth and it tasted gross. I had purchased a bag of oranges at the local market, and I ate them to wash out the taste of betel-nut. My Aussie friend needed a few too.

The taxi man, who was really sweet, took us to a pagoda (temple), but my friend and I said we were more interested in seeing the villages. Once you’ve seen a pagoda, they all kinda look the same to you.

So the driver took us to a small fishing village, which was bustling with activity, and had many smiling faces. There was a small river nearby, and the locals looked comfortable and happy, even if their homes were small huts. The man then told us he would take us to another village, one which had been hit particularly hard by a recent hurricane. We said ok.

On the way to the village we picked up a straggler- he ran and jumped onto the back of the taxi.

We arrived in this remote village, and immediately young kids ran around me. I, being a teacher, remarked on how I just had a natural way with kids, and I enjoyed the attention all the little ones gave me. The kids were around me in a tight circle, one even holding onto my shorts; I noticed that none were around my traveler friend, but didn’t question why.

The farther we walked into this tiny village, the more kids came out. There were no smiling faces from the adults in this village. We said “Mingalabar,” to the locals, and occasionally received a subdued smile, but mostly just got stares. We didn’t feel comfortable in the area, but couldn’t figure out why this village was so different from the fishing village, just ten minutes away.

The taxi driver told me that it would be polite of me to give some of my oranges to the kids, sort of like an offering. I didn’t mind because I had a whole bag full of them, and could easily spare one or two. I smiled, happy to give, and picked out two oranges, even though there were about eight kids around me. As soon as I held out an orange for the kids, they all pounced on me at once. They jumped for the bag, tugged at my clothes, fought one another. One grabbed the bag, and took such firm hold that he squeezed the juice out of an orange inside. This wasn’t fun. It wasn’t a cute joke. And these kids were not playing around. I could see in the children’s eyes a wild, primal hunger.

And that’s when it hit me. These kids had been crowding around me, not because there was anything special about me, but because they were hungry and I had been holding a bag of oranges. I felt so stupid for my naivety, and actually felt a little scared- with all the kids jumping around me. The children spoke no English, and I had no idea how to give out the oranges in an orderly fashion, so I handed the bag to the taxi driver, and let him distribute them. Once the kids had the oranges, I was left alone.

We began walking away, and I remembered I had a little bag of food in my back pocket- just a few pieces of deep-fried dough. I turned to the smallest child and held it out for him. He smiled, reached for the bag, and just as he was about to take it, a slightly larger boy sprinted forward and snatched the bag out of my hand- to the small boy’s dismay.

The taxi driver scolded him and made him share.

My friend and I left the village right after this, and there was an air of silence between us. He and I, simply enjoying our vacations, had not been prepared to see this- and we were processing it in our own individual way.

I was happy to give, but was genuinely disturbed by the ferocity with which these kids reacted. The adults and teenagers were kind and polite, but these kids were mad with hunger. I couldn’t get the image out of my head.

The taxi driver bicycled us back to the ferry, and told us that many of the adults in this village had died in the recent storm, and that the people here often eat only one meal a day. Usually a bowl of rice.

As we neared the ferry, the locals waved at us, and said hello, just as they had done earlier. But I wasn’t ready to see smiling faces- I was still meditating on the hunger I had just seen, I was still seeing that little boy’s face as he was just about to receive that bag of fried dough, then had it snatched away. I was still feeling my clothes pulled at, and the bag of oranges practically ripped from my hands.

Eventually, some levity returned to us. We started talking, started asking more questions about the place, and my Australian friend even had a bit of fun with the driver. He switched places with him and rode through the small town, to the delight of all the locals.

Soon we rode the ferry back to Yangon, and returned to the world of restaurants and movie theatres and hotels, somewhat eager to forget that hunger existed so close to us.

But the point of travel, at least in my opinion, is to go through an ordeal that you wouldn’t go through at home. To experience a feeling, or a taste, or a smell, just SOMETHING, that you wouldn’t experience back in your comfort zone. This was a tough thing to witness, but I’m thankful that I did.

I’ve seen poverty in various countries. I’ve seen burn victims lining the subway in China- their faces and bodies horribly mutilated. I’ve seen child labor, and child abuse, and even child prostitution.

But I’ve never seen hunger. Not real hunger. Not like this. I’ve never seen the kind of hunger that’s kept me awake at night thinking about it. My experience with this has encouraged to help out a little. I’ve since done a little research, and found a group called ‘Food not Bombs,’ which has a chapter in Yangon. It’s run by a bunch of punk rockers, and they go around feeding the homeless. You can learn more about them here.

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