CHAPTER 3: The Land of the Pagoda

And so to Burma – Land of the Pagodas – to join the 12^th Army. Four days sailing across the Bay of Bengal brought us to the mouth of the Rangoon River up whose muddy waters we steamed, threading our way between every conceivable type of river craft – tugs, lighters, sampans, junks and canoes – and between the wrecks of innumerable ships sent to the bottom during the bombing of Burma’s chief port and capital.

I had heard much of life in Rangoon pre-war days and of the well laid out city with the wide tree-lined streets, beautiful gardens, shady parks, blue lakes, fine homes and luxurious clubs. It was, however, a very different Rangoon to which I came shortly after the Japanese capitulation. The streets were pitted with holes and bomb craters, the parks were overgrown with weeds, many of the buildings were reduced to a heap of rubble, while the railway station and dockyard were a jangled mass of twisted steel – a grim reminder of the havoc and devastation wrought by war.

It was some months before I had an opportunity of revisiting Rangoon, and I was amazed to find how little had been done toward reconstruction. Life for civilians who returned in those early days was trying indeed, for very few of the houses had either running water or electric light, while the prices of food and clothes were exorbitant. I had found transport in wartime London a problem, but here it was an absolute nightmare, and too many of the local inhabitants familiar with the sight of jeeps – trams, buses and taxis must have seemed like something out of a bygone age! During my absence several clubs had been opened for troops and it was at one of these that I dined the evening I returned to Rangoon. Having been out in the blue for months, I literally wallowed in the luxury of thickly carpeted floors, spacious rooms beautifully furnished, lovely flowers, soft lights and sweet music! Dinner, however, had hardly started when the dream was shattered. “Someone has been busy with a paint brush,” remarked one of the party. I repeated somewhat nonplussed. “Oh!” he laughed, “Of course you haven’t heard: two nights ago, a man walked in here in the middle of dinner and calmly disposed of one of the guests with the aid of an automatic!” Life in Burma’s capital was apparently not without drama.

No visit to Rangoon would be complete without a pilgrimage to the famous Shwedagon Pagoda _[1], the most scared shrine in all Burma, dating back to the 6^th century BC. Of all the temples it is probably the most difficult to describe – so ornate, so lavish, so intricate in design, so unlike anything to which our Western eyes are accustomed. Rising tier by tier to a great dome of four finials of exquisite wrought iron, from which are suspended little bells and cymbals that tinkle as they swing in the breeze. Having left our shoes in the care of the Burman outside the pagoda we proceeded on the long climb up hundreds and hundreds of steps, which bring us eventually to a huge platform covering several acres where dozens of minor shrines cluster round the main temple, containing a gigantic figure of Buddha. Mounting the huge wide stairway I was amazed to find on either side, stalls where one could buy almost anything – exquisite jewelry of beaten silver and semi-precious stones (some

of which had their origin not in the priceless sapphire and ruby mines of Burma, but in the blue glass of mepachrine bottles and the red jeep reflectors!), ornamental glass buttons, Chinese lacquer work, wood carvings, flowers, sweetmeats and spices, to name but a few. Behind the counters squatted the owners placidly smoking the inevitable cheroots, apparently quite unconcerned as to whether or not one stopped to purchase their wares. How different to the Indians who will follow one half a mile down the street pestering one to buy their goods!

Up and down the stairs passed hundreds of Burmese in a never ending stream, some clasping little bunches of flowers to place in vases at Buddha’s feet. Small in stature with raven black hair and sparkling eyes, they are charming, courteous and likeable people. All wear gaily coloured silk or cotton “lungyis” which are tight-fitting skirts reaching to the ground and twisted into a knot at the waist. With these the men wear white shirts and the women long sleeved jackets revealing beneath the prettiest lace bodices. Their long hair is seldom dressed on top of their heads except on festive occasions, and is more usually taken back and twined round an ivory comb in a very attractive manner. They hardly ever wear hats, carrying instead parasols of the most glorious shades to protect them from the fierce rays of the Eastern sun. At last, somewhat tired and weary of limb, we reached the platform and the main temple, where at Buddha’s feet several Burmese sat praying. I paused to watch them for a moment. Sitting cross-legged on reed mats, they placed their hands together and bowed their heads to the ground in supplication, at the same time chanting in inaudible prayer. Having prayed thus for a few moments, they stopped to chat to their neighbours and then returned once more to the more serious task of propitiating their gods!