Despite, or perhaps because of, their repressive military leaders, the people of Burma are turning to Buddhism in unprecedented numbers. Fiona Dunlop reports from Yangon

Yangon, or Rangoon as it was known in British colonial days, hovers somewhere between a mini-Bangkok and the emerging Ho Chi Minh City of 15 years ago. Typically Southeast Asian, it displays leprose colonial façades beside high-rises; lush vegetation next to potholed pavements; and enticing food markets alongside street kitchens dishing up fantastic fare. And, of course, there are rickshaws, weaving in and out of the windowless 1940s Chevrolet trucks which masquerade as buses with passengers dangling off the back. Then things change: the mobile phone network reaches no further than the border, and the internet – even Hotmail – is censored. Something is up.

The number of monks and giant Buddha statues in Burma far outstrips those of its neighbours, and there are pagodas everywhere – thousands of them – either dazzlingly regilded or atmospherically crumbling. Once you gather exactly how repressive the military regime is – in place since 1962 – these anomalies begin to seem surprising. But this is Burma, where even ruthless generals arrange photo-ops at high-profile temples and live as superstitiously as the rest of the population.

Years of hard-line socialism, human rights violations, a name-reversal to Myanmar, and the ongoing house arrest of opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi mean that Burma is not exactly a hot destination. Tourist numbers are tiny (a mere 232,000 in 2005) and the Burmese have little contact with the outside world. Instead, they seem to have buried themselves in Buddhism. Karl Marx’s mantra, ‘religion is the opium of the masses’, rings only too true here. What alternative do you have if you dare not speak openly to your neighbours than to share your thoughts with the gods? Informers are everywhere. ‘Divide and rule is their policy,’ one man tells me angrily of the regime, while a woman explains: ‘You can’t talk to anyone about political change as you’re so afraid – not only for yourself, but also for your family.’

Theravada Buddhism, the original, purist form of this religion – as opposed to East Asia’s more ostentatious Mahayana Buddhism – came to Burma nearly 2,000 years ago. Its fundamentals are so deeply embedded that local legend has it that the Burmese race descended from a prince related to the Buddha. More than its religious definition, Burmese Buddhism has far-reaching social implications for 75 per cent of the approximately 50 million inhabitants. Although Thailand officially claims a greater proportion of believers, having escaped colonial rule and centuries of work by missionaries, Thai worship often stems only from duty and habit, unlike the profound belief of the Burmese.

Nor is it kept under discreet wraps. On the contrary it is visible at every turn, beginning each morning when, across the country, over half a million shaven-headed novices and monks do their rounds. Young and old, barefoot but elegantly draped in maroon robes, they fill their bowls with food from regular donors before sharing these offerings back at the monastery. From midday onwards, with desire eliminated, the monks take food off the agenda until the next morning. Hunger does not stop the monks laughing and chattering when they are out and about everywhere on their evening strolls – mind rules matter very successfully here.

Towering over Yangon from a central hilltop is the mother of all Burmese pagodas, the Shwe Dagon. As I watch its golden glow through torrential rain from my 17th-floor hotel room, it feels like monitoring the gleaming eye of a city hiding so much of its soul. There is little sign of the military and, superficially at least, life is the same as that of any Asian city with all its mayhem, human sweat and inequalities. Then you notice tree trunks hung with what look like bird boxes. These turn out to be ‘nat’ shrines, a remnant of pre-Buddhist days when animism (the belief that natural objects, phenomena and he universe have desires and intentions) ruled. Nats still play a major role in Burmese belief in the esoteric, along with zodiac signs and numerology, and their related festivals are big events on the calendar.

Inevitably, I am lured to the Shwe Dagon complex. At the peak of this hilltop nirvana, I step into a mind-boggling theatre set of blinding white, ornately sculpted and stuccoed stupas (the pointed dome-shaped structures seen all over Burma) clustered around ‘the big one’ – a massive, gilded affair, said to contain relics of four different Buddhas. As such, it is Burma’s most sacred sight. Thought to date 2,500 years from Siddhartha Gautama (number four Buddha, but the one we know about), repeated earthquakes have meant serial rebuilding, while about 60 tons of gold leaf are pasted on to it every four years. Any comparison between its spiritual and material worth is decidedly tricky.

Around the stupa base, dozens of people douse Buddha statues with water, while others light candles, ring bells or meditate. Still more meander in apparent spiritual bliss between the 70 or so side shrines, stopping to drop off a coconut offering here, or – at a shrine to a 1940s’ miracle worker – a cheroot there. Others sit down to gawp at an ornate interior, or – in the case of one monk – to light up a quick smoke. Up to 40,000 worshippers find their way here daily, yet there is an incredible ease and freedom of worship: there are no codes or rules, since in Buddhism there are no judges, merely karma, the natural law of cause and effect. What you give comes back to you, so the more you donate, the better your afterlife is likely to be. This, more than anything else, seems to be what has kept Burma going throughout the years of insecurity and military rule.

Among the shrines, women sing for gold leaf donations, just one of the actions that can ensure a Buddhist Brownie point. It is even better to apply the gold leaf yourself, something I see later in frenetic action at Mandalay’s Mahamuni temple, where the country’s oldest statue of Buddha has almost disappeared under layers of gold leaf. Here at Shwe Dagon, vast personal fortunes fund additions like the jewel-studded finial

of the main stupa which, despite being 5m long, can only be admired properly through binoculars. Above it, a gold sphere sparkles with diamonds, crowned by a glittering 76-carat rock that even Hollywood’s finest could not aspire to own.

My guide, Thu Zar, could be a beauty queen, but instead, like most Burmese, she is a devout Buddhist who spends hard-earned holidays on meditation retreats. After the overwhelming atmosphere of Shwe Dagon, we head for a more 20th-century shrine. Looking suspiciously like an aircraft hangar, it actually houses the gigantic Chauk Htat Gyl reclining Buddha who seductively stretches his limbs out over 65m. Rebuilt in the 1960s in brick and plaster, he certainly boasts ‘the eyelashes of a calf, a neck round like a banyan branch and arms as smooth as an elephant trunk’, a description laughingly quoted by Thu Zar from Buddhist texts.

Monasteries and their schools are part and parcel of the Yangon landscape, although it is in Mandalay, Myanmar’s intellectual capital to the north, where 80 per cent of the monastic population actually lives. Occasionally you spot giggly, young, shaven-headed nuns in their sugar-pink robes near a Buddhist school. These structures step in when the government fails with education, as so often seems to be the case in social affairs here. One of the largest is at Yangon’s Kalaywa monastery, where 1,500 students from poor rural areas are given a general education up to the age of 16.

When I visit, the atmosphere is open and easygoing, although discipline is clearly observed and meditation is said to be as important as study. I compare it later with the much smaller Shwe Yan Pye monastery in the remote Inle Lake region. About 30 local Pao boys, an ethnic minority from the nearby mountains, are taught by six monks in an informal atmosphere, staying at the beautiful 118-year-old monastery for up to 10 years. ‘The monks never refuse anyone,’ I am told. Indeed, the joy of the monks points to another of Burma’s anomalies: humour. Far from the holier-than-thou mentality expected from such philosophically inclined individuals, and despite the repression of their rulers, these people love to laugh.

When I finally leave this country, I am full of sadness and superlatives. I have seen wonders such as the world’s largest ringing, uncracked bell at Mingun, outside Mandalay, with several generations of one family trooping round inside; watched 2,000 monks silently queuing for lunch; shared snacks and jokes with industrious Pao women, thanks to my charming, sensitive interpreter; wandered through a landscape of 1,000 abandoned stupas; seen immaculately groomed young girls work relentlessly for $2 a day; and discussed the relative merits of Margaret Thatcher and Tony Blair with a monk who spoke impeccable English. Best of all, I have talked to people desperate to unburden themselves and whisper how much they hate the regime. One craftsman in Bagan, giggling nervously, said: ‘We are 175 per cent against.’ It is hard to beat that, however comfortable the Buddhist afterlife promises to be

BAGAN

Further to the north, in central Burma, is Bagan (previously known as Pagan), the former royal capital and an outstanding relic of the 9th-13th centuries – Burma’s golden age.

CLASSIC STUPAS

Around 4,000-5,000 pagodas, stupas and monasteries are scattered over 40sq km of agricultural plain, beside the Irrawaddy river.

It was here, in the 12th and 13th centuries, that the classic Burmese stupa evolved – its upturned bell shape now ubiquitous. It all came to a sorry end in 1287, when Kublai Khan and his hordes thundered in from Mongolia, kickstarting the crumbling demise of this Burmese equivalent of Cambodia’s Angkor Wat.

ROMANTIC RUINS

Further damage was wrought in 1975 by a massive earthquake. Today many brick temples have been restored (in some cases over-restored) and gilded statues reinstated to nurture worship, although there remain enough untouched, snake-infested ruins among the cacti and neem trees to fire the imagination. Meanwhile, the prolific craftspeople of Bagan churn out fabulous, labour-intensive lacquer-ware, sold by female vendors.

HEAVY HANDS

In 1990, villagers were forcibly relocated from Bagan’s historical district to present a cleaner image to tourists (the official story being that it was for excavation purposes). More visible still are two incongruities: one a ziggurat-like lookout tower, and the other a museum built in ornate Chinese pagoda style, both signed off by the unenlightened generals.

MORE INFORMATION

Fiona Dunlop travelled to Burma as a guest of TransIndus www.transindus.co.uk

WHERE TO STAY

GRAND PLAZA PARKROYAL YANGON

33 Alan Pha Phaya Rd Yangon Tel: (+95) 1 250 388 Fax: (+95) 1 252 478 www.grandplaza.yangon.parkroyalhotels.com

SEDONA HOTEL YANGON

No1 Kaba Aye Pagoda Road Yangon Tel: (+95) 1 666 900 Fax: (+95) 1 666 911 www.sedonahotels.com.sg

TRADERS HOTEL YANGON

223 Sule Pagoda Road Yangon Tel: (+95) 1 242 828 Fax: (+95) 1 242 800 www.shangrila.com