THE fabled land once called Burma has all the allures of a perfect holiday destination. Just seven years ago, few travellers would risk venturing into the country that was stifled by a military junta, for whom tourism was not a priority. The year of change was 2010; with the citizenry’s renewed hope for elections and democracy, tourists began trickling in.

After many decades of isolation, Myanmar now seems to be in a rush to capture the tourism business lost for so long. Visas are offered online and the modern Yangon airport welcomes planeloads of arriving tourists. The city is all spruced up and luxury hotels are sprouting all over the country to attract discerning tourists.

Under British colonial rule, this bustling city was a placid town called Rangoon. A stroll around the Sule Pagoda in the centre of the town is to walk back into the days of the Raj. Colonial buildings such as the Railway Headquarters, the High Court and the General Post Office retain the architectural grandeur of the British Empire.

In the shadow of these historical buildings is the Scott Market built in the heyday of British rule. Narrow cobblestone streets, lined with shops, wind into dark alleys. Our guide points out a dimly-lit, smoke-filled shop in which scruffy men are bent over tiny bright stones on the table. “They are bargaining over rubies and jade,” she whispers cautiously, “the open sale of gems is forbidden by the army.”

Myanmar rubies, renowned for their clarity and hue, are the most expensive gems per carat in the world; especially famous are the Pigeon Blood rubies from the mines of Mogok near Mandalay.

The rare and much sought-after brilliant green jade of Burma is mined in the infamous quarries of Kachin state in the north. International concern for forced labour in the mines and illicit trade of the ‘blood gems’ led to the ban of Myanmar rubies and jade in the US.

Suddenly, I hear the sound of cymbals, and turn to see a crowd of barefoot, shaven-headed monks in saffron robes, and nuns in pink robes, following a leader, all holding out begging bowls for boiled rice offered by shopkeepers. The people are conscripted into monasteries and convents for a few weeks, and indoctrinated into self-abnegation. But at the end of the tenure, they will return to their homes.

Memories of the British Raj come alive at the 19th century Strand Hotel, with the Victorian décor where we relish a high tea of scones, biscuits and sandwiches served in delicate bone china. An Englishman, quintessentially attired and puffing on his cigar, wistfully reminisces about bygone days. He reminds me of Rudyard Kipling, who spent just three days in Rangoon but his poetry and letters evince an abiding romance and fascination for Burma.

Yangon owes its fame to the splendorous Shwedagon Pagoda, a majestic shrine built 2,600 years ago and believed to be the repository of the sacred hair of the Buddha. As the rays of the setting sun reflect the gold exterior, an aura of sublime peace descends on the sanctuary.

The fragrance of burning incense and sandalwood drifts with the gentle evening breeze, while monks and nuns, chanting hymns, weave through the crowd, stopping at the myriad statues of Buddha to pay obeisance and leave flowers at their feet. Enchanted by the pious ambience, we join the sea of worshippers circumambulating the central pagoda.

For Muslims of the subcontinent, Yangon evokes memories of Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal Emperor who was forcibly exiled by the British from Delhi to Yangon. Not many residents of Yangon know or care to know about the emperor’s tomb; only a stray visitor from Pakistan or India seeks out his mausoleum.

After many inquiries and several wrong turns, we finally discover it in a leafy residential neighbourhood in midtown Yangon, not far from the majestic Shwedagon Pagoda. He is buried beside his wife and son. The walls around his mausoleum are inscribed with his poetry; particularly moving is his lament that he would be deprived of burial in his beloved homeland, and would be interred by strangers in a land where he does not belong.

In a bizarre twist of fate, 30 years after the last Moghul emperor was exiled from India to Burma, the British banished Thibaw Min, the last king of Burma, to India where he was buried.

Myanmar is in political transition. Our guide confides to us that her real name is Jameela, and like most Muslims in Myanmar, she experiences discrimination in education and jobs and is disenchanted with the national leader Aung San Suu Kyi for not protecting the beleaguered Rohingyas.

Myanmar is also the land of ancient Bagan, celebrated for its two thousand temples, the Inle Lake — famed for the Intha leg rowers and the majestic Irrawaddy River, which is born in the Himalayas and meanders the length of the country to end in the Andaman Sea.

In Myanmar is still preserved the exotic East, but one wonders: how long before the country succumbs to crass tourism?

The writer is the author of Jerusalem — A Journey Back in Time

Published in Dawn, May 21st, 2017