A Hot Day for a Walk through Yangon

We share the following essay submission from a traveler to Yangon who visited in 2019:

I had this grand idea that I would walk across Yangon by foot. You know, in Germany we love our walking, and I figured it would be the best way to immerse myself in the city. People say walking is the best way to know a place, and hey, they’re probably right, but what they don’t tell you is that Yangon will chew you up, spit you out, and still smile at you like you’re its long-lost cousin.

First of all, let me tell you something: the fumes. Oh, the fumes. The moment I stepped out of my hotel, I thought I was walking into a cloud, but it wasn’t some mystical mist, no. It was a thick, oily, sticky concoction of diesel, motorbike exhaust, and… was that burning rubber? Maybe it was just my imagination, but I could swear I was inhaling the smell of old tires having a barbecue with engine oil. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love a good bratwurst, but this? No, thank you.

Anyway, I started my day early, full of optimism, under the belief that an early start would mean fewer cars on the road and maybe even a gentle breeze. As I walked through the streets of downtown Yangon, the sun began its slow, unforgiving rise. It was like someone had switched on a heat lamp over my head, and within minutes I was sweating like I had run a marathon. And let me tell you, I wasn't even close to running – I was doing the slowest walk of my life, dodging scooters and chickens. Yes, chickens. In the middle of the street.

Despite the oppressive heat and the constant battle with traffic fumes, there was a rhythm to the chaos. The honking of horns, the rumbling of engines, and the occasional bell from a passing trishaw (oh, how I envied those people in the trishaws) created this strange symphony. At some point, I stopped and realized I wasn’t even angry at the noise. It was just… part of the show, you know? Yangon puts on a performance for you, and whether you like it or not, you’re in the audience.

What kept me going were the people. Oh, the people! Myanmar must be the kindest place on Earth. I was walking along one of the main streets when a man, who could’ve been no older than 60 (or 100 – I couldn't tell), waved me over. I thought he was going to try to sell me something or give me a ride. Instead, he handed me a bottle of water, pointed to the sun, and laughed. I had no idea what he said, but it was probably something like, “You mad German, walking around like this!” I laughed back, because really, what else could I do? He motioned for me to sit with him for a bit, and we sat there in silence, drinking water as if it was the nectar of the gods. I tried to give him some money as thanks, but he waved me off and pointed back down the street, as if to say, "Go on, keep walking, you crazy fool."

The kindness wasn’t just a one-off, either. Later that day, I stopped at a tea shop, completely wiped out by the heat. The shop owner must have noticed my glazed-over eyes and sat me down with a cup of tea so sweet I thought I’d instantly developed diabetes. But I drank it, because what else do you do when a kind stranger offers you something? We didn't exchange more than a few words, but she smiled the whole time and made sure I drank enough tea to keep me going.

But let me circle back to the walking. You know how in Germany, we have these lovely wide sidewalks, and the streets are well-marked, and it’s generally a pleasant experience? Yangon is not that. The sidewalks here are like an obstacle course. One minute, you’re walking along a regular path, and then suddenly, there’s a hole the size of a small crater. And trust me, you do not want to fall into one of those holes. You’ll either end up in some underground tunnel, or worse, you’ll never be seen again.

At some point, I found myself near Shwedagon Pagoda, which, let me tell you, is an absolute marvel. Golden, shining in the sun like some kind of beacon calling to all the lost and weary travelers – like me, for instance. I thought I’d found peace when I arrived, but no. The sun was relentless, beating down on my poor German skin, and the fumes were still haunting me. But I made it. I sat there for a while, watching monks and tourists, wondering how they all looked so calm while I felt like I was slowly melting into the ground.

After hours of walking, breathing in more exhaust fumes than I thought was humanly possible, and sweating out what felt like my entire body's water content, I decided to call it a day. But not before one last adventure. I was passing through a market when a vendor waved me over. I thought he was going to try and sell me some kind of exotic fruit or maybe a souvenir. Instead, he handed me what I can only describe as the largest banana I’ve ever seen. I stared at it in disbelief, and he just smiled, saying something in Burmese that I’ll never understand, but the meaning was clear: “You need this more than I do, buddy.”

So, would I recommend walking across Yangon by foot? Sure, why not? If you enjoy a good sweat, a lungful of exhaust, and the kindness of strangers. Just make sure you carry water, avoid the craters in the sidewalk, and be prepared for the occasional encounter with chickens. In the end, it’s the people and the oddities that make the experience worthwhile. Just don’t expect your lungs to forgive you anytime soon.