I do not think I would advise a Burmese visitor to London to spend a morning riding the Circle Line but I am glad that, on a visit to Myanmar, I did spend three hours riding Yangon's Circular Train.
It is certainly slow. It takes three hours to cover 46 kilometres as it passes through 39 stations. But, in that time, all
Yangon's life and vegetables
will pass through the train.
I started my ride at
Ahlone Road station. It was in a leafy cutting below road level, a
bit like some of the stations on the District Line. I had to bend down to buy my ticket from the
tiny office. It cost me all of 200 kyats
[pronounced, "Chats"]; about 25 pence. I waited for the train due at 8:30. There is a timetable but its precision was
somewhat short of Swiss.
My train, pulled by a boxy, brown diesel banged, hooted and rattled into the station. I found a seat. There I remained for three hours as the people of
Yangon boarded the train for a few stations
at a time. There was a never-ending flow
of guests through, what I now thought of as, my carriage.
The train itself was a marketplace. The man selling nice looking pastries served with shredded cabbage that he cut from the whole vegetable with scissors intrigued me. A plastic bottle of a red, hot-smelling sauce completed his menu. Deftly, his tray balanced on his knees, he put two pastries into a small, plastic bag; shredded cabbage over it and ladled the sauce on top. Finally, he placed two chopsticks in the bag and handed it over to his customer. Everything this man needed to serve a complicated meal was on one, carefully laid-out circular tray. When he had finished serving a particular carriage, he stood up, placed the tray on his head, picked up his small plastic stool, and moved on with practised ease. It was ergonomics as poetry.
The doors slid open at another station and a huge bamboo tray of Durian fruit appeared through the door suspended from a yoke. It was closely followed by a man in longhi and solar topee and then by another tray of Durian. The gentle odour of Durian fruit permeated the carriage and I thought for one horrible moment that he would be cutting them open and selling the delicious, if aromatic, fruit. In fact, he was just travelling a few stations and got off again.
It occurred to me to smoke one of the fine Burmese cheroots that I had in my pocket. Then I observed the sign above the seats. Pictograms showed severe prohibitions on smoking, on littering and — snogging. Chance would have been a fine thing.
The tea man came with his pink and green antique Thermos flasks. 200 kyats (was everything going to be 200 kyats?) bought me a small plastic cup of hot, thick, sweet tea. My purchase gave me a licence to take a photograph. Once finished, the plastic cup went into my rucksack — no littering.
We approached Danyingone station. Even before we stopped, I realised we were at a market. Huge bags of vegetables came flying in through the windows followed shortly afterwards, through the doors, by their owners. The Durian man got off. I was full of admiration for the heavy and awkwardly shaped loads the people, particularly the women, had to carry. This was a working train; one woman was sorting and pruning what seemed to be bay leaves sprig by sprig into a big plastic bag. Opposite me, a businessman in smart white shirt and well-ironed longhi read the paper.
A group of lovely women, not in the first flush of youth, came into the carriage and sat near me. Each wore a spray of sun bright yellow flowers in their hair. They saw my camera and hid their faces. But once I had said "Mingalaba" (hello in Burmese), smiled, and gestured my admiration for the flowers, I was allowed to take a photograph. Seeing their image on the camera screen set off a storm of laughter.
As we reached the furthest point from
Yangon, we were in the country. A woman up to her neck in water and wearing a
bamboo hat against the sun was weeding a floating garden of vegetables in a
canal. The train turned south back
towards the centre of Yangon. The air horn sounded at every crossing and
steel wheels on ancient British laid narrow-gauge rails squeaked, rattled and banged.
We pulled into platform seven of busy Yangon Central Station. I wish now I had sat down with the old lady, with her sacks of vegetables on the platform, who was smoking a cheroot. We would have no common language but I am sure we could have had a companionable smoke together. However, it was now hot and I was looking forward to cool air and coffee.
Three hours had flown by. Several hundred of the train's 100,000 daily passengers had passed through my carriage. Where else in the world can you get three hours of top grade people watching for 25p?
Note: I am told in 2019 that the track is undergoing repairs and the whole circle route cannot be done for a while.