First impressions of a great new continent

I was filled with an ounce or two of  trepidation venturing into an unknown place; a bold new viewpoint.  What am I doing?  What will happen next?  Where might I end up?  Will I come back?

All these questions swirling in my head. And more. Then I landed at Jomo Kenyatta international airport on Easter Monday to a cool westerly breeze and a transfer to my hotel.  What was central Nairobi going to be like?  And what a feast of colour, new sights, smells.

People are people and that's the big learning.  Why did I think this place would be different to elsewhere?  Why did I believe here would be contorted to something unrecognizable?  Of course it isn't. The people live, the thirst for life is lip-smacking.

New customs are quickly adopted and a fresh perspective on my surroundings easily taken on board. One should wear a suit at work (thank God the climate allows) and don't wait for the traffic light to necessarily turn green before driving on.  So much to learn. So many things to wonder at.

I've perchanced on places I'd hitherto only dreamed or fantasized about. Did I really venture to Dar Es Salaam?  Did I actually land at Entebbe?  Was there an arrival in Accra?  And was that Lagos I spied from the comfort of my suitably locked Toyota?

I guess it all must have happened.  

And a colleague asked will I not miss all the wondrous things in Asia?  Naturally, I shall.  But the retort perhaps should be, "what would I be missing in Africa if I didn't move on?"  I'm already yearning to be back in Uganda, return to Tanzania and sample more of what Lagos (apparently) has to offer.

There is something that just popped into my head and it's major concern: how can one be stylish in east Africa?  I saw the eye-wincing brightness of bold tribal prints in Nigeria and an admiration of the great houses of luxury only usually witnessed in Rome.  But I must confess the Kenyan appreciation of Gucci, Boss, Dior and perhaps Ferragamo is less than slight.  The conservative nature of the east is over-shadowed by the flamboyance of the west of this great continent. Will I be consigned to scouring for khakis and safari gear on my next jaunt to London?  Will I find myself passing by Armani and heading like a misguided homing-pigeon into the Timerland store?  Will Merrill replace Prada for my footwear of choice?  And how could the North Face become my Etro or Zegna when I need an outer-garment to keep me warm or dry (or both) ??!

Then again, I don't think I shall let it happen.

Maybe it's partly my duty to bring a little bit of style and unaffordable luxury to this corner of the world.   I resolve to subscribe to Monocle and continue to scan the pages of Flipboard ensuring I won't be abandoned by the fashion and odd extravagance that is THE industry.

I have enjoyed beyond my wildest imagination my first month in Africa. I shall be returning to Singapore in a few days time and am certain people will want to know more about my "initiation" onto the dark continent.  I think I'll tell them it was "OK".

After all I don't want everyone coming over, now do I?!

Myanmar or is that Burma?

What's in a name?
I'm not always certain - but I ususally look it up!

And when I was debating internally about whether to go to Myanmar or not, I came to thinking where on earth had the Myanmar name come from.  I didn't even know why Burma was dropped - there is an official denial from the part of many parts of the Commonwealth and international community who insist on syaing Burma and Rangoon -yet the reality - as usal is somewhat more complicated.

Without going into it all here - the Burmese are actually a majority ethnicity within the country of Myanmar - and calling Myanmar, Burma is a little bit like calling the UK, England.  I know that's done - but it's incorrect - and given the recent success of the Scottish nationalists in the elections there, I would hate to pour oil on the fire.  (Mind you, as a complete aside, I struggle to see why so many cling onto the Union despite an overwhelming economic argument that is in favour of jettisoning the 3/4s of the Union that perhaps contributes less in capital and more in traditions.)

Back to my Myanmarese tale.

Our first stop was Bagan - the valley of temples.  You read the descriptions and you are made constantly aware of the stats - 4000+ temples in a 26 square mile area.  But you don't really take it in.

The dust in Bagan was of "grapes of wrath" magnitude and the searing heat made it very uncomfortable - but the sights made it all worthwhile.

We arrived just before the New Year celebrations really got under way and the water throwing (akin to what happens in Thailand for Songkran) peaked the following day just as we were making our way to a local market.  Dousing is not the word - the locals were soaking each other.  It seemed people, as they sped past on the motorbikes or in the back of open trucks were revelling in the prospect of getting more & more drenched.  Locals stand on the roadside with Tupperware bowls and small pales waiting for passing traffic or pedestrians and then they let rip.

Everyone was wet through.  Baxter and I managed to escape - with only a mild sprinkling from behind.  It's good luck you see - how could we not oblige.  I kept my camera out of harm's way and shuddered as the cold water trickled down my back.

We had a great guide who took us to all the main temples, stupas and monasteries.

And this despite his betel-nut-stained smile.  Betel nuts are chewed all over the country and the red stain it leaves on the teeth is less than flattering.  Then the locals spit out spent saliva - it's a tobacco substitute of sorts - a bit like snuff.

 This is all very well and good, but when we told to remove our shoes (and socks) to enter the temples, we had to do this in the car then tiptoe through splatterings of spittle at the temple entrance - rather perturbing, I might add.

But we survived.

We then mounted a disused monastery with our guide to get a good view of the valley.  We had to crawl up a rather dark passageway with shaky steps and then haul ourselves up at the top to appreciate the vista.  And wow what a vista it was.

This is what we saw......it took our breath away.

This was Bagan.

We were then to head back south to Rangoon (another controversial naming thing) where the colonial majesty is still felt.

More on that another time.