Back to Myanmar

In my travels, I met up with a used bookstore owner in Bangkok who is editing a travel book on Myanmar, called From Asia with Love. Sounds saucy! Anyway, he has graciously let me try my hand at travel writing and since I don't think they own the rights to the writing, I figured I would plug some of what I wrote into my blog. Granted, as Vail is getting pounded with snow, I now feel light years away from Myanmar, but here's what I came up with.

An American in Longyi
By John Buckley

To be honest, I’ve never quite been sold on the concept of pants. Sure, being raised in a cold-weather environment in the United States has made them an elemental and cultural necessity, but secretly I’ve always yearned to be freed from their tight, form-fitting shackles.

When I first began reading about Myanmar in preparation for a three-week visit, I was introduced to the fact that upon arrival I would quickly come into contact with women who had a powdery, yellow substance (known as thanaka) smeared on their cheeks and also men who would be wearing a dress-like garment known as a longyi (pronounced lon-gee).

Sure enough, when I arrived at the Yangon International Airport on a hot day in October, I was greeted by the smiling faces of women with thanaka smeared in various patterns across their cheeks and young taxi drivers seeking my business; all of whom seemed to be wearing ankle-length pieces of cloth tied neatly around their waists. I was instantly intrigued.

Having spent my first afternoon in Yangon wandering the chaotic city streets, it soon became apparent that this was not a “costume” adorned by the locals for the benefit of arriving tourists, as one might find stepping off a plane in the South Pacific. The use of thanaka (used as a sunscreen and make-up) and the wearing of longyis were traditional practices that had been preserved in a country that has essentially been cut off from the “modern world” for the better part of the last half century.

Visiting with a longyi-wearing local travel agent in Yangon, I curiously asked about the traditional garment. With a brief explanation of its practicality, the agent then produced a small plastic-wrapped package that contained a neatly folded longyi. With a smile, he offered it to me as a gift, probably assuming it would never see the light of day.

On a visit to the Shwedagon Pagoda, one of Myanmar’s most sacred Buddhist sites, I entered wearing a pair of American standard-issue board shorts. As I paid the entry fee, I was asked shyly if I had a pair of trousers to cover my knees in accordance with Buddhist practice at religious sites. I admitted that I did not, embarrassed at my oversight. I then remembered the longyi that I still had in my backpack and asked if it would suffice. The young man looked relieved and told me that it would be much appreciated if I would be so kind as to put it on.

Having told him that I would have no problem with this, it then occurred to me that there was, in fact, one small problem. I had no idea how to go about fastening the circular piece of cloth around my waist.

Attracting a small crowd of giggling locals, I received my first lesson on tying a longyi in proper fashion. The key it seemed (as my new friend got a little too close for comfort) is securing two ends of fabric in each hand before dropping the right hand down to hold the middle firmly in place at the waist. You then meet the right hand with the left hand before encircling the two clumped pieces of fabric in a tight cross section. With a twirl of each wrist, the fabric intertwines leaving each end free for the final tuck motion where the loose ends get inserted into the waistline to hold everything in place.

Feeling slightly awkward at first, I walked the grounds of the Shwedagon Pagoda and began to take to the concept of the longyi. Free-flowing, yet conservative; casual, yet stylish; I felt the need for pants in my life diminish.

Later, on a visit to the ancient city of Mingun outside of Mandalay, I received another lesson in the practicalities of the longyi. Having engaged in a rather lengthy tour of the Mingun Paya—the large, unfinished stupa on the banks of the Ayeyarwady River—I was soaked through with sweat. Noticing that the Myanmar sun had begun taking its toll on me my guide asked if I would like to take a “shower,” which in local parlance meant bathing in the river.

Though tempted, I did not want to have wet clothes for the remainder of the day and politely declined with that as an explanation. Undeterred, he told me that I could borrow a longyi, as the beating sun soon weakened my resistance. Changing clothes in his modest house, I did my best to reenact the motions of my earlier lesson. I then walked down to the river, doing my best to keep the longyi firmly in place in an effort to not expose myself to the throng of other tourists who were already shooting confused glares in my direction.

Joining another group of elderly woman and my new friend in the water, I spent the afternoon swimming in the river and washing myself with borrowed soap along the banks. Though the unfinished stupa was indeed a site to see, it was that moment in the river that I will remember best - and I owe it all to the longyi.

Throughout the remainder of my trip, I would wear my longyi in private, secretly longing for this to become an accepted look for an American. On my way out of Yangon, I purchased two more in various patterns. Now that I am home, I have vowed to friends that I will make the longyi the latest craze in a society that could benefit from loosening up a bit and letting go of their pants.