Mixed Blessings

arrive in the Myanmar capital of Yangon (for merly Rangoon) with mixed feelings. There is relief and pleasure at the warmth of the morning, and the fact that the air is scented by flowers instead of industry and traffic. There is a whiff of nostalgia for my days traveling in Eastern Europe in the 1980s, for here too tourists are obliged to buy non-convertible Foreign Exchange Certificates on entry.

Such hiccups apart, I'm excited at the prospect of seeing a place no one else I know has seen. The city is a low-rise sprawl of great charm. Only a handful of tall buildings interrupt the skyline. One is my luxurious retreat, the Shangri-La group's Traders Hotel Yangon, which affords me fabulous views to all corners: North to the immense gold stupa of the Shwedagon Temple; South to ships plying the Yangon River, while all around and in between are narrow streets crowded with faded colonial buildings. It all adds up to a remarkable perspective.

Around the corner from Traders is the Bogyoke (or Scott, after a former British governor) Market, housed in an elegant colonial-era building. This is mainly devoted to jewelry, clothes, second-rate art and shifty men who sidle up to whisper: "Change money?� Which makes Yangon little different to certain other Asian cities.

There is something reassuring about such open black-marketeering, akin almost to local people's lack of reticence in having a good chat with foreigners like me. Older people in particular put themselves forward. Openers is usually an offer of some kind of service, but there's nothing businesslike about their approach; whether I do a deal or not, they are keen to stick around, practice their language skills and talk about their lives.

An elderly man speaking perfect English (he says his father worked in an American Baptist mission) shares his hopes for better days ahead -don't we all?- then says: "I'm so glad you stayed to chat.Most tourists just run away."

I begin to see why a certain kind of tourist should not be welcomed by everyone. What does it benefit ordinary people to have visitors who shie away from contact? Back in the Traders lobby I pass a fat general in Elvis (Vegas period) sunglasses. Outside on the street is a girl with rickets, her wrists bent 90 degrees to arms the circumference of cricket stumps.

Opposite, a large board informs guests of the People's Desire: "Oppose those relying on external elements, acting as stooges, holding negative views.� I check my views and find them negative, but nobody seems to notice. I am beset by paradox, as the whole atmosphere of Yangon makes my mood irresistibly positive. The official tourism PR makes much of the warmth and friendliness of the locals, and it all appears to be quite true. Even the beggars seem just as happy to have a chat as hassle for change. I also encounter a surprisingly high standard of English, doubtless another legacy of the British Empire.

The Shwedagon Pagoda is the postcard image of the city, but I find it to be unlike any temple attraction I have visited elsewhere. Quite apart from its remarkable beauty (I had always considered gold a tacky ornamentation, but not any more), it has a serene quality that acts on my own emotions. Most of the people around me are here to pray and meditate, and I find I also want little else than to sit in a corner in quiet contemplation.

I could stay here for days on end, I'm sure. I like it very much, and don't regret coming to this place. I leave wishing I had longer to meet more people and see more of the country.

Bangkok Bubble
I've only been flying an hour, but I am disoriented. Yangon has not prepared my senses for the assault Bangkok makes on them. A posh bus propels me through a dark and alienating sprawl that I view from an elevated freeway. I'm in a bubble and feeling very weird.

I arrive at my hotel, the Shangri-La Bangkok. It's the plushest place I have ever seen. I eat magnificent Italian food and drink too much Italian wine at the hotel's famed Angelini restaurant, often voted among the world's top ten for this cuisine. My head's in bits.

Nobody in Myanmar seemed to know what to do with tourists, so they ended up treating me like a human being. In Bangkok, I'm back to being a tourist 100 percent of the time. I tour temples, I tour palaces. There's millions of people. I don't dig the Thai style very much � too angular, too glittery. But I delight in a ruin at Ayuttaya, North of the city, where a yesteryear king built a temple based on Angkor Wat in Cambodia (he got into the style while fighting a war there).

The ruin is curvy, phallic, reassuring. I relax for the first time. Lunch is served on the hotel boat that cruises gently back to the hotel along the Chao Phraya River. I am puzzled and pleased at the riverside life. Why don't rich people buy up the waterfront here?

I need more cruises. It's night and I'm in Patpong, where women in bikinis dance on tables and men sell Osama Bin Laden T-shirts. It's a strange scene. Girls of school age kick hell out of one another in a Thai boxing match; boys are girls; pimps have laminated lists of attractions. My soul is being sucked out of my body. I am having a great time and am comforted that I have a great hotel to return to.

I eat in an open-air food market where the fare tastes amazing. I visit the Jim Thompson Museum, which is in the late businessman's house. This famous entrepreneur, a Thai icon, was an American who rejuvenated the local silk industry before mysteriously disappearing many years ago, generally presumed murdered. He built his house from bits of traditional homes from elsewhere in Thailand. It is beautiful and tasteful, the finest monument to Thai culture I have seen. Yet it was built by a foreigner. I'm disoriented again.

Obese, seedy foreigners are everywhere. If I stay here, I will become one of them. I am having a great time. But I leave without regret.