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Best to start in the middle of nowhere; fresh start and all that. How about this gigantic tract of virgin rainforest, uninhabited for at least 2, years? Just ship in a load of peasants, give them machetes and absolutely no communication with the outside world. Yeah, China. Get them on board. First things first. Get rid of that ridiculous system of neighbourhoods, with their charming sense of homeliness and accessibility. It makes far more sense to have sectors. Over there you can have all the hotels. The shopping centres should be the next bit along. Keep the tourists together, you know? They bloody love a bit of shopping. Ok, put the parliament right here. You should just nip that in the bud right now by not having anywhere for them to actually meet up. And how? Why, by ensuring that you and your mates own everything the light touches and keeping an eye on whatever happens within your walls, but also basically just making the city totally fuck-off huge. Good god no! Can you imagine the danger of allowing a critical mass? I mean spread. We are talking space. A whole bloody rainforest! Seriously, the mess. The lack of visible sky. The clutter! So get rid of all that. Then join them with enormous naked concrete roads, intersect those with concrete roundabouts, which you should top with giant flowers may I suggest concrete? I guess maybe you should give the locals something to do. Provide entertainment! How about a park? A really nice park! A concrete one. With a concrete fountain that has a light show and plays music. Every night! All that space, all that grey! These are basically boulevards! Like, add extra lanes. A couple? So laners as standard throughout the city and then a lane highway immediately outside the parliament building. Have you seen those celebrations in London, when the citizens all line up in front of Buckingham Palace along the Mall? How stupid! I bet the Queen wishes her grandparents thought this far ahead and made that piddly little alleyway a lane-highway! They always think so small! And when everyone comes to visit, can you imagine the looks on their faces? All those people who thought your country was poor. Those political leaders and foreign kings and queens. Wow, you really must be rich! Is that a museum for gems? You are so creative! I would never have thought to build roads this wide. This truly is the city to end all cities and you are the greatest leader the world has ever known! Like, right now. Conspiracies all over the shop. Need to escape? How about a network of tunnels? You see how this incredibly straight lane highway with no middle section looks like a runway? I mean, in theory. Now hold on to your hats when I tell you that this background of its construction is — from what we know — as explained. Paranoia, misplaced grandeur, hideous exploitation. But Naypyitaw was a city-sized folly which few people on earth even knew was being built before they unveiled it, complete and ready to be inhabited, in Why did the city exist? Who was it for? Was it really as empty, featureless, and expansive as the photos suggested? Trains head there from all over the country — it is the capital, after all — but when we bought our tickets the guard still looked at us in some consternation and seemed confused as to why we wanted to visit. The train was by far the nicest we experienced during all of our time in Burma; fast, smooth, air-conditioning, seats so spaced out that we could put our enormous rucksacks on the floor in front and still have room to stretch our legs. Instead of the hawkers who usually leapt on at a station and roamed the carriages for a few stops, selling home-made curries, freshly-picked bananas, boiled eggs and other goodies, here the train was patrolled by all-male uniformed employees, two or three at a time pushing carts like cabin crew, sliding past every few minutes. We were the only foreigners to get off the train, amongst barely a handful of Burmese people, alighting into a gigantic, elaborate, and entirely empty station: a sign of things to come. We all traipsed through the corridors to the crowd of taxi drivers at the entrance. He told us. We laughed in his face. Utterly ridiculous. It had cost us a fraction of that to reach the station in Yangon. Our train tickets had barely cost more than he was quoting. But he was unrepentant, and slightly apologetic. The other drivers shrugged, we checked the Lonely Planet, got it down by a few thousand and then gave up. Far from it: the vast roads were absolutely, completely, entirely empty. The architects of this brand-new city had simply decided, in their infinite wisdom, that creating a central train station was not in keeping with its ethos, and had instead located it 25 km away. And during the entire 30 minute drive, we saw less than a dozen other vehicles. On the main road from the only train station. We had to call ahead and request a ride when we wanted to leave our room. Partly, I imagine, this is because they were so busy showing off that they forgot to factor in the practicalities of guests walking everywhere in intense heat. Yet despite this excess of space, the rooms themselves were surprisingly small. Certainly not tiny, but considering the incredible distances the city covered, it was remarkable that our first room in Yangon had been significantly larger; that we had to take ungainly steps over our luggage, stuffed between the bed and the window, to get around the room. And more than that, it was just so grim. But worst of all was the unapologetic wealth divide and open exploitation of the citizens. Under baking air, in the middle of a drought, the hotels unfailingly watered their emerald-green lawns; outside the city limits, shrivelled crops withered and died. Despite a total lack of guests, they were busy building new rooms. But to our horror, the workers — busy shovelling cement or manhandling pneumatic drills — wore ragged clothes and flip-flops, or no shoes at all. It was disgusting, and heartbreaking. It was a catch Until very recently it was necessary to acquire a permit before visiting Naypyitaw and even now most foreigners visit only out of necessity — NGO workers, diplomats, civil servants — before heading back to normality as speedily as possible. The streets had been empty at 11pm the previous night and at noon on a weekday, they were, if anything, even emptier. We saw a single bus. Even these depressing focal points conjured up small-town malls in a town which was once bustling before the council put in a ring-road. I honestly have no idea. Its very sad-looking playground, already weathered and peeling in the scorching sun, was bereft of children. But I was forbidden from purchasing so much as a bookmark, knowing the conditions in which the raw materials had been excavated, and exactly where the profits went. We were the only visitors there, of course. Still the many dozens of sellers stood behind their wares, glassy-eyed and perma-smiling, pressing us to take a look but apathetic when we left empty-handed. We popped along to Uppatasanti pagoda; an unintentionally comical replica of the gigantic, famous Shwedagon Pagoda in Yangon which we had yet to visit. Close up, it was cheap, tacky, and already falling apart. Bricks piled up where building work had inexplicably halted, gold paint was rubbing away, foil peeled from the stupa. The cavernous interior was decorated with an LED-lit Buddha, a cheap green carpet, and dramatic and deeply ironic Buddhist messages encouraging the abandonment of material needs. I wheedled a few details from their enthusiastic guard who was eager to practice his English; surprisingly, they seemed relatively well cared-for. And finally, we headed to the parliament building. We drove down a road of perhaps 14 lanes, split by a central grassy island, marvelling at the size and the sheer emptiness. We thought this was it. We were wrong. Around a corner, suddenly, there it was: a vast road which to all intents and purposes was, indeed, a runway: an astronomically wide, featureless, empty lane highway which could easily accommodate a jumbo jet. We slowed to a crawl outside the parliament building, hidden safely down a long road and ringed by a moat! Finally there was just time for a spot of lunch at the local airport; sorry, I mean restaurant. Thanks, Naypyitaw tourist board! Boy do you know what we want! Do I recommend you visit? Asia , Burma , flashpacker , flashpacking , hotel , Myanmar , Naypyitaw , The Big Trip , train , train travel , travel , weird destinations. Your email address will not be published. Sign me up to receive new posts by email! Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. RSS — Posts. RSS — Comments. What do you do? Build a new capital city, of course. Sit down. Shut up. Have fun. The greatest city on Earth! Naypyitaw train station: pretty much the most people we saw in one place Trains head there from all over the country — it is the capital, after all — but when we bought our tickets the guard still looked at us in some consternation and seemed confused as to why we wanted to visit. Buying tickets. Old school! Charing Cross? Gare du Nord? Myanmar train station? Inside the hotel grounds. What drought? Peter fights his way to the breakfast buffet But worst of all was the unapologetic wealth divide and open exploitation of the citizens. So you thought Westfield was grim. Hold on, traffic jam! By the old Moulmein pagoda: brief stops and bouncy trains. Written by Robyn. You may also like By the old Moulmein pagoda: brief stops and bouncy trains. A secret slice of old Burma in Dawei, southern Myanmar. Leave a Reply Cancel reply Your email address will not be published. Search the site Search for:. Follow by email Enter your details below to receive new posts by email. Recent Posts Welcome to Naypyitaw: the weirdest capital city on earth By the old Moulmein pagoda: brief stops and bouncy trains A secret slice of old Burma in Dawei, southern Myanmar The Death Railway to Dawei: adventures across the Thai-Burmese border Shipping containers and fire-breathing dragons. Twitter My Tweets.

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