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Burma, Customs

The Shwedagon Pagoda – magnificent witness of the Buddhist novitiation

posted by Aleksandra Wisniewska
Aug 13, 2017 8440 0 0
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The Shwedagon Pagoda – an almost 100-meter high stupa that majestically rises on Singuttara Hill – has been reigning over Yangon for hundreds of years. It is believed that the “Crown of Myanmar” was created more than 2500 years ago, making it the oldest in the world. Covered with gold and jewels, it enshrines relics sacred for Buddhist, amongst others – eight strands of hair from Gautama Buddha’s head. The most important place of worship in Myanmar is also a pilgrimage destination of the faithful from all over the world.

First rays of a barely awake sun fall on two gigantic statues of leogryphs. Lion-like creatures guard each of the four entrances to the Shwedagon Pagoda. Between them, there is a massive gate with a roof ornamented with golden carvings. Behind it, stretches a long, spacious corridor. With its marble floor decorated with painted panels and massive columns, it looks more like a ballroom than a walkway to a temple.

The corridor opens to the main terrace of the pagoda, which resembles a small town. The ornamented roofs of smaller and larger temples and prayer rooms stretch to the horizon. Above them, majestically towers the main stupa – the golden jewel in the crown of the temple complex.

Soon, this breath-taking scenery becomes a stage to one of the most important events in the lives of young Buddhists. Surrounded by the family, they will be admitted to the Buddhist novitiate for the first time. Not older than eight or ten years boys are going to be respected monks. This time, only for a short while, just for a week.

Although it is early in the morning, the terrace is already alive with people. Shuffling with bare feet over the still cool floor, they move from the chapel to the chapel to pay their homage to the Great Teacher. Sitting or kneeling they are careful not to point their feet towards the statue and do not turn their backs on it, which would mean the greatest disrespect.

They come with all families. Several generations including seniors who are already looking for support of the younger arm. Young parents and their children with faces smudged with sun-screening thanaka paste and shaved heads – for the hair to grow stronger and for a cooling effect. Aunts, uncles, cousins. The big expedition to the most prominent place of worship is almost like a picnic with its tranquil, family atmosphere. Whoever wishes to pray, prays. Whoever wants to meditate, meditates. These, who prefer just to sit in the cool shade and soak up the beauty of the place, do exactly that. The atmosphere of the greatest respect and admiration is perceptible, but it does not feel uncomfortable. It does not overwhelm.

 
With every passing hour, it gets more and more crowded. When it seems that the temple terrace is unable to hold any more pilgrims, colourful pageants start to appear. At their front there are young boys, looking like princes from the fairytale kingdom. Their lips highlighted with red lipstick, eye contours and eyebrows blackened with a crayon, crown-like decoration of flowers and sequins adorns their heads.

Dressed in the best festive sarongs, prideful parents walk next to the boys. Mum carries a package with everything that a monk needs – an orange robe, an alms bowl, a razor, a fan and a piece of canvas for water filtering. Dad holds a golden umbrella over his son, shielding him from the sun. Next, in the line, beautiful young girls are carrying decorated ceremonial boxes and flowers. Other relatives are closing the procession.

The pageant circles around the main stupa of the pagoda in a clockwise direction. This course follows the direction of the sun and at the same time symbolises the four most important moments of Buddha’s life: east – birth, south – enlightenment, west – setting in motion the Dharma cycle, north – ultimate achievement of liberation from the suffering. Moreover, the clockwise movement causes the right hand – identified with righteousness – to be always turned towards the sacred object. Such positioning symbolises respect and reverence.

Occasionally someone breaks up from the procession and approaches the planetary post. At each of the posts, there is a statue of the Buddha, who is the patron of the person born on that day. Below the statuette of the deity, there is a figurine of an animal, symbolizing the individual’s character: Monday – tiger (smart, strong and patient) Wednesday morning – tusker (unpredictable and enthusiastic), Wednesday afternoon – elephant (introvert but with luck in business), Friday – guinea pig (creative, loving and sensitive), etc. Whoever visits the planetary post should draw water from the vessel at the Buddha statue and pour it over the figurine arm three times, chanting one’s request or prayer.

 
After the procession, the entire family surrounds the boys, who are about to enter the new stage of spiritual life. Taking pictures and posing with monks-to-be is endless. In a moment, the children will enter the monastery, where they will ask the abbot for admission to the order. The older monks will shave boys’ heads and will start to educate them about Buddha teachings. From then on, boys will have nothing in their possession. Like their older brothers, each morning they will gather alms. They will only eat two meals a day – the last one before noon. But above all, they will study the Buddha’s teachings and learn how to meditate. The whole processing is just a small substitute of what Prince Siddhartha had done hundreds of years ago when he rejected the worlds pleasures in search of spiritual enlightenment.

Accepting their son into the order is one of the greatest honours that can befall on parents. They will celebrate this event not only with family but also with friends and even neighbours. Parents of the boy will organise a great feast and invite anyone who wishes to share their joy with them. Cost does not count. If the poorer family is unable to arrange a lavish celebration, the richer relatives will help. Everyone involved in the preparation will treat it as a Buddhist duty – the opportunity to do good deeds that will result in positive karma and protection from one of the four hells. Blessing of the son turned monk flows to the parents and relatives.

With the advent of the evening, the pagoda terrace slowly desolates. Young monks are already behind the walls of the monastery. Colorful processions left the temple. And it is now when the Shwedagon Pagoda shows that it is a real gem of Myanmar. In the rays of the sunset reflecting in its golden walls, it begins to glow with the radiance of the burning ruby.

Know before you go

  • TIPS
  • LOCATION
  • TIME
  • PRICE

TIPS

It is worth to start visiting The Shwedagon Pagoda early in the morning to avoid both: crowds of visitors and the heat pouring from the sky. Alternatively, you can visit the place in the afternoon when the heat subdues, however, the masses remain till at least the sunset.

As the Shwedagon is the greatest place of Buddhist worship, it must be duly respected. There is no way of entering with bare shoulders or knees. The rule applies to both: ladies and gentlemen. Also, keep in mind that the entry is only barefoot. For this very reason, it is again worthy consideration to do the morning visit, when the marble floor of the main terrace is still cool and does not mercilessly burn feet.

LOCATION

Dagon, Yangon,
Myanmar (Burma)
The Shwedagon Pagoda is Yangon’s most recognisable monument and getting there is not a problem. A taxi fare from the airport to the temple area will be about 11,000 MMK (kiat) / 8 USD.

TIME

Opening hours: 04:00 – 22:00 (last entry – 21:45)
Opening hours of the Temple Tourist Center: 08:00 – 21:00

PRICE

Entry ticket – 11 000 MMK (kiat) / 8 USD
Guide – 7,000 MMK (kiat) / 5 USD
Tickets can only be purchased on site.


 
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[English below] Trzydniowa Japonia w pigułce rozn [English below]
Trzydniowa Japonia w pigułce rozniosła nam głowy. Kilka lat później przeprowadziliśmy się do niej na sześć miesięcy. Kraj przez pół roku konsekwentnie i nieodwracalnie przepalał nam styki. Dlatego nie zdziwiliśmy się wcale, kiedy kilka lat później w Wołgogradzie po meczu Polska-Japonia kibice naszych rywali zabrali się za porządkowanie stadionowych trybun. Co kiedyś mogłoby wywołać uśmiech politowania i wymowny gest posuwisto-zwrotny palcem wskazującym w stronę czoła, dziś było tak oczywiste, że aż trzeba się było dołączyć. Wcale nas nie zdziwiło, że przed stadionem rzesze japońskich fanów gratulowało Polakom tak żarliwie, jakbyśmy wcale nie grali o pietruszkę. Przy tym wszyscy byli tak urzekająco szczęśliwi naszym… hmm… szczęściem, jakby sami właśnie wygrali puchar. Wymianom szalików, koszulek nie było końca. Andrzej wrócił chyba z trzema. W tym jedną vintage z rozgrywek w latach dziewięćdziesiątych ubiegłego wieku. Co prawda juniorska, ale przynajmniej na jedno z nas pasuje.
-----
Three-day Japan, in a nutshell, blew our minds. A few years later, we moved in there for six months. The country has been consistently and irreversibly frying our brains for half a year. That's why we weren't at all surprised when, a few years later, in Volgograd, after the Poland-Japan match, our rivals' fans started cleaning up the stadium stands. What once might have caused a smile of pity and a back-and-forth gesture with the index finger towards the forehead was now so obvious that we had to join in. We were not at all surprised that in front of the stadium, crowds of Japanese fans congratulated the Poles as passionately as if we were not playing for honour at all. And everyone was so charmingly happy with our… hmm… victory as if they had just won the cup themselves. There was no end to the exchange of scarves and T-shirts. Andrzej came back with at least three, including one vintage from the 1990s. It's a junior size, but it fits at least one of us.
[English below] Tak, jak obiecał, przyszedł w po [English below]
Tak, jak obiecał, przyszedł w poniedziałek z samego rana. Przyszedł jak zwykle elegancki. W jasnej koszuli w kratkę, w spodniach w kancik, w idealnie wypolerowanych okularach, z wypielęgnowaną skórzaną torbą przerzuconą przez ramię. Snuła się wokół niego mgiełka nienachalnej serdeczności i zaraźliwego spokoju. Wystarczyło stanąć obok, żeby nim przesiąknąć. Jak zapachem. Ale zapachu Andrieja nie pamiętam. Wydaje mi się jednak, że pachniał mydłem. Takim zwykłym, szarym. Każdego ranka krótkim, grubym pędzlem nakładał mydlaną piankę okrężnymi ruchami na twarz, żeby zmiękczyć zarost. Potem zmieniał żyletkę w ciężkawej srebrnej maszynce do golenia i uważnie przesuwał nią po policzkach, brodzie, szyi. Na koniec chlustał w dłonie wodą kolońską ze szklanej odkręcanej butelki i wklepywał ją w podrażnioną ostrzem twarz. Na pewno szczypało. Tak, Andriej musiał pachnieć szarym mydłem i wodą kolońską. Tak pachniał mój dziadzio. Tak pachniał mój tata. Tak pachniała dobroć. 
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
-----------------------------
As promised, he came on Monday morning. He arrived elegant as usual. In a light checkered shirt, in crease trousers, in perfectly polished glasses, with a well-groomed leather bag slung over his shoulder. There was a mist of unobtrusive cordiality and contagious calmness around him. All you had to do was stand next to him to be soaked in it, like in the fragrance. But I don't remember Andrei's scent. I think he smelled like soap, though. Just plain grey soap. Every morning, he used a short, thick brush to apply soapy foam in circular motions to his face to soften the stubble. Then he changed the razor blade in the heavy silver shaver and carefully ran it over his cheeks, chin, and neck. Finally, he splashed cologne from a glass screw-top bottle into his hands and patted it on his face, irritated by the blade. It definitely stung. Yes, Andrei must have smelled of grey soap and cologne. This is what my grandfather smelled like. This is what my dad smelled like. This was the smell of kindness.
(The whole txt under the link in bio)
[English below] Wołgograd nijak ma się do Moskwy [English below]
Wołgograd nijak ma się do Moskwy, ale ma swój przydział potężnych rzeźb. Smutne to rzeźby. Pełne cierpienia, rozpaczy. Rzeźby żołnierzy dźwigających rannych kolegów. Rzeźby twarzy wykrzywionych męką, mięśni rwanych wiecznym bólem zakrzepłym w kamieniu. Ten umęczony szpaler prowadzi do stóp Matki Ojczyzny. Matka jest potężna – ma osiemdziesiąt pięć metrów wzrostu, krótkie rozwiane włosy i powłóczystą szatę. W prawej uniesionej ręce ściska nagi miecz i nim wzywa. Do czego? 
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
---
Volgograd is nothing like Moscow but has its share of massive sculptures. Here, sculptures are sad. Full of suffering and despair. These are sculptures of soldiers carrying wounded colleagues. Sculptures of faces twisted with torment, muscles torn by eternal pain congealed in stone. This tormented row leads to the feet of Mother Motherland. The Mother is huge - eighty-five meters tall, with short wind-blown hair and a flowing robe. She holds a naked sword and calls with it in her raised right hand. Calls to what? 
(The full story under the link in bio)
Instagram post 18199135858260048 Instagram post 18199135858260048
Szpakowaty ojciec z kilkuletnim synem podchodzą z Szpakowaty ojciec z kilkuletnim synem podchodzą zaraz po meczu. W stroboskopowych światłach imprezy na strefie kibica błyskają malutkie rosyjskie flagi wymalowane na ich twarzach. Podchodzą nieśmiali.
- Bardzo przepraszam, ale mówiłem synowi, że wy z Polszy i mamy do was taką prośbę – stara się wykrzyczeć w nasze uszy szpakowaty ojciec.
- Bo on by chciał, żebyście sobie obok waszych polskich, rosyjskie flagi namalowali. O tak, jak my – szpakowaty pan pokazuje przedramię swoje i syna, gdzie widać małe znaczki flag obu krajów.
Chłopczyk odziany od stóp do głów w barwy narodowe Rosji patrzy na nas okrągłymi oczami. Przestępuje z nogi na nogę. Ściska ojca za rękę. I już nie wiadomo, który z nich się bardziej denerwuje – ojciec czy syn.
A Szpakowaty pan mówi dalej. Mówi, że on synowi o Polsce od zawsze opowiada. Żeby wiedział, że przecież nas więcej łączy, niż dzieli. Że między nami bardzo silna więź, bo w naszych żyłach płynie ta sama krew. Słowiańska. Że jesteśmy bracia Słowianie. Bracia krwi. Szpakowaty pan opowiada. Opowiada i ma łzy w oczach.
--------
A grizzled father with a few-year-old son approaches right after the match. In the strobe lights of the party in the fan zone, flash tiny Russian flags painted on their faces. The two of them approach shyly.
“I am very sorry, but I told my son that you are from Poland, and we wanted to ask something of you", the grey-haired father tries to shout into our ears.
“He would like you to paint Russian flags next to your Polish ones. Here, just like we did," the grey-haired gentleman shows his and his son's forearms, where we can see small stamps of the flags of both countries.
A boy dressed from head to toe in the national colours of Russia looks at us with round eyes. He shifts from foot to foot and squeezes his father's hand. We no longer know which of them is more nervous – the father or the son.
The grey-haired man continues. He says that he has always been telling his son about Poland. To let him know that there is more that unites us than divides us. That there is a very strong bond between us because the same blood flows in our veins. That we are blood brothers. He explains and has tears in his eyes.
[English below] Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów [English below]
Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów dalej pozwalamy sobie wierzyć, że to nie jest żaden podstęp. Że naprawdę nas wpuściła. Że już nic „nas ne dogonyat”.

Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów później zauważamy jaka Rosja jest piękna. Przynajmniej jej początek.

Jedziemy pod łukiem powitalnym z szerokiej tęczy, co łączy, przecięte gładziutką szosą pola soczyście żółtego rzepaku. Nad rzepakiem – bezkresne błękitne niebo.

W 2018 Rosja wita nas kolorami Ukrainy.
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
----------
Only a few dozen kilometres further, we allow ourselves to believe that this is not a trick. That she really let us in. That they really ‘nas ne dogonyat’.

Only a few dozen kilometres later, we notice how beautiful Russia is. 

We ride under the welcome arch made of a broad rainbow, connecting the juicy yellow rapeseed fields cut by a smooth road. Over the rapeseed stretches an endless blue sky.

In 2018, Russia welcomes us with the colours of Ukraine.
(the whole text under the link in bio)
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INSTAGRAM

[English below] Trzydniowa Japonia w pigułce rozn [English below]
Trzydniowa Japonia w pigułce rozniosła nam głowy. Kilka lat później przeprowadziliśmy się do niej na sześć miesięcy. Kraj przez pół roku konsekwentnie i nieodwracalnie przepalał nam styki. Dlatego nie zdziwiliśmy się wcale, kiedy kilka lat później w Wołgogradzie po meczu Polska-Japonia kibice naszych rywali zabrali się za porządkowanie stadionowych trybun. Co kiedyś mogłoby wywołać uśmiech politowania i wymowny gest posuwisto-zwrotny palcem wskazującym w stronę czoła, dziś było tak oczywiste, że aż trzeba się było dołączyć. Wcale nas nie zdziwiło, że przed stadionem rzesze japońskich fanów gratulowało Polakom tak żarliwie, jakbyśmy wcale nie grali o pietruszkę. Przy tym wszyscy byli tak urzekająco szczęśliwi naszym… hmm… szczęściem, jakby sami właśnie wygrali puchar. Wymianom szalików, koszulek nie było końca. Andrzej wrócił chyba z trzema. W tym jedną vintage z rozgrywek w latach dziewięćdziesiątych ubiegłego wieku. Co prawda juniorska, ale przynajmniej na jedno z nas pasuje.
-----
Three-day Japan, in a nutshell, blew our minds. A few years later, we moved in there for six months. The country has been consistently and irreversibly frying our brains for half a year. That's why we weren't at all surprised when, a few years later, in Volgograd, after the Poland-Japan match, our rivals' fans started cleaning up the stadium stands. What once might have caused a smile of pity and a back-and-forth gesture with the index finger towards the forehead was now so obvious that we had to join in. We were not at all surprised that in front of the stadium, crowds of Japanese fans congratulated the Poles as passionately as if we were not playing for honour at all. And everyone was so charmingly happy with our… hmm… victory as if they had just won the cup themselves. There was no end to the exchange of scarves and T-shirts. Andrzej came back with at least three, including one vintage from the 1990s. It's a junior size, but it fits at least one of us.
[English below] Tak, jak obiecał, przyszedł w po [English below]
Tak, jak obiecał, przyszedł w poniedziałek z samego rana. Przyszedł jak zwykle elegancki. W jasnej koszuli w kratkę, w spodniach w kancik, w idealnie wypolerowanych okularach, z wypielęgnowaną skórzaną torbą przerzuconą przez ramię. Snuła się wokół niego mgiełka nienachalnej serdeczności i zaraźliwego spokoju. Wystarczyło stanąć obok, żeby nim przesiąknąć. Jak zapachem. Ale zapachu Andrieja nie pamiętam. Wydaje mi się jednak, że pachniał mydłem. Takim zwykłym, szarym. Każdego ranka krótkim, grubym pędzlem nakładał mydlaną piankę okrężnymi ruchami na twarz, żeby zmiękczyć zarost. Potem zmieniał żyletkę w ciężkawej srebrnej maszynce do golenia i uważnie przesuwał nią po policzkach, brodzie, szyi. Na koniec chlustał w dłonie wodą kolońską ze szklanej odkręcanej butelki i wklepywał ją w podrażnioną ostrzem twarz. Na pewno szczypało. Tak, Andriej musiał pachnieć szarym mydłem i wodą kolońską. Tak pachniał mój dziadzio. Tak pachniał mój tata. Tak pachniała dobroć. 
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
-----------------------------
As promised, he came on Monday morning. He arrived elegant as usual. In a light checkered shirt, in crease trousers, in perfectly polished glasses, with a well-groomed leather bag slung over his shoulder. There was a mist of unobtrusive cordiality and contagious calmness around him. All you had to do was stand next to him to be soaked in it, like in the fragrance. But I don't remember Andrei's scent. I think he smelled like soap, though. Just plain grey soap. Every morning, he used a short, thick brush to apply soapy foam in circular motions to his face to soften the stubble. Then he changed the razor blade in the heavy silver shaver and carefully ran it over his cheeks, chin, and neck. Finally, he splashed cologne from a glass screw-top bottle into his hands and patted it on his face, irritated by the blade. It definitely stung. Yes, Andrei must have smelled of grey soap and cologne. This is what my grandfather smelled like. This is what my dad smelled like. This was the smell of kindness.
(The whole txt under the link in bio)
[English below] Wołgograd nijak ma się do Moskwy [English below]
Wołgograd nijak ma się do Moskwy, ale ma swój przydział potężnych rzeźb. Smutne to rzeźby. Pełne cierpienia, rozpaczy. Rzeźby żołnierzy dźwigających rannych kolegów. Rzeźby twarzy wykrzywionych męką, mięśni rwanych wiecznym bólem zakrzepłym w kamieniu. Ten umęczony szpaler prowadzi do stóp Matki Ojczyzny. Matka jest potężna – ma osiemdziesiąt pięć metrów wzrostu, krótkie rozwiane włosy i powłóczystą szatę. W prawej uniesionej ręce ściska nagi miecz i nim wzywa. Do czego? 
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
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Volgograd is nothing like Moscow but has its share of massive sculptures. Here, sculptures are sad. Full of suffering and despair. These are sculptures of soldiers carrying wounded colleagues. Sculptures of faces twisted with torment, muscles torn by eternal pain congealed in stone. This tormented row leads to the feet of Mother Motherland. The Mother is huge - eighty-five meters tall, with short wind-blown hair and a flowing robe. She holds a naked sword and calls with it in her raised right hand. Calls to what? 
(The full story under the link in bio)
Instagram post 18199135858260048 Instagram post 18199135858260048
Szpakowaty ojciec z kilkuletnim synem podchodzą z Szpakowaty ojciec z kilkuletnim synem podchodzą zaraz po meczu. W stroboskopowych światłach imprezy na strefie kibica błyskają malutkie rosyjskie flagi wymalowane na ich twarzach. Podchodzą nieśmiali.
- Bardzo przepraszam, ale mówiłem synowi, że wy z Polszy i mamy do was taką prośbę – stara się wykrzyczeć w nasze uszy szpakowaty ojciec.
- Bo on by chciał, żebyście sobie obok waszych polskich, rosyjskie flagi namalowali. O tak, jak my – szpakowaty pan pokazuje przedramię swoje i syna, gdzie widać małe znaczki flag obu krajów.
Chłopczyk odziany od stóp do głów w barwy narodowe Rosji patrzy na nas okrągłymi oczami. Przestępuje z nogi na nogę. Ściska ojca za rękę. I już nie wiadomo, który z nich się bardziej denerwuje – ojciec czy syn.
A Szpakowaty pan mówi dalej. Mówi, że on synowi o Polsce od zawsze opowiada. Żeby wiedział, że przecież nas więcej łączy, niż dzieli. Że między nami bardzo silna więź, bo w naszych żyłach płynie ta sama krew. Słowiańska. Że jesteśmy bracia Słowianie. Bracia krwi. Szpakowaty pan opowiada. Opowiada i ma łzy w oczach.
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A grizzled father with a few-year-old son approaches right after the match. In the strobe lights of the party in the fan zone, flash tiny Russian flags painted on their faces. The two of them approach shyly.
“I am very sorry, but I told my son that you are from Poland, and we wanted to ask something of you", the grey-haired father tries to shout into our ears.
“He would like you to paint Russian flags next to your Polish ones. Here, just like we did," the grey-haired gentleman shows his and his son's forearms, where we can see small stamps of the flags of both countries.
A boy dressed from head to toe in the national colours of Russia looks at us with round eyes. He shifts from foot to foot and squeezes his father's hand. We no longer know which of them is more nervous – the father or the son.
The grey-haired man continues. He says that he has always been telling his son about Poland. To let him know that there is more that unites us than divides us. That there is a very strong bond between us because the same blood flows in our veins. That we are blood brothers. He explains and has tears in his eyes.
[English below] Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów [English below]
Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów dalej pozwalamy sobie wierzyć, że to nie jest żaden podstęp. Że naprawdę nas wpuściła. Że już nic „nas ne dogonyat”.

Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów później zauważamy jaka Rosja jest piękna. Przynajmniej jej początek.

Jedziemy pod łukiem powitalnym z szerokiej tęczy, co łączy, przecięte gładziutką szosą pola soczyście żółtego rzepaku. Nad rzepakiem – bezkresne błękitne niebo.

W 2018 Rosja wita nas kolorami Ukrainy.
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
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Only a few dozen kilometres further, we allow ourselves to believe that this is not a trick. That she really let us in. That they really ‘nas ne dogonyat’.

Only a few dozen kilometres later, we notice how beautiful Russia is. 

We ride under the welcome arch made of a broad rainbow, connecting the juicy yellow rapeseed fields cut by a smooth road. Over the rapeseed stretches an endless blue sky.

In 2018, Russia welcomes us with the colours of Ukraine.
(the whole text under the link in bio)
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