The Insider

Surfing the net before my trip, I8217;d read about the Shwedagon pagoda, described as the city8217;s main tourist stop, and baulked at the thought of visiting it. But minutes after landing, we were wondering about the tall, fat, gold spiral reaching out to the skies. The Shwedagon is completely irresistible in real life.

The gold-plated pagoda8217;s tip is encrusted with thousands of diamonds, rubies and emeralds, it sits astride a 58 m-high hill and rises a further 99 m into the sky. The shrine that supposedly encases eight sacred hairs of the Buddha has weathered more than 2,500 years of peace and strife.

It8217;s a tribute to the devotees that it still looks as good as new. As do the 100-odd shrines around it that combine to make the hill a temple town. The pagoda opens its gates at 4 am and draws the devout and curious all day long. But surprisingly, there are hardly any signs of their grubby presence. The marble floor is squeaky clean, the wood panels shine, and the walls don8217;t have a trace of dust. In fact, there8217;s an army of women and men with flaxen brooms who sweep and scrub the temple town clean round the clock.

Fashioned variously out of wood, glass, stone and gold, the little shrines have something for everyone. One round of the pagoda clockwise, please and you are sure to find your corner. I found mine in a shrine encrusted with mirrors, a bonsai version of the Sheesh Mahal in Mughal-e-Azam, and just wallowed in it.

Situated close to the city centre, Shwedagon is also the perfect gateway to Bogyoke formerly Scott market. A neat geometrical bazaar that sells everything from royal rubies and diamonds to antiques, handicrafts and groceries8212;it is the answer to every shopaholic8217;s prayer. Set up by the British in 1926, it was christened Scott Market after the municipal commissioner C Scott. Now it8217;s called Bogyoke Aung San market, in memory of Nobel prize winner Aung San Suu Kyi8217;s late father Gen Aung San.

Little shops with stone jewellery and uncut rocks invite you to stop and stare. Mined locally, the rubies have a way of catching your eye and not letting go. No wonder even some well-grounded gentlemen emptied their wallets for pairs of red studs. Then there were exotic masks, puppets and tapestries that weaved a mix of painting, embroidery and quilting. Although kyat pronounced chat is the official currency of Myanmar, the shopkeepers, mostly women, are happy to trade in dollars.

Bargaining, I was told, was de rigueur. So I tried my bit, and was beginning to get results when I was wrenched away with a promise of 8216;we8217;ll return another day8217;. Alas, there are no second chances for good shopping.

When it comes to spoiling the taste buds, Yangon is brimming with restaurants, cafes and pubs. But it was the wealth of fruits that had me salivating. From homely papayas and guavas to gargantuan jackfruits, pineapples and purple grapes, it8217;s God8217;s plenty.

The Myanmarese also make great tea, if you like it thick and milky; bikkis are complimentary. So is a humongous bowl of popcorn with your drinks.

But it was the vibrant nightlife of this crime-free city that packed the biggest punch. Prepared for an early bed-down under the military regime, and quite impressed with the early morning piety, I had no plans for a night out till friends suggested a quick round of the city8217;s hot spots. To our surprise, they were rocking. From the Shangri La and other assorted discotheques in the not-so-upmarket China Town to the swish nightclubs at the leading hotels, the city jived to live music.

We found ourselves shaking a leg to a Myanmarese song by a Filipino band of girls who could have put J Lo to shame. Driving back to our hotel well past midnight, the roads were still resonating with music.