Myanmar (or Burma) is one of those countries plagued with political strife, abject poverty and extreme oppression. For some reason I’ll never be able to explain, these countries greatly appeal to me as a traveler. I guess I like comparing what I experience there to what I hear back home on the news. I also like representing my country, showing them that not all Americans are imperialist rednecks trying to rape, pillage and burn everything in sight. Therefore, Myanmar was another place I had to check out. So, check out I did.

My 16 month trip through East and Southeast Asia was coming to an end. I’d been just about everywhere and was actually ready, for the first time in my life, to go home. I wanted to end my journey on a good (more like healthy) note, so I enrolled in some Muay Thai kickboxing classes in Bangkok for my last three weeks in the Orient.

After a long day of getting my ass kicked by Thai’s several inches smaller than me, I was recuperating in the hostel commons when I overheard a few Americans talking about their trip to Myanmar. I questioned them, asking if it was actually possible for Americans to enter the country (I previously thought US citizens were forbidden). They swore it was possible, showed me their stamped passports and gave me the address of the Burmese Embassy in Bangkok. Seven days later I arrived in Yangon, the capital of Myanmar.

The plane landed early Sunday morning in Yangon, leaving me the entire day to explore the city. An Argentine guy I befriended on the plane and I checked into one of the only low budget hostels in the city, threw our bags up and took off to explore.

Yangon is one of the most unique cities I’d ever seen. Most of the architecture is left over from the old British colonial days; only now they’re run-down, dirty and rustic with faded greens and blues and broken rod-iron balconies. The streets, which appeared as if an earthquake had hit, are nearly empty of cars and buses; the most popular form of transportation is either bicycle or foot. There’s also absolutely no sign of western influence, meaning you can’t find a Big Mac, or much less even anything resembling a cheeseburger, anywhere in the entire nation.

Most Burmese are devout Buddhist. As poor as the country may be, it’s impossible not to see a magnificent pure gold stupa rising into the air. They’re enormous! There’s also a large Muslim population, meaning the call for prayer echoes through the city five times a day. If you’re not one of these two religions, then you’re probably Hindu. Small Hindu temples line the streets, perfect if you need a quick prayer fix. (Actually, I went to one of these temples to pray for a safe journey back to the USA. The holy man painted a red dot on my head, blew smoke on me and splashed some liquid on my face. Two days later I got a staph infection on my forehead. So, the author of this piece does not recommend the reader to try this when in Myanmar)

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The people are also distinct. Men wear the traditional long-dress called a longji instead of pants. Women also prefer to wear the long-dress rather than western attire. The ladies also use a dull green face paint called thanaka that comes from tree bark. They usually paint small designs on their cheeks with the substance and it dually serves as both make-up and sun-block. Honestly, I found it quite attractive. I’d prefer a woman wearing thanaka than Maybelline any day! Maybe it’s thanaka, maybe it’s Maybelline (OK, that was a horrible joke, but I couldn’t resist).

Continuing, the Burmese are some of the kindest people I’ve ever met. They always offered free food and were always willing to strike up a conversation. They’re so passive and hospitable; that is until you commit a crime…

This fairy tale story now, at this point, takes a sharp 180 turn. If it didn’t, it wouldn’t be “xtreme,” rather just another lame story you’d find on any other travel writing site. So listen up!

The Argentine and I were walking through downtown Yangon, an area of a few city blocks where you can see that the seeds off capitalism have been planted and are growing cautiously and slowly under the government’s iron grasp. Suddenly, a group of three men out of nowhere rushed up to a guy in front of us.

Two grabbed his arms while the other lifted his shirt. Lo in behold half a purse was protruding from his longji. Shit had officially just hit the fan for the thief. A loud roar erupted from the three men holding him. The robber lost face while his dark skin turned pale white.

They grabbed the convicted man and proceeded to bring him down an alley. The Argentine and I followed curiously until they stopped in front of a police post. A mob of people formed to watch the punishment and began shouting at the police in a strange tongue while the robber, knowing he was guilty, remained motionless with his head faced toward the earth. There was no protesting, he knew he was caught red handed.

A uniformed police officer grabbed a long bamboo stick while the ordinary citizens tied the convict’s hands to a column. They lifted his shirt and the crowd, which had grown to at least thirty men, women and children, huddled in the claustrophobic alley for the flogging. I thought about turning around, not knowing if I actually wanted to witness this or not. But, it was too late, the mob formed a wall so dense that it was near impossible to move. I stayed put and watched.

The first whack of the stick slammed the man’s back, instantly creating a horizontal bruise running from his right shoulder blade to his torso. The crowd erupted again, cheering and yelling emotionally. The convict, on the other hand, broke down into tears.

I actually felt bad for the guy. It was indeed a depressing sight witnessing a grown man cry in front of an applauding audience. He was already, after the first blow, reduced to rubbish. Then came the second strike.

After each lash, the crowd exploded with joy, louder and louder each time; while the burglar became humiliated more and more. After about five flogs in less than a half a minute, the ordeal was over. The thief’s back was bleeding profusely and, although I’m no doctor, seemed to be scarred for life. The policemen returned to their post and the crowd dissipated. He had received his punishment of pain and embarrassment. Life in Yangon continued as it had minutes ago.

We travel to learn about different cultures, customs, habits and ways of doing things, justice not excluded. I spoke with my Argentine friend over a cup of tea about what we just witnessed and debated whether that’s a fair way to treat a criminal. Economically speaking, it is. Here in the US, it cost about $35,000 a year to incarcerate one individual. That’s a lot of money- money that my country doesn’t seem to have at the moment. Flogging, on the contrary, is free. Morally, however, is it right to lash someone and inflict pain on them for a crime they’ve committed? It’s probably just as moral as locking someone up in solitary confinement for weeks at a time. Politically speaking, it doesn’t really matter since politicians often break the moral code of conduct and High School level economic theory on a daily basis. The only difference between flogging and incarceration is that one is physical torture while the other is mental torture.

Basically, the way I see it, if you’re strong mentally you’d probably be able to handle being locked up. If you’re strong physically, you may prefer flogging. Should the convicted have a choice? Isn’t that true freedom? After witnessing the flogging first hand, I must admit, I’d probably choose one minute of pain than half a year in prison. My Argentine friends disagreed, and that’s cool. I see both sides to the story; and that, again, is why we travel- to learn something different and think outside the box. What would you prefer?

Google Images Photo Citation:

"Flogging Scars." Flogging 28 July 2010 [http://picsdigger.com/image/82423bb1/].