STILL A TOUGH ROAD FOR TRAVELERS

Rangoon turns out to be the stuff of travel fantasy, an exotic mix of Milton’s “gorgeous East” rich with “barbaric pearl and gold,” Kipling’s beguiling sloe-eyed, slim-hipped Burma girl “a-smokin’ on a whackin’ white cheroot,” and the moldering remains of the old Anglo-Indian empire, all of it locked in a time capsule since 1948.

Seduced by tales of golden pagodas and an innocent land that has hardly entered the 1950s, let alone the 1980s, we arrived mentally prepared for almost anything, only to find that gentle, stubborn, irrational and inconsistent Burma still had surprises to spring.

It has been 25 years since U Ne Win, a general little known to the outside world, seized control in a bloodless coup, closed the door to the rest of the world and set up what he termed “the Burmese way to socialism,” an ingenious blend of Buddhism and Marxism in which the religion was to function without interference. Indeed, Buddhism flourishes tangibly day by day, as golden pagodas and stupas (spires), numerous as mushrooms after a rain, grow another millimeter taller or thicker each time the faithful contribute still more tissue-thin sheets of hand-beaten gold in offering for prayers or Thanksgiving.

We arrived in April, the hottest month of the year; the sun was glinting off the golden towers, and the earth was parched and dry. In 99-degree heat we slogged across the Tarmac into a building reminiscent of a 1930 railway station and, forewarned of a likely long wait, settled in on the slatted benches.

The official stance toward visitors is one of polite suspicion, and since the normal procedure is for officials to pore intently over every line in the lengthy paper work, and curiously and thoughtfully examine each item in every bag before clearing it, immigration and customs seem to take up a measurable part of the permitted seven day stay.

Although several airlines--Burma Airways, Aeroflot, Bangladesh Biman, Royal Nepal and CAAC (national airlines of the People’s Republic of China), few of them exactly household words--fly into Rangoon, the favorite of the Burmese children is Tahi International. That line’s passengers are met by the enterprising kids who wheedle them out of the flowers they’ve been given in flight and then sell them.

Eventually, we were loaded into yellow-and-white Tourist Burma buses, everyone competing to get next to an open window where the breeze might circulate once the bus starts moving.

Vintage vehicles, some of them of World War II military origin, share the roadways with wheezing 40-year-old buses converted from three-ton trucks and so tightly packed with riders that their passengers bounce in unison at every pothole.

Along the wide, tree-shaded boulevards of Rangoon, Victorian colonial buildings stand in genteel disrepair, many of them empty. Entrepreneurs leaning in doorways hawk single cigarettes, pale green cheroots and paan, a betel nut mixture heaped on a fresh betel leaf and seasoned with various dried herbs, spices and seeds, then rolled up and stuck like chewing tobacco in the jaw. Users say it aids digestion and sweetens the breath; it also turns the front teeth red and stimulates spitting.

Under the faded but still legible signs of once grand banking houses long ago nationalized by the Socialist Republic of Burma, young men in T-shirts and longyis, the ubiquitous unisex sarong skirts worn by all Burmese, sidle up to Westerners with whispered offers to change money at up to 700% of the official rate.

But even discounting the risk of spending three years in a Burmese prison for ignoring the country’s rigid currency controls, there would appear to be no point of a mass kyat (pronounced chut) since there is little to buy. Besides, virtually everything is prepared when visitors arrive with a group, and that’s the only way to be sure of getting one of Burma’s 700 hotel beds--and an airplane seat out of the country before the seven-day visa expires. (Individual travelers will find it extremely difficult, if not impossible, to obtain either hotel rooms or airline reservations.)

The golden light of late afternoon gilded the straw brooms and baskets of the roadside markets as we rattled into Rangoon toward the Strand Hotel, the city’s major, perhaps only, downtown hotel, a 1901 structure politely described as “historic” and “colonial” its dark wooden floors glossy from generations of wax, its lobby and public rooms unsullied by air conditioning.

After signing our names in an old-fashioned register, we were handed a key and directed upstairs to a huge, high-ceilinged room, its maroon draperies closed against the heat, a ceiling fan languidly flushing the air. Until we pulled aside our curtains to reveal a peeling balcony overlooking the harbor, the sole source of illumination was a pair of 25-watt bulbs under cream colored ceiling shades. The furniture was totalitarian, so hulking and gloomy thatit quashed the tropical rafishness outside. On a small, dark table was a gray telephone, and in a niche below we found the telephone directory for the whole country of 34 million people--a publication less than an inch thick.

Hopes for a refreshing shower dribbled away when the bathtub reluctantly trickled a stream of tepid water the color of weak tea, and the shower apparatus disavowed any connection with the faucets.

The hall porter arrived with a thermos of boiled water, then knelt and rummaged at the baseboard behind the curtains to activate a room air conditioner. While it rumbled into action, we repaired to the bar downstairs for a cold beer, only to be told that there was none. Shelves behind the bar were empty except for a half-bottle of local rum and several bottles of mineral water. There was no whiskey, wine or soft drinks. It was to be the same everywhere we went.

Ultimately we were to learn that the entire country was suffering a shortage of beer because the capping machine at the brewery in Mandalay had broken down, and no one was sure when it would be repaired.

In a banquet hall at the rear of the Strand, a wedding party was celebrating noisily as the bride and groom, both small-boned and delicate and dressed in golden yellow, came out into the lobby. His sarong and turban were plain; hers was embellished with glittering stripes of multicolored sequins the size of dimes, with a stole of gold-net veiling sparkling with silver spangles. Both wore plastic thong sandals, and she had half a dozen strands of fresh jasmine flowers around her neck, yellow flowers in her black hair and a bouquet of orange-colored blossoms.

A young man in a gray suit was recording the occasion on a video camera; the whole wedding party was gracious and friendly and as curious about us as we were of them. In a flurry of bows and smiles, we took pictures of each other.

The next day--a hot, bright Sunday--coincided with the annual New Year’s novitate ceremonies, in which boys of 5 are initiated into Buddhism by having their heads shaved and becoming monks. Every male Burmese Buddhist becomes a monk, either temporarily or permanently,and must spend several days or weeks in a monastery, after which he is free to return home, if he so chooses.

The streets were thronged with celebrating families bound for Shwedagon Pagoda, the novitiates garbed for this important day in white silk shirts and sarongs decorated with sequins, resplendent peaked jeweled hats and curved, golden breastplates.

Proud relatives carried the children on their shoulders, and the procession swelled with the addition of adoring friends and family members, including little girls carrying ornamental fans, paper butterflies and flowers that on closer inspection turned out to be crisp new bank notes folded into fanciful shapes. Both men and women wore jasmine blossoms around their necks or entwined in their hair.

The first sight of dazzling Shwedagon Pagoda, covered with more than a ton of beaten gold and studded at the top with thousands of diamonds, rubies and sapphires, is heart-stopping. Not even Kublai Khan in the Xanadu of Coleridge’s opium dreams could have decreed such a shimmering dome as this 2,500-year old stupa that is believed to contain six hairs from the heard of the last living Buddha, making it one of the most important shrines in Buddhism.

Surrounding Shwedagon are the golden spires of dozens of smaller pagodas, each considered an individual temple. One open pavilion is the site of an enormous reclining Buddha; another contains a dozen stark-white Buddhas sitting upright. There are lacly filigreed towers that resemble overwrought Victorian railway stations, and rows of red edifices that resemble ornate London telephone booths topped with lightning rods, each has its worshipers who stop and kneel, while in the background saffron-robed monks lounge about smoking cheroots and murmuring to each other.

Non-Buddhists are welcomed into Shwedagon if they follow one absolute dictate: Everyone who enters is required to move shoes and socks and walk barefoot into the temple complex.

British visitor Lady Diana Duff Cooper recalls her stay in Burma in October, 1941, and being surprised that none of her hosts had ever been inside the temple. “You have to enter barefoot,” someone explained. “The English won’t do that.” Cooper kicked off her shoes and entered the pagoda, thoroughly shocking her friends.

The whole marble floors are comfortably cool to unaccustomed soles in the early mornings and evenings, but they heat up by midday. Platoons of sweepers, young people fulfilling religious duties, make regular forays with buckets of water and stiff straw brooms.

One enters the complex of buildings, which is built on a hilltop, by elevator or by proceeding from the street past the modest tomb of U Thant, the beloved former secretary-general of the United Nations, and up a long stairway.

As soon as a family group would spot our cameras turned in their direction, the whole procession would grind to a happy halt, posing and smiling in proud exultation on this special day.

Another evening we were taken to dine at Karaweik Hall, a giant pagoda that appears to be floating on a lake on the backs of two carved-stone dragons. And there on the tables, along with mineral water and pots of bitter tea and the by-now familiar beef curry and rice, were tall, sweating, brown bottles of chilled Mandalay beer. The flavor was heavy with malt, but it was cold and we were thirsty, “Cheers,” we chorused.

It was only later that we wondered whether Tourist Burma, which operates the hotels and restaurants in this exotic land, had corralled everybody’s spare supplies in order to provide a happy ending to what turned out to be a memorable trip.

Traveling by air with a group is the only practical way of entering Burma at the present time. Seattle-based Society Expeditions offers 1987 Burmese and Thailand expeditions departing on Oct. 28 (which includes the annual elephant roundup), Nov. 19 and Dec. 3, priced from $3,490 per person in a group limited to 20. For details, telephone (800) 426-7794. Travelers to Bangkok can also arrange a five-, six- or seven-day tour to Burma with Thai Airways International, priced from around $600 per person. Allow at least two working days after your arrival in Bangkok to arrange the necessary visa. The best weather is from October through February.