By MIN KHET MAUNG | NAYPYIDAW — "Delete the photo! Otherwise…," said the army captain angrily.
I had just got off the bus at Naypyidaw bus station and happened to spot three teenage soldiers loading bags onto a truck nearby. I instinctively lifted my camera to my eye and took a few shots. I didn’t notice the officer behind me.
 This desolate main street in Naypyidaw leads to the military headquarters in the mountains. (Photo: Min Khet Maung / Naypyidaw) |
On the way to a guest house in Pyinmana, a few miles from Naypyidaw, I scolded myself for getting caught by a military official. Apart from almost getting arrested, I had had to delete the photos of the child soldiers.
On my first day I walked around the town, chatting with residents and asking them what it’s like living next to Naypyidaw and what developments they had seen in the past three years. Most of the people I spoke to in Pyinmana said their lives had not improved at all; on the contrary, they had to bear the brunt of the high cost of basic commodities in the capital and inflation.
“Our town was quiet before,” one local said. “Now, it’s busy, noisy and under strict control.”
He said that they weren’t allowed out after 11 p.m., in accordance with an unofficial curfew.
I spoke to some businessmen who lamented how hard it was to do business in the town.
A few years ago, investors had flocked to Naypyidaw, assuming the new capital would offer rewards.
At first, it did. During the construction phase, workers and civil servants would shop in Pyinmana. Then, after the big markets were opened, no one bothered heading out of Naypyidaw to do their shopping.
Another businessman, a Chinese, said that racial discrimination by the local authorities made it even harder to run a business.
There was one thing that everyone agreed had improved—transportation. The city bus service covers every corner of the town.
In the evening, I went to the northern part of Pyinmana to check out the nightlife. The motorcycle taxi driver I waved down where I wanted to go. “The place where the head officials hang out!” I said flatly.
With a chuckle, the driver said he knew exactly where to take me. He said it was where they had the best karaoke, massage and brothels. He warned me not to cause any trouble.
On the second day, I went around some official buildings and markets in the Naypyidaw area. I couldn’t believe I was actually in Burma. There were huge shiny buildings everywhere and eight-lane concrete roads zigzagging around the official buildings.
Construction work was still going on—workers were building the gem hall and the Myanmar Economic Bank that day. Nearby, a highway from Naypyidaw to Rangoon was being laid. According to an engineer I spoke to, it would reduce the travel time to Rangoon to just three or four hours.
I met one person from the UN. When I asked for his impressions, he grumbled: “This is such a different world from the rest of the country. It shows me that the military generals have enough money when it comes to their own security and comfort.”
He added that he believed the government could rebuild the cyclone-ravaged areas by themselves without outside help. According to the latest UN estimates, the total bill to cover the destruction wrought by Cyclone Nargis would come to some US $4 billion—much less than it has taken to build the new capital.
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"It's nothing compared with the cost of building Naypyidaw—though we don't have a detailed budget," said an engineer with Ayeyar Shwewar Construction Company, which is owned by a son of Gen Shwe Mann.
According to local reporters, the government is unwilling to display their buildings, let alone a detailed budget. Until recently, local media were forbidden from taking pictures of certain buildings, including City Hall, without a permit.
That afternoon, at Naypyidaw Myoma Market, I discovered there is a shortage of small bank notes in the town. Denominations such as the 50 kyat, 20 kyat, 10 kyat and 5 kyat are in huge demand. If someone gets on a bus, for example, and the ticket costs 50 kyat, that person had better have the correct fare. If he or she only has a 100 or a 200 kyat note and the bus conductor has no change, they have to leave the change.
Some shop owners in Rangoon give a candy instead of a 20 kyat bill.
There are a lot of incidents like this around the country.
I asked a shop assistant about the severe lack of customers at Myoma Market. "There are two options,” she said. “Survive or get out. We don't want to lose our place at the market, so we have to stay."
I found bars and restaurants the same—desolated. In the streets—even Razahtarnae Road which runs through the center of Naypyidaw—few vehicles pass. The roads are well lit with lampposts, but their glare only emphasizes the Ghost Town effect of the city.
Although other parts of the country constantly suffer from power shortages, Naypyidaw is lit up all day and all night.
However, when I returned to Pyinmana, it was suddenly black again—no electricity. At my guest house, I heard a woman telling her daughter to do her homework as quickly as she could as there were no more candles.
I had heard a lot about Naypyidaw Zoo and I passed by. Outside the zoo, a handful of hawkers were selling ice cream, snacks and bananas. But, when they saw some policemen walking in their direction, they grabbed their trolleys and ran away. When I asked about it, I was told they would be fined between 5,000 and 10,000 kyat ($4-8) if caught.
At Yesin University of Agriculture I asked some students if they were satisfied with the new capital. The third year and fourth year students told me they are being forced to continue their studies in their field research stations in the country, away from the university. This was the authorities’ system for making the university less overcrowded, the students said.
In the evening, I had a chance to talk with some civil servants near the beautifully illuminated water fountains. Though the capital seems full of luxuries for the families of generals and higher officials, it does not seem so attractive to the ordinary civil servant who serves in the lower ranks.
"I miss my family, but I don't want to bring them here," admitted one civil servant, the gaze in her eye reflecting in the light of the fountain. "This place offers no warmth or affection for a family as long as it is the home of the rulers."
The civil servant sighed and paused for a moment. Just as she was about to continue she was interrupted by a screeching convoy of blacked SUVs, the hallmark of the generals.
After talking with her for a while, I went back to the bus station to catch my bus back to Rangoon.
The words of the civil servant reverberated in my head. “The home of the rulers,” she had said.
I wondered how long this capital city would remain “home of the rulers” in the eyes of the people of Burma.
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