Myanmar; The forgotten country

The forgotten country of one of the most travelled regions in the world. Myanmar shares a border with Thailand, arguably the biggest backpackers destination globally, and despite being filled with rich culture, ancient temples and home to welcoming locals, it remains one of the least visited countries on the continent.

Previously known as Burma, the country used to be a province of British India, and only gained independence in 1948. From 1962, to 2011 the country was under full military dictatorship, and in 1989 the military junta changed the name from Burma to Myanmar, with the aim to remove colonial legacy, however many people believed it was done as a rebrand for the military to try and deflect attraction. 

In 2021, after years of political issues within the country, protests happened throughout the country, leading to the deaths of hundreds of unarmed civilians, and starting the formation of the peoples defence force (PDF). Throughout July and August of 2021 clashes between the military junta and the PDF started to rapidly increase, and on September 7th the Civil War was declared. 

Since then, its estimated over 19 million people are in need of humanitarian aid, 90 thousand civilian houses and structures have been destroyed, over 150 thousand people have fled to neighbouring countries, and there have been around 100 thousand deaths.

So why would I visit this country during the Civil War?

Some may think I'm insane, stupid, or irresponsible, but the truth is, I'm just curious. A country is not the government, and I was curious to hear from the local people, see the areas of the country I was able to visit, and get an understanding of this country for myself. 

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Yangon

Once the capital, and still the largest city in Myanmar, Yangon is where bustle meets culture. The streets pulse with life, tea shops spilling onto sidewalks, rusting colonial buildings standing beside golden pagodas, and monks weaving through crowds of street vendors. It’s chaotic and calm at the same time.

Life in Yangon, despite everything, goes on. Kids play football barefoot in alleys, elders gather at temples at sunrise, and markets buzz as they always have. People spoke with kindness and warmth, often eager to share their stories, and always curious why I was there.

Shwedagon Pagoda, the spiritual heart of the city, felt especially surreal. Towering above the city in gold and light, it has seen centuries of history, revolution, and resistance. Standing beneath it, you feel the weight of the past, but also the unshakable presence of hope. Locals come not just to pray, but to gather, to be seen, to remember who they are in the face of everything. It was here we were met with most ‘Hello, why are you here!?’ from curious locals, eager to take photos with us, and shake our hands. 

Bagan

Bagan is where silence speaks louder than words. Gone is the chaos of the city, instead here, dust trails rise behind motorbikes, ancient temples stretch endlessly across the plains, and time seems to move much slower.

Bagan doesn't pulse with life the way Yangon does, it breathes. At sunrise, the sky glows soft orange as light spills over thousands of stupas, each one telling its own quiet story. 

Despite everything the country has been through, Bagan feels timeless. The temples have survived earthquakes, invasions, and neglect, and now, war. But they mostly still stand. And so do the people. Everyone we met in Bagan treated us with a calm curiosity, only occasionally pushy, but always polite. Locals greeted us with wide smiles and gentle questions, their surprise at seeing foreign visitors quickly turning into friendly conversation, and invites to their home, to hear their stories and experience their way of life. 

Bagan doesn’t ask for your attention. It earns it. Through stillness, through history, and through the unspoken resilience of a place and its people who have endured, and still, somehow, radiate peace.

It goes without saying Bagan was my favourite place in Myanmar, and one of my favourite places on earth.

Inle Lake

Inle Lake feels like another world entirely. A place where life floats, literally, on water. Wooden homes sit on stilts, gardens grow on floating beds of reeds, and fishermen move with a grace that feels almost choreographed, balancing on the ends of their longboats with one leg while casting nets into the waters.

It’s quieter here. More elemental. The dust of Bagan is replaced with soft ripples, birdsong, and the occasional putter of a longtail boat in the distance. Life follows a rhythm shaped by the lake itself, unhurried, deliberate, and deeply connected to nature.

The people of Inle were perhaps the most quietly welcoming we met. Smiles, waves, and a kind of gentle pride in showing us how they live. What struck me most about Inle was how life continues here, seemingly untouched by the noise of the outside world. But even here, the shadows of the country’s conflict linger. Locals spoke cautiously about the future, uncertain of what lies ahead. 

Inle Lake reminded me that sometimes, the most powerful stories aren’t shouted, they’re whispered through water, through wind, and through the everyday lives of people who choose to keep going.

Naypyidaw

Naypyidaw is unlike anywhere else in Myanmar, and frankly, unlike anywhere else I’ve ever been. A capital without a pulse. Built from scratch in the early 2000s to replace Yangon, it’s a city of massive scale and eerie silence. 20 lane highways with no traffic. Government buildings that resemble fortresses. Empty shopping malls, vacant hotels, and roundabouts so large they feel designed for tanks, not taxis.

It’s a city that feels like it wasn’t built for people. And in many ways, it wasn’t.

Walking through Naypyidaw feels like being let into a secret that no one really wanted to keep. The city is clean, precise, and meticulously planned, but also strangely hollow. We drove for long stretches without seeing another car. Restaurants sat open but empty, and hotels left unoccupied. Everywhere we went, we had eyes on us, and were told we were not allowed to be. 

What struck me most about Naypyidaw was the contrast. It’s the seat of power for a country in crisis, but it feels almost untouched by the weight of it. While the rest of the country pulses with history, suffering, and resilience, Naypyidaw feels disconnected, almost like an illusion of stability created by scale and silence. In Naypyidaw, you don’t speak too loudly. You don’t ask too much. You exist within the lines.

Visiting Naypyidaw wasn’t inspiring in the way Bagan or Inle Lake was, but it was revealing. It gave context. It showed the distance between the people of Myanmar and those who lead them. And in that vast, empty city, I felt the loudest silence of all.

Mandalay

Mandalay feels like a city balanced between royalty and rawness. It was the final seat of the Burmese kings, and today, it remains the spiritual and cultural heart of Myanmar. But this isn’t a city frozen in the past, it’s alive, loud, and full of contradictions.

Motorbikes weave through traffic jams, monks stream through the streets at dawn, and the scent of the markets fills the air.

At sunrise, you’ll find locals gathering on the U Bein Bridge, the world’s longest teak bridge, just to watch the sky change colors. There’s something about Mandalay that feels unpolished, yet deeply human.

But like much of the country, Mandalay has been hit hard. A recent earthquake left visible cracks, not just in ancient temples, but in homes, markets, and daily life. We saw collapsed stupas, scaffolding around damaged monasteries, and local volunteers sweeping up rubble with calm determination. No panic, no theatrics, just people rebuilding, quietly, patiently.

Mandalay isn’t as visually perfect as Bagan, or as serene as Inle Lake. But it’s layered. Gritty. Honest. The kind of place that doesn't just show you Myanmar’s history, it shows you its heart.

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Myanmar is often seen through the lens of crisis. A country trapped in headlines about conflict, upheaval, and uncertainty. But beyond those stories lies a land of incredible complexity and quiet strength. From the bustling streets of Yangon to the timeless temples of Bagan, the floating villages of Inle Lake, the surreal calm of Naypyidaw, and the enduring spirit of Mandalay, each place tells a different story.

Visiting Myanmar during such turbulent times is not about ignoring its struggles. It’s about understanding that a country is far more than its politics. It’s about the warmth of a shared meal, the resilience etched into ancient walls, and the hope carried in every smile despite hardship.

Myanmar’s story is still being written, not just by governments or headlines, but by the people who live it every day. And for anyone willing to look beyond the surface, it’s a story worth knowing.