Shin Pyu

Yesterday was a long day: Win San drove for over nine hours. We left Mandalay and the traffic jams and headed west to Sagaing, then to Yesagyo, Myaing and at last to Mintap over the Chin border.

Myanmar maps lead their own life giving often no hint as to what’s on the ground. Rivers are usually marked, but not always. One today had a bridge two miles long yet didn’t feature on the map. Mountains and mountain ranges never appear. Perhaps I should buy a topographical map, but then I might be too scared to travel. I love driving toward mountain ranges that appear in the distance, but I like them to stay in the distance.

Soon we drove over the Ayeyarwady River on the new bridge opened in 2001: a huge construction for both rail and road. The old bridge was built by the British in 1852. I remembered that when first I travelled in Myanmar heavily laden trucks were not allowed to use the by then rickety bridge. They had to be ferried across – literally – on barges.

Near Yesagyo we crossed the Chindwin River.

Toward the middle of the journey we spied elephants on the road: surprisingly, two of them were white.

We had come across a Shin Pyu procession, when young boys are initiated into the sangha or monkhood. This was a very up-market and costly one (so we didn’t offer glasses!) There were dozens of little boys all dressed as princes riding on horses, trucks, motorbike tractors, or carried on the shoulders of some of the men. The elephants were not of the ivory variety, but men dressed up to carry the would-be novices. They were headed for the monastery where the little boys would have their hair cut and during the service would be admitted to the monastery where they would stay as many days as their parents could spare them, learning to be novice monks.

I wondered if we too could go to the monastery for the ceremony, but no, we still had a long way to drive.  So I leaned back in Win San’s very comfortable taxi and thought of a Shin Pyu ceremony I attended when I travelled on my own in 2006.

At that time I wrote:

I’m now staying at the May Guest House in Nyaungshwe, which is the gateway to Inle Lake famous for floating gardens, Intha fishermen, silk weaving and jumping cats at a monastery. Ko Nyi Tin, owner of the Guesthouse tells me that across the road, today, at the Hlaing Gu Kyaung, is a novitiation ceremony. I settle into my room and then cross the road.

There are about 200 people, mainly women and children gathered in the thein (consecration hall). They have been sitting for a couple of hours already. My arrival causes ripples. I sink to the floor, back against wall and wait for something to write about. Eventually the children tired of someone seemingly doing nothing turn their attention to the spectacularly dressed novitiates. Four proud mothers sit on the floor beside a dais covered by pink mattresses and green pillows on which four small boys lie, sit, jump up and down and wreck the arrangement of their candy floss-pink satin outfits. Four dads jump up, lift the shirt of the outfit and re-buckle a large belt around each thin waist of the small boys. They smooth out their crumpled longyi too.  Back the boys go to bouncing. We listen to a musical trio: a crooner with a microphone, a xylophonist dinging with wooden sticks and a Yamaha organist plunking. Outside the thein, in a shady zayat (pavilion), sit dozens of turbaned Intha, Pa-O and Taung-Yo men here to witness the all-important shin pyu ceremony when the boys will be initiated into the sangha (monkhood). Bells ring urgently. I dash down a corridor and outside to witness some ceremony.

But it’s the ice-cream man.

I remain outside for a few moments. “Where you from?” starts a lively conversation with a former public servant who prefers democracy to the present arrangement. He translates an invitation from Ko Maung, who speaks no English, for me to visit his home and village. The Intha people around Inle Lake are mostly famed for their unusual rowing with one foot and for their floating gardens, but Ko Maung is a rice and sugar cane farmer. Sugar cane is important here for making rum, as well as for its more prosaic uses. I accept the invitation with pleasure. Then I return to the women in the thein. There’s another three and a half hours to go. My legs go to sleep. I hope my bottom will join them. Sitting with legs tucked under me and keeping the soles of my feet from facing the Buddha is an easier task for these women, who have had years of practice, than it is for me. Ah, men are filing in. Something may be happening.

False alarm.

The Buddha image sits on a several-metres-high elevated throne. He’s hidden below the chin under a golden silk cloak. I've seen Buddhas covered in winter before, but maybe they cover them for certain ceremonies too. Perhaps they will whisk it off when something happens. Either side of the throne is vase after vase of flowers: red cannas, pink and white Chrysanthemums, yellow dahlias and red roses. Cannas are identified with the Buddha: perhaps for their blood red colour, but also because rosaries were once made from the wood-like seeds. Beyond the flowers numerous rice sacks prop behind copious bottles of cooking oil and donations of money decorated into small trees. In yellow plastic bags are a robe, towel and medicine for each monk. The cost of shin pyu is considerable and the parents must provide everything. 

As Myanmar are keen on astrology, numerology, dates and times, I predict mid-day as the auspicious starting time. It's 11.30 now. I gaze around. The women wear their finest longyi. They have flowers in their hair: some have orchids. Some hold their bun fast with gold or silver coloured clasps. Older or poorer women secure their hair with combs.

I was wrong. Proceedings start and it's only 11.45. You never can tell.

The action is away to one side, beside the day bed. A monk is shaving each small boy's head. His mother and older sister hold a fine white cloth and catch the hair as it falls. Later they’ll bury it in the precincts of a pagoda. It’s a solemn moment when the boys’ heads are smooth: they become sons of the Buddha. The monks arrive. They troop up the stairs and enter the thein. A monk hands the boys what look like white paper chickens. But they're probably not, given this is an especially joyous ceremony and bird flu broke out in Myanmar two days ago. A monk with a formidable navy blue birthmark on his face takes charge. The Sayadaw (abbot) chants a prayer. The boys hold the paper chickens in front of their faces and chant while the congregation joins in the responses. It all seems so similar it could be a Church of England service. Two of the initiates are nine and two are 12. They have learned the all-important request to be admitted to the sangha. They give their request and responses loud and clear. Even when chanting with the congregation, we can hear their voices. They will stay in the monastery for seven days this time: perhaps longer when they come again as novices when they are older. They must follow the dharma, eat nothing after noon, nor sing or play, possess money, sit on a high seat, blaspheme, kill, steal, lie or interfere in the business of the other monks. Though at nine and 12 they are unlikely to get drunk, have sex or listen to heretical doctrines, they are not allowed to anyway. The boys take off their princely robes - as did Gautama Buddha more than 2,000 years ago when he left his palace and his family to go off and seek enlightenment. They prostrate themselves three times and then don the saffron robes. The Sayadaw hangs the thabeiq (alms bowl) over their shoulders and accepts them as novice monks – samaras.