
The feelings that Burma shares with visitors run unusually deep
The old, brown-robed monk in a conical peaked cap gently nudged me to the left, two steps, and there it was, in a brilliant white flash: the 4,351 diamonds at the topmost orb of the Shwedagon stupa.
Only a few tourist and locals were at the temple this late. Some places diminish in stature when you take away the crowds, but this site, one of Burma's holiest, becomes even more impressive.
On a prominent hill overlooking Rangoon, the temple complex dominates the city. In the 1400s Queen Shinsawbu donated her weight in gold to the temple. It was beaten into leaf to gild the first stupa, and the layering of gilt continues today - there are now 53 tonnes of gold covering the structure.
At mid-afternoon the spiritual reverence had been palpable. Streams of pilgrims wearing the traditional longyi (sarong) supplicated themselves before the main stupa and the smaller temples and shrines, some of which are said to house symbolic nats, or spirits.

The air was permeated with a feeling of spiritual devotion, but it was the surrounding light itself that cast the most poignant spell. To say the stupa is golden misses it entirely - the air around it is golden.
The air sparkles with a brilliance subtly enhanced by the 1,383 other gemstones embedded in the large stupa's surface, and especially by a single, radiant, 76-carat diamond at the very top of the diamond orb.
"It's nice - look!" the old monk prodded me. Earlier he'd walked me around the temple complex as passers-by paid him reverence. He was a jathei - a hermit monk - from a lineage of solitary wanderers, highly respected for their use of herbs and portents to treat physical and psychological ailments.
Jathei are homeless, roaming through rural Burma. Sometimes their small, round huts built from twigs and leaves can be spotted in the forest.
This monk's last retreat was near Taungbygone, north of Mandalay. He'd started walking toward Rangoon two months earlier to pay what he said would be his last visit to the temple. He planned to move deeper into the forest.
Nearby is a shrine to Thanga Min, king of the nats, which are believed capable of exercising good or evil power over a person or a place. It's said that the Burmese practise Buddhism in the interest of future lives while making offerings to the nats for help with problems in this one.
From the temple I hailed a taxi. I had promised myself a dinner at the Strand Hotel, an Asian legend. The driver, Htin Swe, was another of those citizens you frequently meet who describe themselves as university students. They are typically in their late 30s or 40s.
They explain that their studies are incomplete, through no fault of their own. Burmese universities are usually closed more often than they're open, a sign of the ruling junta's fear of students.
I asked Htin Swe what he studied. "I'm an English major," he said, though it quickly became clear that his mastery of English - the language and the literature - was limited.
Like most ordinary Burmese, he was a poignant mixture of sincerity and arrested development, emblematic of a people and country with great potential that have been trapped in a time-warp.
When the concierge swung open the high wooden doors of the Strand, built in 1901 by the Armenian Starkie brothers, I entered a world that was light-years away.
Recently remodelled, the hotel has retained its distinctive colonial-Asian charm, with a shiny, black grand piano dominating the lobby. The oak and rattan furniture was set off with white cushions. In the nearly empty dining room, leather-bound menus and heavy white parchment paper were stamped with the Burmese lion. A young woman played a lilting folk melody on a xylophone.
The menu listed barramundi over glass noodles, local venison, seared river prawns in green curry, sesame-coated tuna rolls, golden crab cakes, peanut biscuits and more.
Looking through the window at the boulevard that runs parallel to the Irrawaddy River, I saw fender-less trucks sputtering along, belching black smoke, stacked with freshly cut teak trees still oozing oil from the base. Men with bulging calf muscles strained at trishaw pedals. Schoolchildren in red skirts and white blouses walked home carrying plastic satchels.
Clearly Burma is a country of extremes - of haves and have-nots. The military junta owns the riches of the country, symbolised perhaps by the jewels in the Shwedagon Temple. Average citizens have little, and have been repressed for decades.
But the country is opening up to tourists. It's now possible to get a four-week visa with a simple application form and two photographs.
The feelings you take home are unusually deep, running an emotional gauntlet from awe to sorrow.
As I left the Strand, I thought of the old monk at the temple. I had tried to take his picture, but he wouldn't allow it. "I will remember you," he said. "You will remember me."
He was right.
Roy Hamric
Special to The Nation