“You are going to Taunggyi City for Tazaungdaing? Myanmar’s fire festival?” he asked. I looked at him oblivious to what he was talking about. We’d been chatting like old friends for almost an hour at the guesthouse I was staying at in Yangon. I knew he had to get back to work soon so, I probed him for more.
The festival in Taunggyi City, near mystical Inle Lake, had been on his bucket list his whole life. With passion he described the festivities in vivid detail, even though he had never been there himself. Stories of how whole villages across Myanmar invest their savings into the construction of hot air balloons to enter into a week-long competition over the November full moon, Tazaungdaing. Myanmar people from near and far make the journey to Taunggyi City each year to witness the balloons which are ultimately judged and a winner decided.
Enthralled by his story, I pictured myself by a calm lake surrounded by locals as we released paper lanterns in the name of peace and love. Our chat came to an end all too soon and within seconds I had jumped online and booked accommodation in Nyaung Shwe, the gateway town to Inle Lake and just a short 40 minute drive from the festival.
So that’s how I found myself in the back of a Taxi with a handful of other travellers after hiring the car for the night for a mere $55USD between us. I listened aghast as my companions recounted stories of severe burns and deaths that occur at the festival regularly. What on earth had I signed up for?
In the distance, I could see what appeared to be a large candle floating upwards, mingling with the stars. My excitement grew.
We arrived in a field of darkness and I climbed out of the taxi to find myself in the Wild West of Myanmar. After weaving through rows of other vehicles we entered the festival which was filled with people, lights, rides, food stalls and vehicles. A loud thumping electronic bass drew me to a large stage, where people were dancing, absorbed in the music, not one foreigner among them. Should we even be here?
But a brightly lit lane teeming with people took my attention. Like a moth to a flame I headed towards it ambivalent to how I might be received. A metre into the crowd I knew I had nothing to fear. Every direction I turned I was greeted by warm welcoming smiles of the Myanmar people.
Soon I was in a main square, which doubled as a launching area. A team surrounded a paper hot air balloon, their entry in this year’s competition. Young and old taking part, each sharing the same look of trepidation as they lit a large timber fire in hope to raise the hot air balloon they’d spent a year constructing. Others raced around the paper shell as it lifted, covering it with open-flamed candles.
You could feel the tension in the crowd as the paper balloon began to expand: one wrong move, one small gust of wind would bring a disastrous end. Drums began to beat, the final candles were in place and I found myself willing the balloon to take off without a glitch.
Suddenly the balloon stood erect, pulling at its creators, trying to leave the earth behind. As the balloon was released and raced off to join the others among the stars, celebration and relief spread like wildfire through the throngs of people. The successful team danced out of the main square in a procession of joy. Simultaneously, the next group entered the arena, tension flowing.
I decided to leave the chaos and excitement behind me to find a seat at one of the bars lining the square. Immediately a host ushered people out of the way so I could have prime position – despite my protestations and embarrassment.
People moved graciously to other seats and genuinely seemed excited for me to be there. I returned my attention to the launching area, where a light gust tugged at the new balloon, this balloon emblazoned by a massive General Than Shwe. The paper danced with a mind of its own. Smoke billowed out of the balloon and the General began to wrinkle, before crumpling to the ground: a sign of what was to become of his dictatorship?
As the disheartened team trudged past my prime vantage point, commotion broke out. Limbs flailed as people scattered, fleeing for their lives. I jumped up ready to run, unsure of the danger. A lone balloon stood erect in the centre. A few brave individuals raced around it, lighting a crate at its base. On release the remaining crew bolted.
Only a few metres off the ground and with a thunderous crack, the crate began to erupt. The audience, now crammed in the walkways leading away from the square, ducked for cover, as fireworks shot towards the ground. Now I understood the panic!
Not knowing if I should join others and run, I turned my attention back towards the balloon to find a rocket pelting directly towards me. My feet were glued to the ground. The flaming ball of fire got closer and closer. Then it fizzled.
People flooded back into the square, hands in the air, grins filling faces. Ecstatic!
When we finally filed back to our waiting taxi, I felt slightly overwhelmed by the entire experience. Being welcomed into such an amazing community event was a privilege and an honour, and something that I will never forget.
What are your favourite travel festivals?
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