From August 2015 to August 2016 I spent a year travelling by bicycle from my home in the UK to find my Great Grandfathers war grave in Myanmar (Burma). Here is the part of the story when I finally made it after 9 months.
Rangoon, Burma 1944: Yangon, Myanmar 2016
In April 1944 my great grandfather lost his battle with the much feared beri beri in what is still serving as Yangon’s main prison. Conditions inside under the Japanese I can’t imagine, within a month Sgt J Thornley’s brother Herbert would also succumb to conditions in the prison. They became the 2nd and 3rd Thornley brothers respectively to give their lives in the years of war between 1939 and 1945, the 1st Walter who did the extremely hazardous job of bring a test pilot was killed during the war, serving at home certainly did not guarantee safety. Thankfully the 4th brother was spared being only 16 at the outbreak of war and completing his training to join the royal signals as peace was declared in 1945.
Sgt Thornley had a son, born just before he began his long journey to Burma to harass the Japanese as part of an experimental force called the Chindits. They would march behind Japanese lines in huge columns of 800 men re supplied from the air and do what they could. The night my grandfather was born in Blackpool the phantom of German bombers came to attack the city, clearly recognizing him as a threat he would joke years later. He and my great grandmother were moved down to the hospital basement and safety. Sadly history meant that father and son would only meet a handful of times.
I arrived in Yangon the day before my grandfather, mother and uncle who was making a surprise appearance unknown to all but my mum. I was extremely excited to see some family after 9 months of travel, the next day I woke very early and got myself to the hotel we would be staying in to wait in reception and greet them. They arrived early and were suffering from some jet lag so the day was quite a lazy one spent mostly eating, drinking and chatting. They also came prepared with a long list of sights and places to eat they wanted to visit, having only 6 days it was clearly going to be a jam packed week.
After a couple of days of exploring this fantastic city we decided it was time to visit the grave, breakfast was a little quiet that morning and we found a taxi driver to take us to the small corner of the city where the cemetery was located. Our luck so far with taxi drivers knowing exactly where we wanted to go had so far been patchy but the cemetery although small (1331 graves compared to 6374 graves in the main allied cemetery in Yangon) was well known to the driver, an indication of the impact that chapter of history had had on the city. My grandfather knew exactly which row and plot both my great grandfather and great uncle were buried in and so made a bee line to the correct section of the graveyard. Apparently he had some words prepared that he wanted to say however in the moment only tears came forward, I can’t begin to imagine what the moment felt like and my own emotion seemed to be repressed. We had some time at each grave, some photos taken and a wander around the rest of the cemetery, it was surrounded on three sides by temples so even though just off one of the cities major roads was extremely peaceful. As we left my grandad seemed content, that some deep unfinished business had been dealt with, the words and photos of his lost father had finally been replaced with a tangible and physical connection to his past.
The rest of the week was spent ticking off more sights from the list, from the big tourist attractions of the giant gold plated Shwedagon pagoda that loomed over the city to some more obscure parts of the city where we found some great beer houses and got to see everything from the exclusive Governors Residence now a hotel and restaurant down to the cities poorer communities. Yangon is a brilliant city, small and compact with the downtown areas regimented street plan is a legacy of the British who built the city giving way to the suburbs with lots of park land and lakes meaning peace is easy to find. During my time there I met plenty of western expats who had fallen in love with the place and never left, it was very easy to see why.
At the end of our stay the locals began to celebrate the new year with the Thingyan festival, I have never seen anything like this! Everything shuts for 5 days bar some small supermarkets, the streets are filled with water stations of various sizes, the main stages, with live music and dancing, are massive and small business’ and home owners make their own smaller stations. The locals then cruise around the city in open trucks dancing, spraying and getting sprayed by hosepipes and buckets. The whole atmosphere cannot be described, you should go there and experience it, its inescapable and even a quick trip to the shop around the corner results in a soaking. It was great to see such a good mood in the city with alcohol being consumed but no one getting out of control, just enjoying the moments, and children getting involved and loving it for obvious reasons.
The time came for my family to leave, the week had been the highlight of the trip so far. An incredible place to explore with great company and a special family connection. We said our goodbyes as they braved the water festivals hoses and buckets on their taxi journeys to the airport leaving plenty of extra time to get through the busy and chaotic streets. I had a friend, Catherine, who I had met in India flying in the next day so was planning to spend the penultimate day of the Thingyan with her before leaving the city. Yet another day was spent walking around getting periodically soaked with sometimes ice cold water, a welcome relief from the spring temperatures, we also got picked up by a Canadian family who had emigrated some years before and driven around in their truck for a while.
Finally the time came for me to leave one of the greatest cities I have visited so far, I packed my stuff in the hostel making extra sure everything was water tight and sealed as I knew I wouldn’t escape the city without getting wet, said good bye to some new friends I had made in the hostel and pedaled off into the city streets. As I cycled out of the city the emotion finally caught up with me, I had loved my time in the city and the memories of visiting with my family as well as of course visiting the graveyard put tears into my eyes as I tried my best to dodge the high pressure hoses of the locals who were determined to soak everything in sight.
From August 2015 to August 2016 I spent a year travelling by bicycle from my home in the UK to find my Great Grandfathers war grave in Myanmar (Burma). Here is the part of the story when I finally made it after 9 months.
Rangoon, Burma 1944: Yangon, Myanmar 2016
In April 1944 my great grandfather lost his battle with the much feared beri beri in what is still serving as Yangon’s main prison. Conditions inside under the Japanese I can’t imagine, within a month Sgt J Thornley’s brother Herbert would also succumb to conditions in the prison. They became the 2nd and 3rd Thornley brothers respectively to give their lives in the years of war between 1939 and 1945, the 1st Walter who did the extremely hazardous job of bring a test pilot was killed during the war, serving at home certainly did not guarantee safety. Thankfully the 4th brother was spared being only 16 at the outbreak of war and completing his training to join the royal signals as peace was declared in 1945.
Sgt Thornley had a son, born just before he began his long journey to Burma to harass the Japanese as part of an experimental force called the Chindits. They would march behind Japanese lines in huge columns of 800 men re supplied from the air and do what they could. The night my grandfather was born in Blackpool the phantom of German bombers came to attack the city, clearly recognizing him as a threat he would joke years later. He and my great grandmother were moved down to the hospital basement and safety. Sadly history meant that father and son would only meet a handful of times.
I arrived in Yangon the day before my grandfather, mother and uncle who was making a surprise appearance unknown to all but my mum. I was extremely excited to see some family after 9 months of travel, the next day I woke very early and got myself to the hotel we would be staying in to wait in reception and greet them. They arrived early and were suffering from some jet lag so the day was quite a lazy one spent mostly eating, drinking and chatting. They also came prepared with a long list of sights and places to eat they wanted to visit, having only 6 days it was clearly going to be a jam packed week.
After a couple of days of exploring this fantastic city we decided it was time to visit the grave, breakfast was a little quiet that morning and we found a taxi driver to take us to the small corner of the city where the cemetery was located. Our luck so far with taxi drivers knowing exactly where we wanted to go had so far been patchy but the cemetery although small (1331 graves compared to 6374 graves in the main allied cemetery in Yangon) was well known to the driver, an indication of the impact that chapter of history had had on the city. My grandfather knew exactly which row and plot both my great grandfather and great uncle were buried in and so made a bee line to the correct section of the graveyard. Apparently he had some words prepared that he wanted to say however in the moment only tears came forward, I can’t begin to imagine what the moment felt like and my own emotion seemed to be repressed. We had some time at each grave, some photos taken and a wander around the rest of the cemetery, it was surrounded on three sides by temples so even though just off one of the cities major roads was extremely peaceful. As we left my grandad seemed content, that some deep unfinished business had been dealt with, the words and photos of his lost father had finally been replaced with a tangible and physical connection to his past.
The rest of the week was spent ticking off more sights from the list, from the big tourist attractions of the giant gold plated Shwedagon pagoda that loomed over the city to some more obscure parts of the city where we found some great beer houses and got to see everything from the exclusive Governors Residence now a hotel and restaurant down to the cities poorer communities. Yangon is a brilliant city, small and compact with the downtown areas regimented street plan is a legacy of the British who built the city giving way to the suburbs with lots of park land and lakes meaning peace is easy to find. During my time there I met plenty of western expats who had fallen in love with the place and never left, it was very easy to see why.
At the end of our stay the locals began to celebrate the new year with the Thingyan festival, I have never seen anything like this! Everything shuts for 5 days bar some small supermarkets, the streets are filled with water stations of various sizes, the main stages, with live music and dancing, are massive and small business’ and home owners make their own smaller stations. The locals then cruise around the city in open trucks dancing, spraying and getting sprayed by hosepipes and buckets. The whole atmosphere cannot be described, you should go there and experience it, its inescapable and even a quick trip to the shop around the corner results in a soaking. It was great to see such a good mood in the city with alcohol being consumed but no one getting out of control, just enjoying the moments, and children getting involved and loving it for obvious reasons.
The time came for my family to leave, the week had been the highlight of the trip so far. An incredible place to explore with great company and a special family connection. We said our goodbyes as they braved the water festivals hoses and buckets on their taxi journeys to the airport leaving plenty of extra time to get through the busy and chaotic streets. I had a friend, Catherine, who I had met in India flying in the next day so was planning to spend the penultimate day of the Thingyan with her before leaving the city. Yet another day was spent walking around getting periodically soaked with sometimes ice cold water, a welcome relief from the spring temperatures, we also got picked up by a Canadian family who had emigrated some years before and driven around in their truck for a while.
Finally the time came for me to leave one of the greatest cities I have visited so far, I packed my stuff in the hostel making extra sure everything was water tight and sealed as I knew I wouldn’t escape the city without getting wet, said good bye to some new friends I had made in the hostel and pedaled off into the city streets. As I cycled out of the city the emotion finally caught up with me, I had loved my time in the city and the memories of visiting with my family as well as of course visiting the graveyard put tears into my eyes as I tried my best to dodge the high pressure hoses of the locals who were determined to soak everything in sight.