Twenty-Four Hours in My Sanctuary: A Return to Lashio

The Road Back to the Hills

It is a small town in a developing nation, currently held under military dictatorship. If you ask ten Western travelers if they have ever heard of its name, maybe three might say yes.

It is not even a famous destination within its own country. Yet, this town is my sanctuary. If I could choose the place to spend my final days on Earth, I would choose it without hesitation.

Surrounded by the mountains of northern Myanmar, this is Lashio—the place where I was born and raised.

Although our town has an airport, only domestic flights could land there before it was closed down by the war. Today, getting here from the city with an international airport takes twice as long as it used to. Along the way, a major river crossing requires a boat transfer because the main bridge was destroyed by a bomb.

Of the eighteen long hours on the road, about twelve are spent bumping along gravel mountain passes and dusty dirt roads. Leaving the big city at 5:00 PM the previous evening meant that as we drew closer to our destination, the morning sun began to light up the valleys. Streams trickled along the roadside, offering breathtaking views.

Since luxury vehicles cannot navigate these roads, we traveled in an ordinary public bus. By the end of the ride, my whole body ached as if I had been beaten.

But as we neared the town, the familiar scent of pine forests welcomed me. The cool, crisp air replaced the hot, suffocating atmosphere of the metropolis, and the aches in my body simply melted away.

11:13 AM — We passed the sign that reads "Welcome to Lashio." After more than six years away, I was finally home. About a kilometer away, the Yan Tine Aung Pagoda (The Pagoda of Victorious Peace) stood tall through the mist, its golden spire shining just as I remembered.

Knowing my mother was preparing my favorite dishes and that my stomach was empty, I headed straight for the family table. My father greeted me with a smile, mentioning he had already filled the car with fuel so I could drive around town.

Home, Family, and the Smell of Pine

11:25 AM — This red-brick house carries so many childhood memories. After my grandparents passed away, it was passed down to my mother’s family among eight siblings.

Sitting on a wide lot tucked away in a lane off the main downhill road, it stands out from the neighboring houses. Facing east toward the sunrise, the old wooden bench where I used to sit with a cup of coffee early in the morning was still there. It felt as comfortable as ever.

In the kitchen at the back, soot still hung from the ceiling above the charcoal stove. Over lunch, we shared the ups and downs of our lives, blending story with laughter. My mother’s chicken and potato curry, paired with sour chin baung (roselle) soup, tasted so good that I finished my plate before I even realized it. When I was far away, this was the exact moment I missed the most. I honestly wished time could freeze right there.

12:38 PM — Eager to see how my hometown had changed, I took a quick shower and got ready to head out by 12:55 PM. Driving here is never tiring compared to the suffocating city traffic. The gentle slopes and light traffic make driving a pure joy.

Though the town is small, I wanted a longer drive, so I headed toward the pine forest at the foot of the hills—just twenty minutes away.

01:19 PM — Sunlight filtered through the tall pine trees, casting gentle warmth through the cool air. The pine forest here is not a manicured tourist attraction. To reach it, I had to drive down a narrow, unpaved red-dirt path filled with deep ruts for about 200 meters. Only locals living nearby know this hidden lane; even many who grew up in the town center hardly notice it.

To me, it felt like a private, peaceful hideaway—a place that helped me heal whenever I felt overwhelmed by life. I had been missing this exact sound and feeling of stepping on dried pine needles and leaves.

So, I spent time walking around, sitting under the trees, lying down on the ground, and reflecting on my life. As 3:00 PM approached, I decided to continue driving further toward the outer southern edge of town.

Memories along the Bypass

To speed up travel for those heading from the south toward the northern border with China, a bypass road was built around our town. Smoothly paved with asphalt, it winds gracefully up and down the hills. With the evening sun casting a warm glow, it is one of the best roads for a drive.

It took half an hour to reach the junction where the town road meets the bypass. The moment my wheels touched the asphalt at 03:26 PM, the ride became unbelievably smooth.

Built over fifteen years ago with foreign technical assistance, this road has exceptional quality compared to regular streets. During the years I lived here, I used to drive out here at least three times a week.

It brought back memories of driving with my old friends, blasting our favorite songs, and singing along together at the top of our lungs. Though we cannot all gather here today, the road remembers.

As old songs played from the car speakers under the late afternoon sky, the surrounding scenery looked as beautiful as ever. How could I not miss this road?

A Solitary Tree and Warm Hot Springs

04:36 PM — I turned off the bypass onto another narrow dirt path leading to another private sanctuary of mine. On a gentle hill stood a solitary Wild Himalayan Cherry tree—not in its pink winter bloom, but clad in rich, vibrant green leaves, standing like a solitary green crown.

Fifty meters away stood a simple thatched bamboo hut, framed with half-walls of woven bamboo mats and a raised bamboo daybed inside, offering an open-air view of the surrounding hills.

Sitting comfortably on the daybed, I looked out at the cherry tree and the setting sun with a quiet longing. In the past, my friends and I would lay a mat on the wild green grass nearby to play guitar, sing, drink, and play games. When we grew tired of the guitar, we would open all the car doors and blast music into the open air.

Looking at old photos from those days while watching the sun dip behind the mountains and mist, I decided it was time to head back toward the center of town at 05:50 PM.

As twilight settled, my parents called my phone, worried about me returning after dark—just like they used to when I was younger. Feeling that familiar bit of youthful restriction made me smile; I would gladly trade anything to relive those innocent moments.

06:16 PM — Having eaten lunch hours ago, I was starving again. After a long overnight journey on the bus and an afternoon of driving, my muscles felt stiff. As the sun set, the air grew chilly. I returned home to gather my family for a visit to the natural hot springs, just fifteen minutes away.

06:45 PM — Even now, the hot springs were lively with people, just like the old days. Small stalls surrounding the springs sold local treats that are hard to find anywhere else: steamed sticky rice, black sticky rice, fried tofu, and pickled mustard greens. I had missed these flavors for over six years. We sat at one of the food stalls, filling our stomachs first so we wouldn’t feel dizzy in the hot water.

Soaking in the warm water, stepping out into the crisp air to enjoy hot sticky rice and warm fried tofu, and spending quality time with my family—it had been far too long since I enjoyed an evening like this. The hot water washed away all my physical fatigue, leaving me feeling completely refreshed.

Midnight Markets and Quiet Constellations

We returned home at 09:14 PM. After talking with my parents about my goals and future plans, they went to bed at their usual early hour. Unwilling to waste precious hours sleeping during my short stay, I decided to head out to the Lashio Night Market.

Arriving at 10:12 PM, the entrance at the foot of the hill welcomed visitors with the rich smell of boiled peanuts and steamed corn. The market stretches uphill, packed with stalls selling clothes, food, and various goods. Walking up the gentle slope in the cool night air to shop kept me warm and excited.

Growing up, one of my fondest memories was coming to this market with my mother every year before Christmas Eve to buy a new jacket, pants, or shoes for the Christmas and New Year’s Midnight Mass.

12:21 AM — By the time I reached the top of the hill, I had bought a jacket and two pairs of jeans for myself, along with clothes for my parents. Being close to the Chinese border, many goods are Made in China, making them affordable while offering decent quality if you know where to look.

Honestly, it is my favorite night market in the whole country. The way the stalls line the hill, combined with the warmth of the locals, makes it truly unique. Without high-end luxury brands, there is no pretension or pride here—only genuine kindness reflected in the smiles and eyes of the people.

Walking back down toward the car, I stopped by a Shan noodle stall near the entrance. I ordered a bowl of beef ball noodles and a bowl of warm tofu noodles (To Fu Nway). No restaurant in the big cities can ever match the authentic taste of northern Shan street food, so I happily finished two bowls past midnight.

By 02:27 AM, as the night vendors began packing up, early morning vegetable sellers were already arriving for the 4:00 AM market. In fact, the night market, the morning market, and the main central market (Myoma Zay) are all interconnected in this same district.

Dawn at the Cathedral

03:00 AM — The cold had settled deep into the night, biting into the skin. Inside our dark, quiet house, my family was fast asleep. I built a small wood fire in the yard, pulled out a lightweight cane chair from the living room, put on a thick coat, and sat outside with a glass of red wine. The old chair squeaked slightly, but leaning back felt as comforting as ever.

The sky above was exceptionally clear, filled with bright stars. Sitting on a high lot, our yard offered a view over a quarter of the town. The moon, just two days past full, bathed the entire yard in a soft, natural glow.

Under the quiet night, with the gentle crackle of the fire and the bright stars overhead, my spirit felt completely free.

I drifted off to sleep for a short while and woke up at 04:49 AM as the first light of dawn began to break. The morning sun rose slowly through the misty mountains.

No photo or painting could ever capture the vivid beauty of seeing it with my own eyes. I felt cool mist specks on my face while feeling the gentle warmth of the morning sun. Standing amidst these hills and streams, I was reminded that I have always been a part of this land.

06:17 AM — The morning fog grew thick, and cold air turned our breath into visible steam. After a quick cup of coffee to stay alert, I drove my mother to the 6:30 AM Mass at the church—just five minutes away.

This was the same church I attended every Sunday with my mother during my childhood: the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart. Built during the British colonial era, its stone architecture remains grand and dignified. Rough-cut stone blocks form its outer walls, while large pillars and the sanctuary walls are decorated with tiny diamond-shaped mirror tiles. Aged yet timeless, it stood beautifully amidst the morning fog.

07:43 AM — After Mass, we went to a local steamed bun (Pauk-si) shop near our house—the best in town. The shop has been run by the same Chinese family for generations, maintaining the exact taste I remembered from my youth. The eldest son, a close childhood friend of mine, caught up with me as we chatted amidst the busy morning crowd.

By 09:26 AM, we returned home so I could help my mother cook lunch. As the family gathered in the kitchen, playing old favorite songs in the background, my father unexpectedly took my mother’s hand and danced with her in the middle of the room. It was a moment of pure, quiet joy.

11:11 AM — Time flies! Twenty-four hours in my hometown had almost passed—fleeting like the blink of an eye. Yet, every minute was filled with moments, sights, and feelings I will treasure for the rest of my life.