Author's Notes

Built and run by the Sarkies, the famous Armenian hotel family, it was part of a hospitality empire, which ranged from Singapore’s Raffles Hotel to Penang’s Eastern and Oriental and to the ambitious plans to build the Majestic Hotel in Calcutta.

The Strand’s story takes us back to the days of the Bibby and Henderson Lines, which plied their services between Europe and Rangoon. From there, we take to the air aboard the first Imperial Airways aircrafts, back in the times when the London to Rangoon trip took a mere nine days. Let’s meet the old colonialists at their clubs and at the Strand‘s Bar. Visit old Rangoon when a tram route used to pass by the Strand Hotel on its way from the harbour to the heart of the city.

Join Rudyard Kipling in his memoirs and read Somerset Maugham’s notes. We meet the Prince of Wales on his visit to Burma and enjoy the tales and memories of so many old friends of The Strand. They‘re all gathered here in one book to celebrate their Strand, which has a great past – and after its sparkling renovation and reopening – an equally promising future.

The gold and gems market is close to the alleys where talented artists are presented in stall-like galleries. Paintings, jade, pearls, stones, stunning handicrafts; an afternoon time-wrapped at the Shwe Dagon Pagoda; a crossing of the river; a drink here; a dinner there; the Strand’s Colonial Walking Tour; without missing the Strand Lobster and all the other delicatessen of the restaurants. All this after breakfast in bed and an early start, like most Burmese, who are up at six in the morning to exercise in the parks all over the city.
After an afternoon of sight-seeing, we return to The Strand’s lobby, sipping Myanmar high tea to the soothing sounds of the harp and xylophone. The famous Strand bakery sends its basket with pastries, accompanied by gooseberry jam, banana muffins, jam tarts and honeycomb ice-cream for the kids.
At night the bar beckons and we indulge in one of its unbeatable concoctions: a Strand Cocktail perhaps or a Cosmopolitan. Memories of all the painters and writers who found inspiration here. Who knows? Perhaps Orwell or Coward were once sitting right here. May be it was here that Maugham wrote :‘. . . if I could plunge into that enigmatic life and lose myself in it as a cup of water thrown overboard is lost in the Irrawaddy . . . ’

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