“yaaaawahadaaaaa .... yuuuuwahaduuuuu!” It’s 4am and that’s supposed to be Burmese singing. Really loud. Under our window. Good fucking morning Yangon.

It’s the last week of the 3 month Buddhist vegetarian fasting. I believe we have about 4 monasteries in the street. It’s apparently tradition that the people of our apartment building cook them all a breakfast. We’re invited too, at 6am (which is already ultra early for noodles).

We go down at 6 sharp. The parking lot has been transformed into a temple tent. Five old monks sit in it on plastic chairs, chanting religious verses in a microphone with echo effect. About a dozen neighbors kneel across them, repeating the texts. Everybody looks sleepy. The entire block enjoys the music already since 4.

It feels weird standing next to the praying crowd, but soon the ceremony is finished and the flat committee chairman invites us to break the fast. The ‘mohinga’, traditional Burmese rice noodles and spicy fish soup, that has been boiling in the hallway since yesterday in a gigantic pot, is delicious. More monks and nuns join the community breakfast; everybody chats and laughs. After two plates we’re full and go back up, in an attempt to catch some more sleep.

This weekend starts the Thadingyut or Lantern Festival, the real end of the fasting season. It’s going to be a 10 days public holiday with lots of fun, food and fireworks, we have been told. Wonder if that kicks off at 4am too.