IT IS SAID THE GENERALS live in a bubble when they're outside Naypyidaw, and a bunker when they're in. I found the bunker. "Want see?" my driver asked again. I nodded, and he detoured far into the east of the city. He showed me a simple gate in the middle of trees, which led to an invisible nightclub for the

Tatmadaw. On a roundabout, there was a closed exit that led to the "top man restaurant," the cabbie said. A gate, glowing with red warning lights, led to a park and playground for the junta's families. What looked like a partial stadium turned out to be a multistory driving range. Where Rangoon had blackouts, Naypyidaw had penguins, living on ice, their habitats cooled by 24-hour power.

Finally we came to a vast intersection cordoned with razor wire and watched by police. "Than Shwe house," my guide said, pointing discreetly. There was an eight-lane road of white concrete, leading thousands of feet down to a triumphal arch and, beyond that, the houses of Dictator No. 1 and the other cronies.

"No photo!" the driver screamed, too late.

But you don't need a camera to get a peek at the weird world of the junta: On YouTube, just type in "wedding of Than Shwe's daughter." As the resulting video shows, the generals are not in isolation. "There are hundreds of rich people around them, flattering them," said Ma Thanegi, the painter. "A nouveau riche, kitschy society, unbelievably luxurious and conformist."

Than Shwe may have "lots of old-man diseases," as the barefoot diplomat had told me, but he plays golf, and I hit Naypyidaw's City Golf Course, hoping to crash his foursome. No such luck: A manager standing beneath a portrait of Than Shwe said they wouldn't let me play ($20), I wasn't a member ($20), there weren't any caddies ($20), and I had to buy a City Golf Course shirt in red ($6).

I balked at the shirt. Five days ago, The New Light of Myanmar contained pictures of regime cronies playing golf in Naypyidaw. A general named Thiha Thura Tin Aung Myint Oo (identified as "Secretary-1") had inaugurated a tournament on April 16. In the photos, which I held up, Secretary-1 was not wearing an official shirt.

I had to buy the shirt. Equipped with a hugely optimistic two balls, I grabbed a caddy and hit the links as the temperature reached 104 degrees. The nice thing about being dictator is that nobody denies you a mulligan. My first pair of tee shots went a total of ten yards, so I took a third, like Than Shwe would. On the second hole I had a couple of good drives and two-putted; on the third I sliced into the barbed wire and lost the ball. On five, I hit a sweet drive of 175 yards ("Three hundred!" my caddy insisted). Six, which looked onto a construction site, saw my best drive yet, but I three-putted. On seven, I discovered that the official shirt had dyed my belly a sweaty pink. On eight, I took a penalty rather than play my ball off a mound of snake holes. On nine, I hit into a water hazard, twice, which the caddy forgot while scoring me a decent 50. A lie. Here was the general's ideal country, a back nine of yes-men to carry the bags and ask no questions.