In Sickness and in Health

Should’ve learned by now not to judge an Asian town at night time. In the morning, those barren gritty streets and connecting alleys were buzzing in all directions. It was hot, bright and sunny. The elevated sidewalks were lined with the usual interesting hoards of food stalls, sewing machines, betelnut stands, and in our particular neighborhood, used books. Shrines and shrouds encircled the bases of wide banyan trees. Lots of walkers loitered or strolled along wide streets, filled with empty trishaws, crowded buses and white Toyotas, which began pouring into Yangon 2 years ago at a clip of 10,000 per month -rush hour traffic having turned abysmal as a result. Noticeably missing from the streets were motorbikes, ironically, since they greatly help aleve traffic congestion. The story goes that years ago, one sideswiped the car of a military general, who then banned them from the entire city.

Our main goal for the day was to obtain overnight ferry tickets to the southwest coast, but first we needed to eat. We ventured into a neighborhood just west of central Yangon, that -judging from the people and restaurants- could have been somewhere in India. Tarp-covered sidewalk stalls selling used jewelry, trinkets, magazines, cricket snacks, cigarettes, fruit, underwear, small Buddhas, skewers, water, books, watches, and t-shirts of Aung San Suu Kyi were everywhere, competing for attention with the brick and mortar shops just across the narrow, cracked sidewalk. Mosques and temples rose above the fray, alongside weathered, 3-story stucco buildings. The Biryani and lassi joint we found was as packed, interesting and delicious as our guide book described. This was a good beginning.

Finding the jetty, and the ticket office for the overnight ferry however, was a different matter. Maybe our taxi driver was new to Yangon, because I had to direct him where to go. Behind a long sea wall, a whole new world opened up. A man walking past our lost driver offered to help, and lead us on a long, convoluted search for the packed ticket office, which in turn lead to a similar search for the ferry. Finally we found it, parked on the outside of another ferry, which was being loaded up with cargo, and this was an amazing scene to watch. A hundred tired, sweaty, men, carried huge white sacks on their backs, onto this front ferry, unloaded as ordered, and then slouched back to the truck for more. We had to dodge and weave through this human ant nest to board “our” ferry, which was not at all what we expected for a 22-hour long excursion. No seats. No beds. We were offered a small square of dirty floor in a corner of the second level, crowded with boxes stacked to the ceiling. Despite what we were told, I still doubt that this was the correct ferry that our guide book referenced -it didn’t seem like a passenger ferry whatsoever, and yet was not cheap. We declined the offer -but only after much consideration. Maybe we’d have taken the plunge if we hadn’t just come off a difficult 16-hour train ride, which seemed now like a luxurious arrangement when compared to this.

We headed back to the Indian neighborhood, to a western cafe we’d seen called the Boon Bar. Next door, in an indoor mall, was a travel agent who both cleared and muddied our prospects for leaving Yangon. There was also a medical clinic, which Jennifer took advantage of to address a lost appetite and stomach pain she’d been having for days, and weight loss. She felt that the young woman Dr there gave her excellent care and advice (avoid spicy -not easily done here), and a prescription for a stomach infection. On the walk home we checked out several hotels, hoping to find one cheaper than ours. But this search instead made us feel thankful for what we had. Some of those other places were interesting, but quite creepy –and more expensive than ours. We hadn’t expected to stay in Yangon that night, and so hadn’t booked our room -leaving our day packs at the front desk. We returned to our hotel after dark, desperately hoping they’d still have a room available, which they did -along with a smile.

We were still hoping to get away to remote southern or coastal destinations in the days ahead, while we explored Yangon and monitored Jennifer’s health. The Circle Train takes 3 hours and passes around the outskirts. I liked it more than Jennifer -who became disheartened by the sights of poor communities that we passed early on. She got off the train after one hour, but I stayed on board for the whole experience. I mostly stood at -and leaned out of- the open doors in back, but also sat with a friendly monk for a while. The northern region was open and beautiful, and green with rows of vegetables. I didn’t realize they were floating crops until I saw the heads of women harvesters alongside them, in water up to their chins.

Jennifer’s loss of appetite was becoming an issue, and we needed a western dinner. We walked many blocks to a particular Italian restaurant, but which was now out of business. In desperation, we broke down and decided to eat in a western tourist hotel nearby -something we’d avoided doing because of the mutual arrangement these places have with the corrupt Myanmar government. The dining room was barren and boring, the staff barely spoke English, the food was expensive, and not very good, and as we walked out, I had a sinking feeling that for the second time in my life, I had food poisoning -soon validated. The irony of getting poisoned at this westernized tourist restaurant after all the places we’d been eating did not escape me! It was a long night, and long day that followed, which I spent in our room. Jennifer took care of me lovingly, as best she could.

As I slept all the next day, she headed off to run some tasks. She didn’t return until it was dark and late, and then she didn’t look well at all. She recounted her day, and told me about sitting in a restaurant and becoming overwhelmed with weakness, nearly collapsing. Fortunately she was near that medical clinic, and was able to drag herself back to that same doctor, who put her on 2 hours of IV and recommended that she be hospitalized. Our conditions traded places then, as I recovered and Jennifer then stayed put in our room (though I lost my appetite for the next week). She looked absolutely terrible, and had lost far too much weight, yet I could not convince her to go to the hospital. This became a strongly felt area of contention between us, which didn’t help matters. What she did agree to do was let go of her strident diet, and to start eating anything and everything that she could. I went out and scoured the shops for Ensure, breakfast bars, oatmeal, crackers, milk, and other things that she hadn’t had for years. And I found a book or 2 to help her pass the time. It was a bit scary there for a spell. She simply could not will herself to eat, yet needed to. It took a few days for her to even start to feel better. One word: Ensure.

By now, there weren’t many days left before our visa expired, and we began to accept -and embrace- the thought of staying put in Yangon.

-matt

For Better or for Worse

We had a 28 day visa for Myanmar, now about half used -fantastically. But this would be a trip of 2 halves. There were many positives sprinkled across our remaining days, but primarily there were set backs, frustrations, and broken attempts to get to where we wanted to go.

The tone was set soon after leaving Lake Inle, on a charming but rickety old train to Kalaw, expecting to catch another train from there to Myitkyina, up north. We sat with a large bunch of Danish tourists, which pleased Jennifer to no end. But another passenger with a laptop full of up-to-date travel info, squashed our idea, and replaced it with another. So we suddenly disembarked at the small town of Heho (with a surprising, lively, musical, ceremonial scene at that small station!) and flew in a small plane to Mandalay. But the information at the Mandalay airport was again different from what we’d been previously told. Rather than fly to Myitkyina, the agent inquired about an overnight sleeper train instead. Yes, possible -but we’d have to hurry because the train station is in the heart of town, a long ways away from the remote airport. A crazy, frenetic hour’s drive later, our taxi driver dropped us off at the main train station.

But it turned out that the overnight train to Myitkyina had seats available -but never sleeper seats. Sigh. We’d both sat up all night on overnight train rides in our day, and vowed never again. Two tired young men slouching over their day packs introduced themselves and stated categorically to avoid going to Myitkyina anyway. They were extreme bikers (the peddle type) who’d just returned from there. They warned us that visitors to Myitkyina are only given access to the small town plaza, and nowhere else. They also had a harrowing story from their biking adventure, which started in Mongolia. The only trouble they’d had was in Myanmar, involving drunken military men waking them up in their tent, and confiscating their valuables. We were disappointed to let go of Myitkyina, but really glad that we hadn’t flown there or boarded that train. So from there -despite what the agent at the tourist office warned- we easily found a hotel(s) nearby and within our budget, and settled into Mandalay for a couple of days to sort through our options.

In retrospect, we wished we’d spent more time in Mandalay. Maybe some day we’ll return, and give it the time it deserves. But in the wake of Bagan, Kalaw, and Nyaungshwe, we were still hoping to find similar sorts of less-traveled-but-amazing places. We spent a lot of our time in Mandalay being whisked around on trishaws as we ran tasks and stocked up on small necessities. We also rented crummy bikes once and went on an extremely sweet and sour bike ride. The first half went through some really fantastic, interesting neighborhoods, through great markets and past unique temples. But then we stumbled upon a stretch along the putrid, smelly river that was among the most squalid and depressing we’ve seen. It was simply hard to enjoy ourselves after that, and it further bolstered our desire to move on.

Food was starting to become an issue for us too. The cuisine in Myanmar calls for using a lot of oil, and the spices and taste, and the scenery / ambiance of most restaurants was -though authentic and adventurous- starting to wear thin. We weren’t eating much, yet were not inspired to either. One exception was at the Rainbow, an interesting 3 story corner spot a few blocks from our Nylon Hotel. We preferred the second floor, which felt like a men’s club where political deals were going down, amid countless bottles of Bintang beer.

Ok, so the northern destinations in Myanmar that appealed to us were off limits. We finally gave in and decided to point ourselves south, and veer to the coast. Our train for Yangon departed at 6:00 in the morning. This had all the makings of a train adventure -and a looong one, at 13 hours. Unassigned, cushioned rows, faced each other, and shared a weathered and wobbly table jutting out from the wall. There were no other westerners in sight, and plenty of authentic Myanmar life to enjoy, starting with the train itself. We thought some other trains we’d encountered were rickety-rockety, but this one -and especially the lower class car ahead of ours- swayed and tilted so far from side to side that I couldn’t believe it could stay on the tracks -it was like a cartoon. Meanwhile -and astonishingly, food hawkers strolled the aisles all day, somehow balancing baskets of food and drinks on their erect heads, their body’s leaning and shifting with the wildly erratic train floor. They’d bend, pull out an empty cup, and somehow pour in hot tea without spilling a drop. And they’d casually contort themselves to pass one another -or to avoid passengers who seemed oblivious. A small group of police and official-looking types seemed to intimidate their way into the more desirable seats. Over the course of the day, monks came and went. All sorts did. And as the hours went by, our stuff got more and more spread out across our 2 rows, but we were left alone to hog the 4 seats that we now took up.

We made at least 25 stops on the way to Yangon (formerly Rangoon). Usually, food hawkers would come to the windows, and the scene at each station was full of activity. We handed out an apple once to a young boy, standing with his (?) mother, which seemed to make their day. The passing scenery out the window was varied, and included gorgeous mixtures of nature: flat, hilly, dry, wet, barren and lush. All types of bridges crossed all types of rivers, lakes, and wetlands. Skinny animals and skinny kids walked on the tracks, near dense villages with wooden sides and grass roofs. Uniformed men stood in the street with their arms outstretched, holding back a mounting wave of still traffic behind them, waiting for the train to pass. At about the half way point, we stopped at a curious, huge, new, and empty station. For miles and miles on both sides, there were wooden, cookie-cut homes, in perfect rows and columns. This was Nay Pyi Taw, the newly created, controversial, military headquarters, build at an obscene expense (Myanmar is Southeast Asia’s poorest country), at the apparent whim of the military generals, who -taking a cue from ancient kings- decided that the best place for the military to be, is in the middle of the country -and in the middle of nowhere.

Eventually, we pulled into Yangon -3 hours later than scheduled, and 16 hours after we’d left Mandalay. Those last few hours were loooooong and dark. It was now after 10:00 at night, and we had no room reserved. A taxi driver made many phone calls for us (on the pretense of taking us there) before we found a room that was affordable. It was an underwhelming arrival at our new place; down a gritty alley, off a wide, empty, gritty-looking street. And contrary to what the book said, it no longer served breakfast -free or otherwise. But it was very clean, had hot water, big beds, and kind staff. But our day wasn’t done yet, because Jennifer needed to eat. So the nightwatchman kindly lead us on a search for any form of food still available, and we found a small sidewalk grill several blocks away, about to close up. The pickins were slim, but enough. The night watchman waited there with us, and then walked us back home.

It felt good to finally hit the sack, and we did so expecting to leave Yangon the following day.

-matt

Inle Lake

After the initial ride across the lake following our trek, we went onto the water 3 more times during our 6 night stay in Nyaungshwe. There’s a vibrant, bustling life going on out there, though it’s a bit deceptive because the lake is so wide and calm. At any given time you can see at least 50 watercraft. Some long boats carried just a few people, others were packed with many, and still others carried cargo such as sacks of grain or rows of empty wooden crates. There were smaller canoes too, with 1 or 2 or 3 people inside, fishing out in the open, or harvesting alongside the edges of the many floating gardens that are strewn about the lake. Islands would come and go, some with temples on them. Sprinkled around the distant perimeter of the lake, were roof clusters of floating communities. Up beyond them, golden Hershey kisses dotted the hills. Always, the water was placid, reflecting the green hills, white clouds, and blue sky.

One day we decided to bike to some hot springs, said to be maybe 45 minutes away. We’d already learned about how maps, directions, and distances seem to be foreign concepts in Myanmar, it took 2 hours. The first hour was on a gorgeous, flat, shady, tree-lined, berm that cut through the reeds and rushes. But the second half was difficult, as the trail turned rocky, went uphill, and had too many trucks using it. The hot springs were also a letdown: two separated swimming pools, divided by gender (no mixing). We did not want to use them, nor did we want to bike back to town. So instead, we paid a long boat driver to ferry us -and our bikes- back home across the lake. While he prepared things, we followed the sounds of chanting children to a single school house. The teacher stopped class briefly and introduced us, and showed us their thick English lesson plan. The ride back on the long boat was again, magnificent. Through the green, peaceful, marshes we chugged, passing people on land and in other boats, who knew our boatsman.

There are countless villages and sights to see all around the lake. A day or 2 later, we planned out a full day and decided on 3 such destinations. We met our hired canoe skipper early, and headed out while the lake was still misty and atmospheric. There’s an iconic image for Inle Lake: the Intha fisherman, standing up on his flat-bottomed skiff, propelled by a single wooden paddle, one leg wrapped around it to drive the blade through the water in a snake-like motion. This frees his hands to manage the large, conical net that drags below the boat. There were many out this morning, and one allowed us to get close for a picture or 3. Our first destination was the village of Inthein, 90 minutes away. It turned out to be the same village where our trek tribe had our last meal before getting into the boat. But at that time, we didn’t know about the temple bonanza a few hundred meters away.

Nyaung Ohak is a large group of crumbling stupa, in the foothills. Most are overgrown with vines and earth, yet with carvings of animals, deva, and chinthe still visible. Farther up, via a very looong covered stairway, flanked by stalls selling high quality and amazing lacquerware, puppets, jewelery, headdresses, etc., is Shwe Thein Paya, an incredible complex of over a thousand stupa, surrounding a central Pagoda. Many are crumbling now, but many more are being reconstructed and painted (we preferred the original structures). Weaving our way through them, small figurines or ornamental stone carvings rested at the foot of their once-host stupa. Inside their cavities, many carved Buddhas still remained -but most were missing.

From there we got back into the boat and cruised to Phaung Daw Oo Paya, which is a large, ornate, multi-layered Pagoda island complex, and home of the holiest religious site in the region: the beloved “5 Buddhas”. Outside, berthed in its slip, was an ornate, golden dragon/swan boat, reserved for special ceremonies. Inside, worshipers pay to apply gold leaf to the 5 amorphous blobs -which once presumably resembled 5 Buddhas. Close up cameras capture and display the action on the monitors hanging in the common areas. Around the interior walls, large paintings detailed the history, beliefs, and culture of the region, and photographs showed lake ceremonies from many decades past, staring that festive, golden boat.

From there we cruised across the lake further to the stilted village of Nampan, where the Alodaw Pauk Pagoda houses 4 different looking Buddhas as you walk completely around the central quarters. Typically, women are not allowed to enter their “rooms”, so we didn’t stay long.

On the way home across the lake, we slipped through one of the many floating gardens where flowers, tomatoes, squash, and fruit are grown. We were allowed to climb upon the spongy green beds for a minute. Lone farmers squatting on the edge of their long canoes, somehow manged to slowly glide themselves alongside the crops, while cutting and gathering the harvest.

On our last day in Nyaungshwe, we hired a woman to paddle us through the local marshes for 2 hours. No engine. She stood at the back like a gondolier, using the Intha method of wrapping her leg around the paddle. Quietly we glided, past villages, school yards, other boater friends of hers, and through the narrow channels of the lake. Young monks flew kites high above their monastery. Without saying a word, she wedged the front of our canoe onto the marshland, pointing us straight at the sun, which lay setting behind the mountains. We admired the moment in silence for several minutes until it sank into the west. She then turned the boat around and glided us back to town. This great day -and our visit to this small part of the world- was coming to an end.

Some regions of Myanmar are off limits to visitors, but understanding which ones depends on who you ask -and seemingly, the day of the week. Trying to arrange for remote excursions was very difficult. We’d been really hoping to move on to Maurak U in the northern part of the country, but had finally accepted it as off limits right now due to rebel conflicts. Eventually we hatched a different plan, and made arrangements with a pair of brother travel agents / taxi drivers to take us to the train station in the morning. One of them had an iphone cover that was a photograph of Aung San Suu Kyi’s visit with Obama at the white house. Jennifer wanted one! He lead us all over town looking for another, but couldn’t find one. When we returned to his shop, he gave his to Jennifer.

-matt

Nyaungshwe

The town of Nyaungshwe sits in the northeast corner of Lake Inle. The 90 minute motorized canoe ride from the southwest region was a fabulous introduction to this beautiful place. The huge lake is lined with a deep marshy rim all around it. We passed by communities of wooden homes, raised on stilts above the water, and under narrow arched foot bridges that connected the villages together. It took 30 minutes just to snake through the marshes and onto the wide open, placid, and stunning lake that is bordered on 2 sides by verdant mountain ranges. It was a real treat to end the trek by gliding across it.

But entering the port of Nyaungshwe was also scenic. The channel narrowed and soon came alive into the bustling riverside town, steeped in motorized canoes, their fronts raised, backs sunk, carrying people, crates, and sacks, racing in and out of port, motors gurgling. It had a touch of a small Asian Venice to it. Though the lake is the main draw, we found the town itself to be worthy too. Its flat, gridded, easily navigated, walkable and bikable. Our Gold Star Hotel was in a quiet area, but just minutes from anywhere else. The town packed a lot into its relatively small size. There were busy streets, and quiet streets, the ubiquitous covered day market (again, designed for tiny people), a night market, a surprising mix of exotic and diverse temples, a variety of restaurants, shaded dirt roads, friendly local people, relatively few westerners, tree-lined canals, and that enormous lake -with worlds unto themselves out there. A favorite spot of ours was on the lone, short, narrow, busy, bridge that crossed the water channel in the heart of town. Long boats passed under it in both directions all day, reflecting the lives, culture and commerce of the region. The bridge life up above did the same thing. Diverse wheeled contraptions, and villagers on foot, carried everything imaginable into town or away from it. An unusual temple stood nearby. It looked Moroccan; adorned with tiny pieces of glass, it had a beautiful, silver, shimmering quality.

We balanced exploring the land and water equally, and rented bikes nearly every day (not great, but they were our best bikes in Myanmar). We didn’t push ourselves to do too much, and tried to just ease into our activities. One day I ventured out alone on my bike, and went far in all directions. I learned the layout of the town, which I always like doing, but the best parts were found outside of town, in opposite directions. I couldn’t wait to return with Jennifer the next day. A small, quiet road runs south of town, along the marshy edge of the lake, to the village of Nanthe, where the 700 year old Yan Aung Nan Aung Hsu Taung Pyi Pagoda sits. In the middle is its 26-foot tall sitting buddha, surrounded by deva (celestial beings) and chinthe (half-lion, half-dragon guardians). We also enjoyed exploring this quiet, tiny village of stilted wooden homes.

To the north of Nyaungshwe, however, was an even better bounty of surprises. I crossed underneath the large arched sign that marks the gateway in and out, and found a bikers dream scene. The divided road was flat, paved, very shaded, straight, went on forever, and was crazy gorgeous on both sides. To the left, marshes, huts, ducks, and rice fields, all the way to the western mountain range. To the right, a long, wide finger of the lake, with the beautiful, eastern mountain range reflected on its glass surface. Fishermen, small thatched villages, long boats, swimmers, and bathers sprinkled here and there.

Three unique, exquisite and diverse temples were spread out over the miles ahead, Two on the same grounds. Shwe Yan Pyay, is an ancient teak ordination hall. Young monks played chinlon (like hacky-sack, but with a larger, woven rattan ball) out in back, or sipped tea near the rounded windows. Inside it was wooden, dark, dusty, and ornate. A central shrine sat amid intricately-carved wood paneling, framed pictures, old bells, wooden stoves, tile work, carpets, figurines, and flowered-vases. A monk quietly transcribed in the corner. Across the lot, was a short, bulky, windowless white building that really caught us by surprise. It wasn’t mentioned in the book, nobody was near it, and it didn’t look like much from the outside. But inside it was perhaps the most beautiful of all the temples we saw -which says a lot. It felt ancient. The red-washed walls and ceilings were covered in small tiles and mozaics, or with hundreds of small Buddha carvings, and created a maze of arched passageways, small courtyards, and shrines that stair-stepped upwards and out of sight.

Another mile or so north, was a third temple surprise, Baw Ri Tha. Surrounding the central hall, was a forest of gold and white painted stupa -tall objects that belonged on a huge chess board. Most had small cavities with buddhas or other figures inside. Strange carnival-esque music wafted from the monastery beyond the wall, giving everything an even more surreal feel. There were lots of very cute puppies running around. We learned that people drop (dump) them off at temples, because the monks are presumed better able to provide for them (though they all looked in need of TLC). Dusk was approaching.

We felt elated by this day as we finally -regretfully- turned our bikes around and headed south, back down that long, stunning road to town. We ate at the night market -a block-long alley with different eateries along one side, and planned our next few days. There was a rumor about some hot springs to visit, and that lake to explore -with many surrounding village destinations.

-matt

Keep on Trekkin’

Besides Bagan, the other must do destination in Myanmar is Inle Lake, towards the East. But rather than go straight there, we decided to visit the mountainous town of Kalaw, stay a couple of days, and then trek to the Lake (or rather, I would trek, Jen preferred the train, and we’d meet up there). The early bus ride to Kalaw was packed, and included many villagers sitting on the aisle floor. It took 7 hours, and kept climbing up into the mountains. It too, was a hairy ride, but scenic, and passed interesting villages and rivers, and offered far off vistas.

Kalaw was strikingly different from Bagan. It was high up in the pines, and much cooler, and the guide book was right: it had a touch of the Himalayas. We took a room at the Golden Lily Hotel, perched above the town. We enjoyed walking around, and appreciated its temples, mosques, and churches, in close proximity. The air was fresh, and the town walkable and interesting. The smallish, central temple, was especially beautiful at night, inside and out. Our timing was good: we were able to see the (once every) 5 day market, which draws vendors and shoppers from the many surrounding villages, most of whom wore colorful tribal clothes. I would’ve enjoyed it more, but its tarp ceiling and ties were designed for tiny people.

We met some insiders who filled us in about the evil military / government stranglehold on Kalaw: how years ago they suddenly took over the desirable parts of town, homes and businesses, simply kicking the owners out. How they extort $ from the non-governmental businesses on a nightly basis. How they threaten and bribe the electorate to keep them in power, and allow a single family member to vote for everyone else. How they closed the schools to all but the wealthy families, who are also aligned with the military to perpetuate the system. We were told that there are only 5 non governmental / military hotels in Kalaw. They stressed the importance for visitors to avoid giving money to the military / government-owned businesses -which are often disguised otherwise.

I was set to start the trek the next morning, and so we toasted to our safe separation with glasses of whisky at the tiny-but-lively Hi Bar. But then at the following breakfast, we met and sat with my trek mates: 1 woman from Italy, and 3 women from Galicia Spain. Jennifer immediately liked them, and changed her mind about going too. Yay! Our guide was named Gita, a young woman from Kalaw via Nepal -of which there was a clan in town, and soon off we went together, the 6 ladies and I, for a 3 day, 2 night, roughly 38 mile trek to Inle Lake.

Our trek was a long and slow descent from the mountains to the valley. It was diverse, and filled with beautiful views and passages. Every hour was different. We passed through, ate at, or slept in Pa-O, Danu, Palaung, Taung Yo, and Danaw villages. We traversed deep-green hills of tea leaves and colorful fields of wheat, pepper, corn, cauliflower, potato, sesame, chili, eggplant, and fields of rice. For a while the hills were divided up among the varied crops, and looked much like a Deibenkorn landscape.

We passed farmers tilling the fields, or herding goats. Water buffalo plowed the earth, or grazed the grass together, or submerged themselves in muddy lakes, or -in one scary instance- chased me away. We walked on train tracks, passing lots of kids going in the opposite direction. We followed some paved paths at times, and veered off-trail at other times. Gita would stop and point out tidbits about certain leaves, or trees, or points of interest. I took her up on an offer to gnaw on betel nut, which is a common Asian stimulant made from the areca nut, betal palm, lime, alcohol, and honey. Small doses generally lead to euphoria and an increased flow of energy -and generate a notorious abundance of deep red saliva, which is spit out, not swallowed. It came in 3 pieces, each about the size of a thumb, wrapped in palm leaves. I first tried betel nut long ago during my first pass through Asia (and Jen and I had seen its red, tell-tail markings all over Thailand and in Bagan). I remember vaguely liking it way back then, but this time, it was dry and hard, and had no effect. I left the third piece behind for a villager to have.

On our second day, we were joined by a married couple from Belgium, who fit in nicely. There was a good camaraderie in our group, with plenty of time to be alone or to walk and talk with all of the others. Several passages were a bit tricky, and everyone was willing to help the person next to them. And everyone made an effort to be friendly -despite some language limitations. On we went, through the countryside, stopping at villages to quench our thirst, or admire the artisans, or temples, or to smile back at the curious children -who loved seeing the photographs taken of them.

We were tired by the time we reached our nightly destinations. The first dinner was especially tasty, and we ate every last bit of the local village cuisine like polite wolves. At night we slept on a row of mats, side by side, by side in one big room. The sun was our guide: we went to bed early, and awoke the same way. The Milky Way was visible above us. We slept in a Buddhist monastery our second night. There were 3-4 buildings there, made of rusted, ornate metal. The shower was of the cold, bucket variety outside, but was still a welcomed perk.

It was a misty and beautiful early morning at the monastery. Before we left, we met with the chief monk in his special quarters. He chatted with us through our guide, and asked us each where we were from. Then we offered donations into a bowl, which he covered, and requested that we all lean in to touch it and close our eyes while he sent us off with a prayer. It was wonderful and heartfelt. For a few seconds I opened my eyes slightly just to take in the scene, and noticed that the magazine he’d covered the bowl of offerings with had a cover photograph of Justin Bieber. I almost laughed out loud.

That third and final day was the short one. After 5 hours or so, we reached a village near the marshy edge of Inle Lake, and had a long, leisurely lunch. We were all exhausted, but also gratified. Nearby, the playful, excited sounds from a school yard wafted, followed by the front gates opening, and a couple of hundred happy, uniformed school children sprang out and headed home in all directions. We weren’t technically finished yet with the trek, but the rest was easy. A few hundred feet away, we all climbed into a long, wooden, motorized canoe, which took us on a fabulous, relaxing, and scenic 90 minute ride across the large, placid, beautiful Inle Lake, to our final destination, the village of Nyaungshwe, where we said our goodbyes.

It had been a wonderful, challenging, and rewarding trek. Jennifer felt great about completing it, and was so glad she’d decided to join us. We all were.

-matt

We’ve Only Just Bagan

One of my favorite things to do is walk around new places. I awoke early to explore Bagan. Again, it looked more like what I imagine Central America to look like, with some strange mix of 1880 and 1940. The wide, dirt, unkempt main street was buzzing with activity in both directions: bikes; horse-drawn carriages; motorbikes; varied trucks -engines exposed and often packed with people inside and on top; buses; and people -many pushing all sorts of heavy, wheeled contraptions. Red-robed male monks and pink-robed women monks, in groups or alone, going door to door with their rice bowls. Within a minute, a young woman stopped me and smeared a creamy paste on both my cheeks. It’s called Thanaka, and is made from ground bark. Most women and many men wear it daily, either with a casual smear or in an elaborate pattern, as a traditional beauty ritual.

I soon stumbled upon yet another goldmine of a market. Narrow dirt alleyways led away from the main street, and connected to other narrow alleyways, that exposed a hidden, bustling hub of commerce. It was typically fascinating, both similar and unique from other Asian markets we’ve seen. The wooden shops that lined both sides seemed right out of the early American west (except the people are tiny, and look Honduran!). Women sat on the ground, butchering chickens, or fronted by trays of fish or intestines, and (lots of) flies. Pungent and challenging smells wafted freely. Pots and pans dangled from shop ceilings. Eggs and vegetables of every kind were everywhere, alongside hardware shops, goldsmiths, and women hovering over sewing machines. This market was deceptively large, with an extended, covered area that included clothing and crafts. There were so many stalls and shops that I wondered how they could all survive. How many egg or shirt or puppet or lacquer shops can one market support? Name a food or item, and there were dozens of stalls that sold them, and each with a lot to sell.

We both really liked the town of Bagan. We biked most every day in different directions. There was a “restaurant row” that lived up to its name, and would -unbeknownst to us – then surpass everywhere else we’d be in Myanmar for variety, low cost, and tastiness. Off in another direction was the Shwezigon Paya, a fantastic temple complex close to town. We we thrilled by it, and felt it got short shrift. In the middle was an enormous, solid, golden Hershey’s kiss, which was surrounded by many smaller, unique temples and structures and nooks and crannies. At one point we looked up to see a group of locals in front of us, taking our picture and shaking our hands. Mothers’ extended their baby’s little fingers out to shake Jennifer’s -the tall beauty with golden hair!

One day there was a long electrical black out, and a big rain storm. Our room was pitch black, so we spent hours walking around in our ponchos, having fun. At night,  the tv channel played movies: The Bourne series, Life of Pi, and the Godfather. One night, I opted to sit in a crowded local restaurant and watch a soccer game, drink chai tea, and eat the traditional pastries. I was the lone non-local, and drew curious looks and friendly smiles.

But the big, main draw of Bagan is the collection of nearly 4,000 old stone temples, spread out over the plains, covering 26 square miles. It’s the reason people visit Bagan. We’d spend most days exploring them, and marveling. A paved road makes a long oval loop through the heart of them. It’s at least 12 miles around, and seemed like more on the old push bikes that we rented. Dirt trails appear from both sides and disappear off into the flat savannah-like landscape. Past the trees are the temples, near and far, spread out, everywhere you look. Some are close to the road, but most are off in the distance, as far as you can see. It’s an exciting vision.

The smallest ones were like 2 story homes, the larger ones were very large. Some were solid, but many had multiple entryways and arched chambers and mosaics and buddhas of all sorts and sizes and hidden stairways that climbed to higher levels. The views from up on these temples was extraordinary and thrilling. The landscape turned green with acres of crops, strewn with uniquely shaped stone temples in every direction, and as far as one could see. That first view for me was breath taking. I tried to imagine what this area looked like during the 11th through 13th centuries, while these temples -and many more made of wood- were being built simultaneously. What a frenzy that must have been.

There are a handful of temples that are especially popular, usually the big ones. We enjoyed many of them, but preferred to seek out the temples that were mostly free of tourist buses and other people -which was not hard to do. Half the fun was just aimlessly biking along the dirt paths, seeing one off in the distance, and finding a way to it. There are relatively few people doing that same thing. The rain made biking on the dirt trails impossible one day, so we rented electric bikes, with wide tires, which were really fun, though designed for tiny people.

Mid day, my electric bike got a flat tire, and we were in the middle of nowhere. But 3 young girls came out of that nowhere, and lead us to their shanty home nearby, alongside a temple. Theiry was 18, and the eldest of 6 girls. She was quite beautiful, and kind, and polite, and spoke English fairly well. The government gave her poor family their shanty in exchange for watching over the temple. We stayed about an hour as her uncle and a friend patched 3 holes (and then charged us $3). Theiry told Jennifer that her parents pulled her from school years earlier, and that she wished she had lighter skin and different eyes. We exchanged email addresses, and hope to keep in touch. This experience was one of those magical reversals of fortune, where something initially sour turns into something quite sweet.

Another time, while visiting a smaller, remote temple, we saw a maroon sign in front of it, describing the temple in beautiful, golden, circular Myanmar script. Below it, in the corner, was some similar -but smaller- writing, and a translation next to it: Obama. Nearby, a young entrepreneur charmed us into buying his homemade postcards, done in crayon.

Most people don’t spend 5 days in Bagan, but it was just right for us. We revisited the market, where we bought some shirts, and restaurant row, where we bought some jewelery -and met 2 San Franciscans. And we had time to think through our next destination, which would require catching an early bus out of town the next morning.

-matt

New Frontier

Myanmar was on our short list of SEA countries to explore, simply because friends and websites said go now, it’s newly opened, and changing fast. This usually brings up a sticky conundrum for me about wanting to see a place before it changes, but not wanting to contribute to that change -which yes, is impossible. I fell back on Aung San Suu Kyi’s request for foreign visitors to come, especially as individual travelors (rather than on group tours who’s money goes straight to the second most corrupt government in the world, behind Somalia). Our new visas gave us a month to snoop around, which might seem like a lot, but really isn’t. There were 6-7 places that we wanted to see, but we boiled it down to 2 at which to start, and we’d make up the rest as we went along.

We flew into Mandalay from Bangkok. I’d heard of Mandalay only in casino-speak, and didn’t even know it was in Myanmar until we bought the Lonely Planet guidebook. From the airplane window, I looked down on a green, barren, marshy countryside, with a big, brown, winding river, and no sign of the city. Turns out, the city is a looooong way from the airport. We caught Air Asia’s free shuttle bus towards town and watched the green, barren, marshy countryside pass by. Scattered in the distant hills, were many bright, golden objects that looked like large Hershey kisses.

We weren’t very interested in Mandalay itself, but figured we’d use it as a launching pad for our first destination, Bagan. On the bus we learned about a bus station we’d soon pass, from which we could get there, without going to Mandalay. And just like that, the spontaneous tone of our adventure was set into motion. We collected our things, and arranged for the shuttle bus to stop along the highway and let us off -albeit seemingly in the middle of nowhere. But we were quickly surrounded in front of the bus by many taxi drivers who appeared out of the nowhere, all speaking at once, and vying for the space in front of our faces. At this same time, 2 long yellow, decorated floats came slowly past, with lots of festive people standing on them, chanting to music. We really wanted to watch them go by, but the gaggle of men clamoring for our attention wouldn’t have it. It was sort of surreal, and exciting, what we were thrust into. We ruled out the more expensive car drivers since all we carried were day packs, and chose 2 young men who had motorbikes. The ride was really fun but short, and soon we were dropped off at the town hub.

We were still far outside of the city of Mandalay, in a different village. It was small, but bustling. The streets were dirt and gravel. The people and town looked poor. It didn’t feel like Asia, and seemed instead like Morocco, or Honduras, or Africa (not that I’ve been to any of those places). We were the only foreigners, and drew a lot of stares. The main office for the bus station was inside a dark, cool, crowded and dirty waiting area. Every seat was taken. Our presence stole half the audience away from the tv set perched high in the corner. This town did not see white skin often. We were ushered into the small, cluttered office to buy our tickets. Many onlookers gathered and pressed up against the dirty glass office window and behind our 2 drivers who were standing in the doorway. A tall, strong man took control, and through broken English, sold us tickets for the ride to Bagan, which wouldn’t leave the station for another 4 hours.

With that done, we sought out lunch. and sat across the parking lot at what would be a common setting for weeks: dirty place; dirty floors; small dirty plastic chairs; dirty table; lots of flies; food that looked suspect; and small bowls with colorful spicy condiments. But we were happy, and excited by the flurry of the last hour, and the new adventure that we were now in the thick of. The food was better than it looked, and then off we set to explore the town. The area around the bus station was the heart of the village. Lots of eating places and shops. Nothing -and no one- remotely touristy. Lots of dirt, gravely roads, and unkempt streets. Backed up against a scragly creek stood a long line of wooden shanties, with babies, dogs, and chickens loitering about. We tried out our first Burmese words, and most everyone smiled and echoed them back to us: Mingala Ba!

The bus was packed. As it turned out, that tall, strong man who sold us the tickets was also the driver. As usual, the bus had a monitor up front that blared out endless cheesy MTV-like videos with variations of Myanmar love -lost or found. Passengers got off at the many villages along our way, and no one got on. Each stop created an active scene of women selling fruit and such through the windows. After 4 hours the bus stopped for dinner at a large, covered “restaurant” that suddenly became frenzied (same dirty everything and food, and stares, and the magic of Mingala Ba). Washing up before meals seemed like a self defeating act. We did our best to order and eat and get back on the bus within a half hour or so, and off we went. Darkness followed, and we eventually became the last passengers. We had the undulating, wide, dirt road mostly to ourselves now, and the bus was flying. We witnessed the pecking order of the road, dictated by vehicle size and loudness of horn. We also noticed an unusual combination: the cars in Myanmar drive on the right side of the road, but the steering wheel is also on the right. All of this combined for a harried last hour of this journey. Jennifer moved into the front seat, to converse with the driver and his assistant, her eyes wide with excitement.

It was late when the bus finally stopped along the quiet main street of Bagan and we were on our own. We had no prearranged room waiting, and this is when spontaneity can come back to bite you. Indeed, the first few places were either full or closed for the night, but the Eden Hotel had a vacancy, hot showers, nice owners, good beds, and free breakfasts! Not quite as cheap as we wanted (about $16 per night), but we were happy, and negotiated a stay for 5 nights.

-matt

 

Chiang Mai

Jennifer and I awoke early and walked to the medical center to have blood drawn for tests. We’d get the results back a week later after visiting Chiang Mai with Matt and Rita. We met them at the SkyTrain station, and then took it to the airport. We were happy for a chance to see some place different -and less busy than Bangkok. Chiang Mai is 700 kilometers north, tucked in between Laos and Myanmar, near the notorious Golden Triangle of opium fields. The town is flat, and there’s a small, verdant mountain range to one side. It was bigger and busier than I remembered, but 1986 was a long time ago. The heart of Chiang Mai lies within a squared area known as the Old City. It has a tall, thick, orange brick wall around it, and a moat dividing the 4 busy roads that surround it. Our first, pre-arranged room was outside of old town, across the calm, murky Ping river in a quiet, shaded neighborhood. After a couple of nights there, we moved into the Old Town, since that’s where we spent most our time.

On our first day, we arranged for 2 tuk-tuk drivers to take us to 3 important temples inside the old town. This was fun, and the temples were amazing as usual. The drivers waited and chatted with the other tuk-tuk drivers, while we sauntered around the grounds, leaving our sandals at the doorway -usually with a hundred others. Often, we’d enter the main, fantastic temple, and marvel at its beauty and details for a while, to then discover that there were other, similarly worthy temples or sightings behind it, or around it, on the same grounds. I was growing increasingly struck by the tremendous displays of worship I’ve been seeing in Asia; the sheer volume of temples, and their impressive artistry, engineering, and details of dedication. This impression would only keep growing as I saw more and more.

The biggest objective for Jennifer and me while in Chiang Mai was to spend time with Matt and Rita, who’s departure back to SF loomed. They love food, especially the healthy vegetarian variety -of which Chiang Mai has plenty. So we followed behind them leisurely, criss-crossing all over town on our bikes, testing the recommendations from TripAdvisor. Matt and Rita prefer to tandem, so they improvised. Rita sat on the small second seat on Matt’s bike, and they ventured out as one, leading us onward.

Though Chiang Mai is much much smaller than Bangkok, it too treats bikers and pedestrians like second class citizens.  Leaving the Old Town, and crossing the large busy streets was always a challenge, made more difficult on bikes. But we managed, and relied on the kindness of drivers to stop and let us pass. Out beyond the fringe, we found some lovely stretches of nature and small villages to pass through. One night, after we’d moved to a hotel inside the Old Town, we came back from a long bike ride and found ourselves trapped in an endless street market that was completely packed with people. It started innocently enough, but quickly enveloped us. It was the last place you want to be with a bike.

One evening, we stumbled upon another night market, with blocks of brightly covered canopies butted up alongside each other, displaying clothes, backpacks, handbags, watches, t-shirts, and the like. It was all interesting to a degree, but also quite commercial, and we’d see this repeated throughout Chiang Mai. However, there was one place that left an impression. Down some steps, in the large, bottom floor of a 2 story collection of many shops, were a dozen or so artists at work. Their easels and walls displayed their extraordinary talent for representational drawing, through a technique using charcoal and brushes. Taped to their canvases, were small photographs -usually of  faces -which they were methodically enlarging with painstaking patience and stunning black and white realism. It reminded me of seeing something similar in the Philippines in 1986, and I had the same reaction then. Nature isn’t fair and equitable. These artists are much more skilled than I, yet their avenues for artistic opportunity and prosperity are quite limited. Again, I felt a deep level of gratitude and appreciation for the forces that bestowed upon me a prosperous artistic career.

And then one morning it was time to watch our friends leave. The night before we’d toasted our collective thanks to my Aunt Carole, who’d set both Matts up with dates for decades. Matchmaker deluxe, she introduced the 4 of us a few years ago, and we are all grateful. Hugs all around, and then driver Yut scooted them away in his bedazzled tuk-tuk. In their place came the next phase of this adventure. Jennifer and I would spend a few days more in Chaing Mai, and then return to Bangkok to wrap up visa and health issues, and then fly to Myanmar. We moved to a couple of cheap guest houses in the days that followed, the second one back across the Ping river to be closer to the train and bus stations. One day on bikes, we stumbled upon a fantastic covered market. It was huge. Exotic fruits and veggies, flowers, spices, and everything edible that is found on a farm or in a lake or river. We loved just walking about it aimlessly, watching the scene. And in the back, dozens of used clothes stalls. I scored a much needed denim shirt.

There were many agents standing around behind the glass at the near empty train station. The 2 women who we spoke with were not warm or friendly, or helpful. I was reminded about a significant change I’d noticed in Thailand from 27 years ago. Then it was clearly important for the Thai people to be warm, friendly and helpful to foreigners. Not anymore. Apparently, track construction shut down the train to Bangkok. We’d need to take a long bus ride to Uttradin, and a train to Bangkok from there, arriving late. So be it.

The long bus ride featured cheesy MTV-like videos about broken hearts. We had 3-4 hours to wait at Uttradin -the town of scary mannequins- before the comfortable train came. While waiting, we found a temple with a gorgeous painted interior. And a playground along the river that had a dozen or so clever, kinetic, exercise machines. We had fun trying each one.

-matt

Bangkok Too

Jennifer and I spent 2 phases in Bangkok, sandwiched around our visit to Chiang Mai. In phase 1, we were primarily sorting out our return visas to Indonesia, our entry visas for Myanmar, and visiting with varied doctors. We used the water taxis and skytrain (elevated public transit), tuk-tuks and our feet to get everywhere. As in Singapore, the public transit system worked very well. It was very busy, efficient, and air-conditioned. Many of its stations are situated above huge and complex street intersections. Long steel stairways connect the two levels. Up there, cross connecting pathways lead to enormous shopping malls, and entire worlds that are not obvious from down below. Crossing those streets was very tricky. The light system didn’t seem to factor in pedestrians at all. It was often very hard to know where and when to cross. Groups of peds would gather at logical crossing places, and slowly swell in numbers and inch out into traffic until some sort of tipping point was reached that allowed for crossing -and even then sometimes just to the middle divider.

The Embassies were interesting, and different. The Myanmar Embassy was surprisingly crowded -make that jam packed. We followed some Lonely Planet advice and got the preliminary paper work and photo part done at a tiny place down a small alley a couple of blocks away. But still, the process that followed was a scene. 5-6 long lines of people that lead to small windows up front. The where’s and whys were not spelled out, but eventually we dropped off our paperwork, passports and fees, and were told to return in a few days. It was pretty straight forward. The Indonesian embassy was a different experience. The walls of the embassy take up a big lot, but the visa office was small. We expected this visa transaction to be easy. We smiled and spoke in Indonesian, and had our stuff together, but the man behind the window threw a monkey wrench at us and insisted that we show our exit flight out of Indonesia -something we didn’t have -nor plan to. A man nearby mumbled under his breath that this request was bogus. Afterwards, outside, he instructed us to find a travel agent who would work with us to get around this problem, which we eventually did during our return visit to Bangkok. We paid her to book -and later cancel- a flight out of Indonesia. We brought the paperwork back to this man behind the counter, who processed our visa.

We were really impressed with the medical attention we received. The Bumrungrad medical center attracts expats from across Asia. As luck would have it, it was located just 2 blocks from our Smart Suite Hotel. We both wanted thorough dermatology exams for pre-cancerous cells, just as a precaution. I’d done so back in SF just before we left, but that 2 minute exam was underwhelming. This doctor, by comparison, gave us each his undivided attention  -and a clean bill of health. In addition, he addressed a couple of related issues, on his own volition. We decided to follow up with some blood tests and other simple exams. We were also impressed with the uncomplicated process -and relative low coast- of paying for our visits and prescriptions, and the warm and professional attitudes of everyone involved.

When we returned to Bangkok from Chiang Mai for phase 2, we’d booked a room on the notorious backpacker magnet Khao San Road. Its a busy, long block, connected to a similar parallel street via narrow passageways that are lined with massage and trinket hawkers. The tuk-tuk drive there from the train station was fun and intense: lots of fast traffic and street life. It was Saturday night, and we were not prepared for what greeted us on Khoa San Road. I’ve been in packed scenes before: night clubs / music / street scenes, but nothing compared to this in terms of pure sensory bombardment and assault. In fact, I’d stayed on KSR when I was in my 20’s, and it was not like this (I don’t think. did it change, or have I? I remember it as being mellow). The street was jam packed, with largely drunk people. And the sidewalk cafes and restaurants were jam packed as well, with largely drunk people. Mostly younger back-packer types, but a surprising number of older couples -drinks in hand and smile on their faces- who had their children in tow. More than anything, We were overwhelmed by the staggering decibel level of the music that blasted from every single cafe and restaurant. But it was late, and we’d been on buses and trains all day. We found our room and endured the noise for several more hours. None of the following nights were quite as bad as that Saturday night. Still, I wouldn’t have believed that we’d stay in that (very basic) room and hotel for another night -much less 5 more. Ah, the lure of a cheap room and free breakfast!

While we waited for our visas to process, we packed a lot into our time in Bangkok. One day, while needing shade and food, we walked a looong way to a city park, that offered little of either. There we stumbled upon a very large tent city that has grown out of a protest against the Thai government. We tried to learn about the situation from some key residents, who seemed intelligent and determined, but they were also suspicious about who we were and of our intentions. We didn’t glean much. I’ve been thinking about them in light of the recent, large, public demonstrations. On another occasion, internet needs lead us into a particular shopping mall. It was simply gargantuan, 12 stories tall, and each floor was tremendously vast in all directions. Many floors were jam packed with a zillion small shops that were themselves jam packed with stuff. One floor housed a dozen banks in the same area, which is why we were there. Myanmar requires perfectly pristine, flawless, newish US dollars. The woman behind the window finally became quite fed up with our (polite) demands for such $100 bills. But we eventually got what we came for -with the exception of one bill, with a tiny mark on it, and which was rejected by the bank in Myanmar when we tried to cash it.

We had some fun too, in between our tasks. The mighty, wide, dirty, Chaophraya river winds through Bangkok. We enjoyed jumping on the ferries that ride up and down it, or across it, and watching the bustling river life. Each landing dock opened up new worlds. Once we crossed over and needed a taxi to continue on. We lucked out with a fun driver, who turned out to have a CD player and access to hundreds of songs. The 3 of us sang along to (our requested) Credence Clearwater Revival, before winding up at 2 of our favorite sights in Asia: the Wat Arun, and the (enormous) Reclining Buddha. Both are spectacular compounds of varied, stunning Thai design. The reclining Buddha’s feet alone are 10 feet high. On another day, we were walking on the raised path along the river, heading to the closest dock station and water taxi. Apparently we were in a Muslim neighborhood, because the call to prayer came over the speaker system that lined the river. Its a beautiful sound, and we loved everything about where we were and what was happening.

Eventually, our Indonesian visas were processed and ready, and our time in Bangkok had come to an end. Though challenging, It had served us well, and delivered so many interesting sights, sounds, and smells. Our early morning 10-seater shuttle bus to the airport jam-packed 14 of us in for an hour’s drive. As I watched out my window, I thought back to a moment 3 days earlier. We were stressed and hurried, and having trouble getting across a particular street. Finally a break in the traffic came. We joined hands and ran across this bustling thoroughfare. As we hopped up onto the middle divider, we looked left to see that the next half of the street was also free of oncoming traffic, and so without slowing down we kept going. A step or 2 into the new lane, we were jolted by sounds of danger, and looked to our right as a taxi screeched to a halt -just feet from us. We realized only then that this divided boulevard was unusual, in that all traffic went the same direction. I almost always look both ways of any street I cross, but not this time -and it nearly cost us dearly. Now, as we headed out of town, I offered up my heartfelt thanks and deep gratitude for the forces at play that gave us a break at that moment, and allowed us to now be on our way to Myanmar.

-matt