February 12th 2017

It is surprisingly nippy as we set sail down the Irrawaddy before dawn and I scramble to locate long-neglected fleeces and socks. There are a couple of options to reach Bagan by boat: The local boat will be more interesting but this is the dry season and it is navigated through the increasingly shallow river by a boy on the prow with a depth stick, so it will inevitably run aground. At best this means the arrival time is aspirational, at worst a night on a sandbank. My hotel guys steer me to one of the tourist boats. Not the one with teak loungers and signature cocktails, unfortunately, instead they book me on the one that sits highest in the water and has sonar even if the other passengers are French and Belgians, who would rather talk to me than each other, a mansplaining Canadian lady who has evidently not talked to anyone for a week, and my first Americans. A nice young family from Eastham of all places, doing spring break in Burma before decamping to the Canary Islands to sit out the Trump era.

The Irrawaddy is splendid in the shimmering heat that soon develops and even with necessary zigzags we make it in a mere 12 hours, cruising smugly past other boats listing sadly, stuck for who knows how long in the treacherous shallows.

Bagan, which is currently scoring at least an 8 on the hotter-than-hell index, must advertise itself as the fairy light capital of the world, but we are here to experience the 2000 plus temples scattered throughout the Bagan plain.

The sheer vastness raises the inevitable question of access and the inevitable specter of the e-bike. In its Chinese version, which we have here, the e-bike resembles a Vespa more than a bicycle. Since the dawn chorus, dominated by Buddhist chants, begins at 4:30 in Bagan I have had plenty time to contemplate my deeply ingrained instinct to grab the accelerator handle and speed up when confronted with a crisis. After a couple of trips up and down the lane, the nice old e-bike man and I reach the mutual conclusion that this old dog is unlikely to learn the new trick in the time available, and points me to the normal bikes.  I examine every single one before finding the killer trifecta of functioning brakes, more than one gear and inflatable tires. He insists I take his phone number.

The heyday of the Buddhist Empire these monuments celebrate was in the 11^th century, so some wear and tear is anticipated. It has been hastened along by a 2016 earthquake and not ameliorated by UNESCO pulling out of the renovations in a huff. So some of the temples are sheathed in bamboo scaffolding and others by piles of bricks. This will be the last season we are allowed to scramble on them willy nilly.

Still, the huge area engulfs the few tourists and most are deserted, leaving the vendors forlorn. At some remote spot, I find myself enticed into buying a sand painting which the artist assures me is washable, although not in the machine, a selling point I have never yet encountered for artwork. He also assures me it can remain folded in my suitcase for years, secure in the notion that even if I did come back to argue the point I would never be able to find him.

 

February 11th 2017

No one symbol confirms the absolute futility of Colonialism than the Hill Town. Desperate to escape the unwelcome heat of the sweltering plains, the British headed for the hills to fashion fake Tudor bungalows and teak paneled panels bars into a mirage of Croydon or Slough. It has been my life’s ambition to find one intact, and I have not yet succeeded. Inevitably at the very moment the Raj dissolves the populace swarms back, armed with fairy lights and the unfortunate paint color du jour, locks the regimental cemetery and throws away the key. Pyin U Lin does not disappoint. The Cotswolds have been cheerfully repurposed as bad Thai restaurants and the only remnant of the Burmese Raj is a peculiar version of Victorian municipal landscaping. I am unable to find the floral clock, but it surely exists.

This backdrop invites the full spectrum of foreign tourists. In our demographic, apprehensive Germans and Dutch, firmly tethered to their Burmese guides are being herded into the bad Thai restaurants and forbidden to go into the market. Timid Brits, though usually not in tour groups, travel in pairs tethered to each other and never seem to talk in public. The French are either in loudly discordant groups arguing about which of the 2 versions of Burmese red will go best with the Thai chicken they don’t yet realize is unbearably bland, or in couples where le homme affects a no-nonsense bandana and unnecessarily complex backpack, and la femme is impeccably turned out in an insouciantly couture longyi. They have many conceptions (both pre- and mis-) and debate them endlessly. There are no shopping opportunities in Pyin U Lin, so all the Chinese are at the Botanical gardens taking selfies and ignoring the no photographs sign in the world class butterfly museum. There are no Americans.

Most of us Europeans are not here to reflect on the death of the Raj but to experience its most enduring relic – the half hour train ride across the Gokteik viaduct, engineered and constructed by the British, and since they disappeared lackadaisically maintained by the Burmese.

As Paul Theroux writes “A monster of silver geometry in all the ragged rocks and jungle…its presence there was bizarre, this man-made thing in so remote a place, competing with the grandeur of the enormous gorge and yet seemingly more grand than its surroundings which were hardly negligible – the water rushing through the girder legs and falling on the tops of the trees, the flight of birds through the swirling clouds and the blackness of the tunnels beyond the viaduct.”

It should be pointed out the reason Burmese train travel resembles a horse ride is the disconnect between the gauge of the tracks (British) and the current trains (ancient Chinese, no doubt bought cheap). Managing this disconnect is no more crucial than 1000 feet above the rushing river below, and doing so requires the train travel so much slower than walking speed, so we have plenty of time to reflect whether guard rails didn’t make it into the maintenance budget, or the British already realized they would be futile, or it is irrelevant to the Buddhist Burmese whether life ends because of a gust of wind. Most tourists can recover as they continue onward to points north, but I must leap off the train at the first stop and join the returning train to Pyin U Lin. Seated once more in Ordinary Class, I realize the Burmese deal with near-death experiences by eating lunch and watching videos on their iphones.

 

February 10th 2017

Given I’m still not even able to say thank you consistently, I’m hardly qualified to speculate what it’s like to live under this military dictatorship. Guidebooks warn not to engage politically, but they are clearly overreacting; in any given conversation, our combined vocabulary never exceeds 5 words making ‘Where you from?’ the most probing interchange possible. Tempting, though, to blithely interpret – that loudspeaker mounted on a pickup is surely spouting military propaganda – or is it just reading off this week’s lottery winners, as the adverts plastered on it suggest? Do those folks squatting under that huge screen in the street look so grim because they’re being politically realigned – or did the recycling fines go up again?

I consult my guys at the desk and they agree that an outing to the Moustache Brothers (the satirical vaudeville troupe strongly critical of the junta) may be just the job. My motorbike taxi is less keen; when we get there and he can’t find it he circles the block in a panic rather than ask directions, convincing me this is a truly subversive event. It certainly has potential: Only one Moustache brother is left, not because he’s so geriatric (which he is) but because brother #1 has succumbed to lead poisoning from the prison water he had to drink for 7 years, while brother #3 never even made it back. So, the remaining brother, #2, was left holding down the ‘irritate the junta’ fort until they came up with the, I must say, brilliant idea of not putting him into prison and turning him into a folk hero, but rather permitting him to perform only in English, thereby ensuring the average Burmese will never be able to understand what he’s saying.

It’s tough on the motley crew of Danes, Italians, English and Aussies in the audience too, but he helps us out by brandishing laminated placards with inflammatory comments as he tells political jokes. The best one: “My teeth were bad, so I went to dentist in Thailand. He say to me, Mr. Paw Paw Le you are from Burma. No dentists in Burma? And I say to him. Yes, there are, but we are not allowed to open our mouths”. He insists we take pictures and tells us via another placard to post them on Facebook. The rest of the troupe – his equally senior wife, sister, sister-in-law and cousin provide interludes of surprisingly energetic classical Burmese dance. They all look like they’re dying to go to bed and I feel for them. Still no answers. Has he become a clown who needs to retire his red nose, or is he still a serious provocateur, as the (ancient) photos plastered on the wall suggest he once was? His video of Aung San Suu Kyi laughing at his jokes is from 1996, so we are none the wiser.

If I bring this up with my desk guys, will I be flaunting basic Burma etiquette? Turns out they’re all ears. but when I tell night time guy the dentist joke he looks terrified, and I’m convinced I’ve gone a bridge too far. Then morning guy tells me it’s a terrible joke and night guy was only scared because we exceeded the 5-word limit. He says the motorbike taxi never asks for directions and that if I knew even one word of Burmese I could have told him off. He reassures me that Mandalay is crawling with young dissidents with better shtick than the antedeluvian Moustache, and asks me to write down the word ‘comedian’ in case it comes in useful sometime.

But he does tell me its Burma not Myanmar to those who disapprove of the junta.

February 8th 2017

Its hideous aesthetic confirms that the Kyaung Mint hotel was conceived with the Chinese tourist in mind. Less easy to spot than in Japan, where they are notable for hauling around massive amounts of luggage to fill while shopping till they drop, they nonetheless are the major tourist bloc in northern Burma. Unfortunately, the Chinese tourist is a tough nut to crack. A relentless eye for a deal and a non-stop stream of demands pushes prices down and forces management to pile on the amenities (who heard of a $20 hotel with a king-sized bed, minibar, free coffee, full range of toiletries and bathrobes). No wonder management has turned westward, to European guests (French and Germans needy in their own way, no Americans) pathetically thankful for the opulence even as they avert their eyes from the décor. I have already wormed my way into the manager’s good books by taking the bike he provided (free of charge) for major surgery on the pedals. Now it actually works, I am allowed to reserve for my own use in a special corner.

It is said that everyone has their mind’s eye Mandalay, so the reality inevitably disappoints. I am inclined to disagree. While arriving at the Shwedagon by taxi felt like a pilgrimage, a bike ride around the neighborhood pagodas allows ample opportunity to ferret out le vrai Mandalay, alive and well in the bustling side lanes and alleys.

In the event, I find one of them from the guidebook (the whole Tipitaka inscribed onto 1794 stone tablets each in its own little house!), stumble on the second, which has been mislabeled on the map (massively carved teak, ladies not allowed into the inner chamber). I completely fail to find the third, in large part because people who have clearly been born and bred in the vicinity seem to have no idea of what the streets they live in are called. Let it be noted that the streets are labeled, 1^st 2^nd 3^rd etc.; the pagoda in question was supposed to be on 86^th, which is pronounced in Burmese as “Eighty sixth”.

My final foray is to the inevitable pagodas of Mandalay Hill, which deliver superb views of the sunset over the distant Irawaddy river. Not so fast! As I am locking up the bike I am accosted by an old man in a jungle war helmet, complete with netting. ‘Mama, Mama too late!’ He tells me brandishing his iphone as proof. Evidently sunset will occur in precisely 30 minutes, while the climb up the hill will take 45. Although I find this somewhat surprising since I too checked with Google, I do tend to agree that reaching the top breathless and in the dark, would be unfortunate. His proposed solution is to ferry me up post haste on the back of his somewhat underpowered motorcycle and wait until I finish photographing all the other tourists who will be blocking the view. My experiences with Myanmar’s robust traffic have made me apprehensive to try a motorcycle taxi, but this more controlled environment seems like a perfect opportunity. I put on a (more conventional) helmet, sling my leg over the back (to general disapproval; women generally ride side saddle) grab him firmly by the right shoulder as etiquette demands, and implore him to go slowly.

We go so slowly the sun is beginning to dip into the horizon as we make it to the top.

February 6th 2017

What a perfect traveling day! I am obsessed with traveling by train. Feel free to skip this. Its long.

Given it will stop every 30 minutes and never go above 20 miles an hour the ‘Yangon-Mandalay Express’ nomenclature seemed somewhat ill-conceived. But in the end, what a train! Yes, it can fairly be said to be grimy (even very grimy) and yes the toilet is a squat (offering some challenges on a journey that has legitimately been described as like riding a horse) but the upper class seats are business class huge (unlike ordinary class which are park benches screwed to the floor), comfy and swathed in crisp clean covers. The nice young man who promised me the best seat on the train has been as good as his word; it’s a single, with full reclining capabilities AND a foot rest.  Best of all the windows are thrown wide open. This is $9 well spent – for the next 15 hours we will have a bird’s eye view into a thousand lives.

The Burmese eat constantly, so keeping them fueled for a full 15 hours takes a serious masterplan. The onslaught of vendors appears the minute the whistle blows; breakfast – corn on the cob and those quail eggs no-one likes – is a bust, everyone, including me, has brought their own. But the Nescafe with sweetened condensed milk, is excellent and I am fortunate to discover in the nick of time that the teenage girl who is the hotel night manager has packed me soft boiled eggs. I avert disaster by eating them out of the window. For lunch my across the aisle family (I am the only foreigner on the train) give me permission to buy an odd looking peanut curry but with frantic arm gestures (they don’t speak English) suggest strongly I don’t eat the meat, which indeed looks like it might have been regifted a few times previously. Fruit, including a delicious dryish smoked banana with the texture of figs and dates, dinner and finally, whisky (my family don’t approve so I also shake my head primly). It should be pointed out merchandize is carried on the head, and then the horse ride analogy should be recalled. Different teams of vendors jump on when we stop and then are replaced at the next stop or so. This revolving crew can thereby provide the breadth and depth of menu options the Burmese clearly expect. Their ability to get back home after a day’s work suggests Myanmar railways may be more coordinated than it initially appears.

Nothing bad is going to happen on this journey. We have our own uniformed military detachment (6 in total) to back up the two guys in white uniforms (at the start at least) who have the only actual job of collecting tickets. The two in navy blue are chiefly concerned with making sure that no-one in Ordinary Class will seek out a quick half hour respite on an Upper Class padded seat. They are very assiduous at first, but then go off to sleep somewhere in the back. The two in dark grey, despite their military appearance are chiefly concerned with making sure each carriage stays attached when we stop, and so are very busy except when they are eating. The last two walk up and down looking dyspeptic. They ignore us and we return the compliment. Nothing bad does happen.

Through rural Burma at 20 miles an hour. All of it is a plain, but not a bit boring! Every inch is cultivated. And the texture and intense detail in the landscape mesmerizes me from 6am when we set off, until 6pm, when it finally gets dark. We are going just a bit too fast to take good pictures. So I need to take an inventory instead:

Decent sized cities, one. Decent sized small towns, a handful. But the prime real estate seems to be along the railroad, so we see life being lived right by the tracks. Each house is in a compound of pristine, hard sand. It is on stilts. Some walls are wood, but others are bamboo mats, like the roof, and sometimes elaborately patterned. Few windows have glass. The cooking fire and the kitchen are in the compound, as are the bikes, and maybe one cow, but not much else. Here is an inventory of what people do:

Dads: Get to drive the ox-cart (not one tractor or other mechanized equipment in 12 hours); get to herd the cows in the morning and get to do strategic planning. Moms: From 7am to noon moms are allowed to plant and pick in the fields, depending on the crop (this is when dads watch the moms and do their strategic planning). At noon moms go home and pretend to do housework while chatting with their friends (this is most easily accomplished if your friend lives next door). At 4pm moms hike their skirts under their armpits and pour water over themselves, then they disappear. Millenials: Both male and female hop onto little tuk-tuk scooters at 7am and leave. It is not clear where they are going because of the dearth of decent sized places (see above) still, they go, and then they come roaring back at 4pm. Sometimes the boys will go and herd some cows. Kids: Are dressed in their uniforms and off to school at 7am. Some of them walk along the railroad tracks and some have bikes, so they can give 3 lucky friends a ride. They come back in a better mood at 4pm. Then boys play volleyball and girls go to fetch water. After, girls get together and whisper a lot. Little kids: Little boys are allowed outside the compound to kick sand with their friends all day. Sometimes they pretend to throw rocks at the train. After 4pm they harass their brothers. There are no little girls. Grandma: Pinch hits for mom in the morning but more effectively because she has a louder voice. Grandpas: Worry a lot about Myanmar Rail so they gather at the station and congratulate themselves when the train arrives. Note: Some moms and dads travel on the train, but can it be for work? there are only 2 trains a day and in any case, there is nowhere near to go.

At 6pm darkness falls. No electricity in the villages so there are no lights, except the occasional headlamp as someone picks their way home. Two cars in three hours including the towns. Then onto Mandalay, and the Kyaung Mint hotel. Backpacker prices with 5 star pretensions. What’s not to love?

February 5th 2017

Somerset Maugham wrote about the Shwedagon Pagoda: ‘The Shwe Dagon rose superb, glistening with its gold, like a sudden hope in the dark night of the soul of which the mystics write glistening against the fog and smoke of the thriving city’. It must have been 4 o’clock in the morning in the middle of monsoon. Today, on a sunny winter Sunday afternoon, all Yangon is here with their picnics.

The Sacred Hair Wishing Well is packed, there’s a birthday party at Buddha’s Footprint and sandwiches are being shared around in the Buddha’s Tooth. Even the monks (average age 19) are in on the act, noshing on biscuits and making rude jokes sotto voce. I sit on a step overlooking the massive gold plated Stupa waiting for the specific moment as the sun goes down that it will seem to catch fire, trying to figure out the elements of a Buddhist spiritual experience, since this event, which is truly transcendental, is being roundly ignored by everyone except the foreigners.

The marching grandma group brandishing matching bouquets over their heads provides a somewhat familiar religious image. Less so the grandmas wielding brooms (2 each) and making frantic sweeping gestures. Close inspection confirms they’re only pretending, so they’re not the cleaning crew. Still everyone is in a good mood and I am reluctant to tear myself away since it will involve interacting with yet another taxi driver who will be unable to explain why the trip back will cost roughly twice the trip there. Another Burmese mystery.  I must have had some enlightenment up on the Stupa, since for once I let it go.

Earlier I decided to practice for my impending 15-hour train ride (at 20 miles an hour all the way north to Mandalay) by taking a quick spin on the circle line around the Yangon suburbs (which by the way find farmers plowing with buffalo or thigh deep in water harvesting the ubiquitous morning glory, rather than McMansions). Picturesque yes but the actual action happens inside the train. At first it’s fairly banal, (water, cookies) ramps up gradually (the lady with strawberries on her head, the guys with a pot cooking sweetcorn) a quick detour through quail eggs (are they cooked? In any event, no-one’s buying) to samosa chaat (prepared a la carte at our feet) to the full noodle café (uploaded, feeds us all and detrains within the space of half an hour). We’re half way into the trip when the mobile chefs are quickly replaced by massive sacks of morning glory destined for Yangon dinner tables tonight.

I fear the train to Mandalay will not be relaxing, but this time at least I will have an upper-class seat, with padding.

February 3rd 2017

Yangon is easy to fall in love with, and, yes, in less than 24 hours I am smitten. It is a walking city, as the whole population proves by spilling onto the crumbling sidewalks as soon as the sun goes down. Yangonis are swarthier and their resting face more stoic than the twinkly Thais, but in their long skirts and flip flops (men and women) they waft rather than walk. I feel cocooned rather than confronted, unlike Delhi, which it most closely resembles in terms of urban decay and the smell.

First order of business, crossing the street. Yangonis don’t hesitate to glide into six lanes of traffic (there are no crossings and few traffic lights) but I am still at the stumbling on the sidewalk stage so my strategy becomes to identify someone waiting to launch and then attach myself to their left shoulder. I am then tactfully herded to the other side. Since expressing my gratitude in Burmese would require deconstructing gender and social distinctions I can’t begin to fathom, and the tonality of the language, makes it unlikely I will ever say what I think I’m saying, I stick to a cheery ‘Thank you!! Though I have yet to see evidence of English or even the English alphabet, I am always rewarded with a quick twitch of the lips.

Next order of business, dinner. The night market snakes along the riverfront and into Chinatown for over a mile, stunningly illuminated with red lanterns in honor of New Year. The thousands of food stalls are packed elbow to elbow and, like most Yangonis it seems, I am set on barbecue.

There are two versions: In number one, 6-10 people sit in a circle around a wok. Skewers of esoteric organ meats are lined up and inexplicably, what seem to be whole eggs are bobbing in the hot oil. The competition ends when all the skewers are finished (it is OK to leave the kidneys). This isn’t going to work. Not only can no-one take the time to tell me what I’m eating but I’d likely be plopping myself into the midst of someone’s engagement party.

Number two causes less social anxiety. A cart is loaded down with skewers some I recognize (identifiable vegetables, hard boiled eggs) others I don’t quite (is it morning glory or lotus root, and what do either taste like?) generic meat, seafood and fish. In one case, enormous multicolored lobsters have collected quite an audience. I figure out the drill is to fill a plastic basket with the skewers of your choice, hand it to the grill master and then grab a plastic stool even if the rest of the table is related to each other.  I randomly choose a stall where a huge number of families are eating staggering amounts of food. I choose myself broccoli, okra, two kinds of mystery fish balls, a normal looking kebab and a whole fish. The home brew seems a bridge too far and I settle for a Myanmar beer. It is simply stupendous and sets me back $8 with tip. I skip dessert and someone thankfully herds me back in the direction of the hotel.

It is pitch dark but the vegetable sellers still squatting on the street have illuminated their trays with candles.

February 1st 2017

There are other ways to avoid the continuous traffic jam besides the metro, namely the canals. They riddle the city but come with their own issues, besides not being air conditioned. Intrepid waterbus commuters tackle the smell by swaddling their faces with damp towels. The waterbus boatman tries to prevent a dousing by raising and lowering plastic blinds whenever another boat passes in the opposite direction. When his timing is off, which it usually is, the ensuing groans make me grateful for my ignorance of where the water is coming from.

The waterbuses don’t appear on any tourist map (I learned about them from one of the mansplaining Canadians yesterday) and there is no English information about where we’re going, so I randomly select a destination from the fare table. It gives me plenty time to worry whether I can pull off the choreography I will need to disembark. Blinds up! Hop onto seat! Hop onto side! Grasp the thin wire! Judge precisely when the boat will be nearest to the dock! Hop off (or more accurately leap off since the boatman is also impatient). But it turns out everyone is getting off here, many of them I now notice, in high heels, so I can join a queue and avoid being immortalized as the farang who fell in. The whole experience, including the rickety bus ride to the canal has set me back a whole 22 baht (75 cents), priceless as they say even if my life expectancy may now be lowered.

Of course, the massive exodus from the boat is for the biggest mall in South East Asia (if we are to believe the signs, and why not?) suggesting that all transportation in Bangkok culminates in a shopping experience. Later the guy in the little tourist information outhouse, who has woken up for long enough to tell me that if I want to find Chinatown I must take the 73 bus into the bowels of the traffic jam because “We don’t walk in Bangkok” confirms my suspicions.  The hour-long ride (roughly three times longer than a walk but who’s complaining? I’ve paid the princely premium of 50c for air conditioning) ends up in a shopping opportunity that hasn’t been upgraded since the opium wars.

The characters lurking in dimly lit alleys are frying up very dubious looking meat so I make the wise decision to skip this particular lunch opportunity. I’m glad I do – it turns out that the similar dim alley right next to the hostel is home to an unprepossessing stall that turns out the best Pad Thai in Bangkok. I get myself a heaping plate and a double size Singha (the single size is exported to places that don’t know any better) followed by a nice dessert for $4.

Rookie mistake! Stomach twinges force me to reassess Ning’s sticky rice and mango stall. A quick reflection on how Ning operates (heat up the rice for a short while then leave it out to cool for much longer) makes me grateful my upcoming flight will only be about an hour. Much later: I appear to have escaped with a warning. On to Myanmar!

January 31st 2017

Bangkok is hot but not horrible. There was a breeze during the day. It helps to walk slowly and precisely like the Thais. Inside is always over air conditioned, especially the metro, so I bought a day pass for $3 and spent the morning riding around. Its elevated above the city (a bit like Blade Runner). If you could put your feet up it would be a perfect way to sight see.

My first only in Thailand moment was in the taxi on the way from the airport. It took an hour and the meter said 400 baht (about 12 dollars). The taxi driver refunded me $2 and told me “too much traffic jam”.

My second was not discovering that the whole of Bangkok is a gigantic mall of Asia (the Metro links all the different offshoots like a fungus). That didn’t surprise me. What did is that all the US stores that went out of business years ago have evidently come here to roost (Swensen’s  – remember them?) but they’re inexplicably mobbed. It seems Thais can give the Chinese a run for their money when it comes to shopping. The combination of internationally competitive shopping and Chinese New Year means it’s pretty intense out there. Even Cinnabon had a line around the block.

I thought I would jump in with both feet and stay in a hostel. Turns out to be really great, apart from the Stalinist decor. Most other guests are several demographics below mine and very friendly. Many American millenials who have quit their jobs and fled the country. Spent an extremely satisfying breakfast engaging in a group moan about Trump. Unfortunately, the representatives of my demographic seem to be Canadian mansplainers.  No-one mansplains like a Canadian.

So today is the wake up at 3am part of jet lag. Hopefully it will be over tomorrow, in time to move on to Burma. The nice young man behind the desk, who is Burmese tells me it’s not Myanmar after all.