I have learned 6 phrases in Burmese. I say Burmese because Myanmarese just doesn't work.
Mingala ba - greetings (No exactly "hello")
Chee zu tin ba day - thank you very much
Chee zu bay - thanks
Show ba - discount
Me minha ladhay - You have a beautiful face (Then I ask if I can take their picture.)
Shi may - I pay? (Say this in a sing-song way or it can sound rude.
If you want to get the attention of the restaurant servers you can also make a kissing sound. Psychologically, male travelers have a hard time with this.
-----------------------------
KALAW
Cherie and I get a taxi a half hour further down the road then requested because the driver happens to live there. In Heho, the driver drops us off on some random corner. He tells the owners of the corner restaurant where we are going and asks them to help us catch a bus. Everyone in the neighborhood gets involved in this. A man runs home and brings his child back, wanting to get her photographed. The child is not happy about this but the father seems pleased with the outcome.
The digital camera has had a great impact on traveling. That you are able to immediately show the subject a picture of himself is a wonderful and tangible thing.
While Cherie and I sit at the restaurant, a man stands on the street keeping a look out for the bus. He flags it down and helps us carry our packs across the street. What kind-hearted people. This would not happen in Cambodia. On the bus, a military medic tells us how much the ticket should be, obviously unaware that there's this thing called "tourist price".
The ticket taker is adamant about the tourist price. We gave it a shot. Like many Asian countries, the bus driver does not deal with money. There is another employee who collects fees while the bus is moving. This saves time and increase employment opportunities.
Kalaw is a quiet, peaceful place that was a popular hill station in the British days. It is also the starting point for treks into the surrounding mountains.
Mr. Chain (56 years old) is our guide for the next 2 days. We have invited another traveler from our guest house to join us - Stinus from Denmark. On the way out of town we stop by Mr. Charles' home where he introduces us to his daughter and grandson. His nephew, Joe, a college student and trekking guide in training, also joins us. This has turned into a little party.
It is 12 km to our first stop, the village of Nyaung Gone. The mountains are brown and bare. The trees have long been cut down. In the distance I hear yelling. Mr. Chain points to men on the opposite mountain side. With the harvest season over, they are hunting. In a vertical line down the mountain side, the men make yelping sounds to scare animals away from them. The animals then run towards hunters lying in wait. Brilliant.
In Nyaung Gone, Mr. Chain takes us to the local monastery where he and Joe cook us a lunch far exceeding my expectations. Rice, noodle soup, fresh avocado with lemon and salf and peanut brittle. He then lays pillows on the floor and tells us to nap for a while. Feet away from Buddha.
The village is populated by the Palaung people. They live way the hell up here where there's no water for fear of malaria. They also cut down all their trees for firewood. They neither grow nor eat vegetables. They have short life spans. Mr. Chain calls them narrow-minded.
During the second half of the day we walk through other Palaung villages. Multiple families live in long houses, which are one-room, long houses. In one village, the children of the different families didn't get along, so they cut out the middle and made individual houses.
We are spending the night at "View Point", a thriving little business owned by a Nepalese man. This man made his way to Myanmar on foot. He has no passport and cannot go back to Pohkara to see his family. But he has created a wonderful place here, complete with flower gardens, vegetable gardens, and his own cows. For tourists, he provides comfortable beds, warm blankets, a chill spot to watch the sunset, dinner, breakfast and horrible homemade rice wine.
We are fed a great Nepalese meal and must beg them to stop filling our bowls. After dinner our host pulls out a guitar and asks if anyone plays. It's his guitar but seems to be for the benefit of his guests. The consumate host. I haven't picked up one guitar in this country that is in tune. This particular one has black, finger-shredding strings and a low E string incapable of being tuned. More rice wine and who will notice. Our host asks me if I know any John Denver. "I don't know. Let's see." I totally bust out "Country Roads", having never played it before. Genetic Gill talent. I didn't even realize I knew all the words. Myanmar people love John Denver.
Outside the sky is unbelievable. I know it's such a cliche to say blanket of stars. But... Us city folk forget how many there are up there. It has been years since I have seen a sky like this. To quote the Koa San Road and surfer favorite, Jack Johnson: "There were so many fewer questions when stars were still just the holes to heaven." It just isn't possible to talk about stars without sounding cheesy.
The next morning we are served fresh chai. We all ask for more. Oh, what's taking so long? They're actually milking the cow. Awesome.
The hiking today is through lush country. This area is populated by Dann people. They keep their trees for shade and water flow. They grow vegetable. They are clean. Mr. Chain is Dann. Oh, I get it now.
We eat lunch at friends of Mr. Chain. He brings them supplies, but more importantly, the sports page. The husband has the whitest teeth I've ever seen.
Coming back into Kalaw, children give flowers to me and Cherie. How cute. Where did they learn this?
--------------------------------
Laurant is a Belgian flight attendant (not gay). We meet him and other lone travelers in front of our guest house back in Kalaw. Laurent is ecstatic that he has finally met other single people. "Fuck couples!" He has been on a 3 day trek from Inle Lake. He alone hired his own guide, but there were two other couples on the same path. A dinner he sat by himself, eyes looking up in wonder, thumbs twiddling, waiting for someone to ask him to join them. In fact we 5 are the first single people he's met in his 2 weeks in Myanmar.
After dinner we all go to a bar that is rumored to have guitars all over the walls. Okay, there's one guitar. And this is the smallest bar in the world. As women never come in here, the bathroom contains one urinal. The bathroom door has a window so you can see the man's back as he takes a leak. Charming.
Once again, I am super cool guitar playing chick. Not that I'm great or anything but standards are low. I do every song I learned in my first 3 years of playing. Thus, it is dated. Nobody would know the stuff I play now. It's not mainstream. The owner asks me how old I am. Cherie, the sweetie, tries to cover for me saying that I just like old songs. But I fess up. I'm not ashamed. I'm 31. Kidding. I tell the truth. But come on, Van Morrison is classic. How can you not know "Moondance". Shawn Colvin would just be wasted on this crowd.
One patron says he's never seen a woman play so well. Talk about government oppression. No satellite dish on his roof. All his extra cash goes for beer. Priorities!
--------------------------
PINDAYA
Laurent joins me and Cherie for our day trip to the famous caves of Pindaya. The guest house has assured us that public transport will be plentiful as it is market day.
We hop a local bus to the Aungban junction leading to Pindaya. Then we wait and wait and wait. Where's all this public transport we've heard so much about. Laurent takes the initiative and finagles us a ride with a watermelon delivery truck. Cherie and I sit in the large cab with 3 local men - 2 drivers and the English speaking gentleman. Laurent has been exiled to the top of the truck. It takes almost an hour and a half to go the 30 miles to Pindaya. These thoughtful men ask us where we would like to be dropped off. They even slow the truck so that I can take a picture of the "Welcome to Pindaya" sign.
We are let off at the base of the mountain leading to the caves. Laurent climbs down from the truck, hay sticking out of his clothing and hair, rubbing his bum. "Watermeloms weren't too comfortable, huh?"
It is a arduous climb up the 400 steps to the cave entrance. Our legs are sore and heavy from the recent trek and we stop every 50 steps or so. Most people come in cars, tourist buses or private taxis and vans. There is a parking lot adjacent to the cave entrance. Today we are envious of The Suitcase Brigade.
As we buy our tickets, a local family of 30 people exits from the "I'm a cream puff" elevator. We are now behind 30 people kowtowing and snapping shots of the capacious cavern. Over 8000 Buddhas fill the various cave chambers. They have recently been painted red and gold, the thought being that this is an improvement. It is a fascinating sight, though somewhat amusement parky.
After days of walking up and down hills, Cherie's knee is now throbbing. We go to the parking lot hoping to hitch a ride down the hill. She approaches a van of tourists and starts talking. Oh, no. They're French. "Je parle Francais." We point to Laurant. Laurent plays up Cherie's injury wonderfully, so much so that the group's guide takes out his medical kit and gives Cherie his only elastic bandage. They drive us down the hill and leave us at the weekend market.
I am tired and I think that the fresh, unpasturized cow milk from the previous morning didn't agree with me. I don't want to look at the market. Let's find a taxi and go home. Of course, now that we want to pay for a taxi, there are no taxis to pay. There is one public transport pick-up truck bound for the Aungban junction. It's filling up.
"When do you leave?" we ask.
"3 o'clock."
"That's in 2 hours. Why are people getting in the truck now?"
Local people will sit in this crowded, breezeless flatbed so that they won't have to sit on the roof or hang off the sides. We try to hitch hike. That doesn't work. We try to flag down other tourist vehicles. That doesn't work. We join the locals.
I pay an extra 200 kyat for a seat in the cab. As I wait, the only fat woman in the country walks by and gets in the back of the truck. I know that she will be sitting on Laurent and Cherie. I just know it. Oh the guilt of riding shotgun.
A local woman joins me in the cab. She opens her notebook and asks me my name. I write it down. She then writes some numbers and signals me to write the English word. I make her a 1-10 chart and go through the pronunciation of each. This is as much as we're able to communicate, but it's enough.
The driver, a broad, light-skinned, young man, finally gets in the cab and starts the engine. Ten minutes after leaving the market, the pick-up stops at a market! People buy snacks and the proprietors bring out cups of tea, which the passengers quickly quaff down. My seat mate offers me some deep fried grease. It has no taste. No salt. No sugar. Just grease. My fingers are coated. As politely as possible, I place the...thing...on the dashboard, making a slightly disgusted face. I offer her and the driver some soy beans, hoping they will understand my preference for natural foods. (Coffee and tortilla chips are natural foods, right?)
The pick-up is so weighted down it is barely able to chug up the ever-so-slight inclines. An hour and a half later we arrive at Aungban and immediately get a $5 taxi back to Kalaw.
-----------------------
At dinner Laurent and I marvel over the Myanmar bottle opener: a small piece of wood with a flat head bolt through one end, though not flush with the wood, and held on by a nut. Hook the bolt under the bottle cap and pull up. Voila!
-----------------------
With everything going so well - having a great time, meeting nice people - my stories are becoming increasingly boring. I did this, then I did this, then I did this. BORING! Am I due for some hardships? Stay tuned... (Ya see that? That was a hook!)
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Part 7 - Yangon & Inle Lake, Myanmar
Aung San Suu Kyi (daughter of independence movement leader Bogyoke Aung San who was assassinated in 1947) and Susan Sarandan (famous American actor and activist) condemn tourism in Myanmar, as it provides legitimacy and income to Myanmar's ruling military regime.
Others believe the path to political reform involves friendly diplomatic pressure. While most western countries have sanctions against Myanmar, there are plenty of countries who seize the
opportunity to exploit the land's natural and human resources.
It is a deliberate decision each traveler must make.
While the oppresive and corrupt government does benefit from tourism, 80% of travel dollars go to private citizens. While travelers are barred from areas where forced labor still occurs, the opening up and expansion of tourism has been and continues to be the impetus for the
cessation of forced labor in many communities. Blocking tourism also keeps locals isolated from international witnesses to internal oppression, which may aid the regime's ability to rule.
-----------------------------
The plane is descending over patches of stark brown farm land. Where are all the trees? Isn't this place supposed to be tropical? The change in cabin pressure combined with my hangover (Bangkok - need I say more.) has me chewing gum and taking slow deep breathes. There must be some empiracal evidence correlating the degree of excess of the unplanned evening with having to do something important the next day (like catching a flight or taking the SATs). Ten more minutes and we're on the groud. Then it's straight to an air-conditioned hotel room.
The arrivals hall has roll-away desks set up for the immigration officials. There are no electronics of any kind. They're writing things down. With paper! And pens! I look at the other passengers from the flight and think, "Oh my g-d! What am I doing here?" I am alone.
Outside, the expected surge of taxi drivers surround me like sperm. The only other single person IN THE WORLD and I look at each other simultaneously. "Do you want to share a taxi?" we say simultaneously. "Where are you staying," we ask simultaneously. "The White House Hotel," we answer simultaneously.
Cherie (Aussie from Brisbane) and I do the normal chit chat on the 20 minute ride into Yangon. How long are you blah blah blah. Where have you blah blah blah. What do you blah blah blah. Interesting looking blah blah blah.
At the White House Hotel, which is actually red, there are no more air-conditioned rooms available. Instead, I am staying in a closet on the 8th floor (no elevators mind you) with the bathroom down the hall.
YANGON
After a shower (due mostly to the trek up the stairs) and a quick nap I venture out onto the streets.
This is so much like India. This is my first thought. The variations in the types of people you see: body size, skin tone, facial features. Cars shoot out dark exhaust. The buses are filled far past capacity. Besides the few upscale tourist hotels, buildings don't extend beyond 10 floors, and these are all covered in black grime running down from eaves and window sills. Vendors line the sidewalks selling fruit, samosas, sunglasses and posters of Avril Lavinge. The women are
dressed modestly. However, most men wear "longyis", which is essentially a sheet wrapped around the waist and tied in front. And it becomes qucikly evident that it is impossible to buy a longyi that matches any shirt.
With map in hand, I head towards Shwe Dagon Pagoda, the largest and most impressive in the world. At one ponit walking up Shwe Dagon road, I am politely asked by a soldier to walk on the other side of the street. Okay. Walking in front of military compounds is not allowed.
Emerging from the covered stairway onto the pagoda floor, all eyes are drawn upwards. The sun shimmers and reflects off this upside-down margarita glass. Buddhist chanting is amplified through the air. It is magical, fairytale-like.
I harken and behold. Ahh. This is what I'm doing here!
And who disrupts my spiritual trance? Monks. Powada and Tharthana request a few minutes of my time to practice their English. I speak slowly. They speak enigmatically. "Look at me. puh. puh. puh Lips together." Monks get free English lessons. But the conversation progresses. "No, I'm not married. No, I don't know why." They tell me that I'm too beautiful not to be married. What? Huh? Are these monks flirting with me? This is a new one. "Okay, well. I have to go now. Nice meeting you. Bye."
Walking clockwise around the rest of Shwe Dagon (always walk around pagodas clockwise) there are Buddhas in every corner and alcove. Some are decorated with blinking lights mounted behind their heads somewhat like a halo, but more like a Buddha carnival.
A young boy in a Superman outfit is ringing a large bell.
It is dark when I start back for my hotel. I'm not sure if I should be worried. But people seem to ignore me or give a quick smile. Crossing a pedestrian bridge a young man says hello and asks where I'm from. I am forcing myself to be open so I talk to him. I ask John (obviously a self-given western name) where to get good street food and he takes me to a nearby stand. He sits with me as I eat. He's not hungry. We talk about his life. He's from Thailand (Chaing Mai) and
moved to Myanmar with his father when he was young. He father dies some time ago and now he's a student. It's hard for him to find work because he doesn't have legal identification. Only a student card. His mother is still in Chaing Mai and he must illegally cross the border to visit her. His story is incongruous but I'm not sure if I'm misundestanding or he's deliberately trying to guilt me into offering him some cash. As he walks me back to my hotel he offers his services as a guide. I knew this was coming. I decline and give him 500 kyat (pronounced chat) - about $.50 - for his help.
The streets of Yangon are relatively safe, a by-product of the omnipresent military. While there are incidences of travelers falling victim to pick-pockets and petty robbery, violent crime against
tourists is a rarity.
I start my first full day in Yangon with the most important of errands - exhanging money. No one exchanges money at banks. The black market is the norm. The official exchange rate is about 6 kyat to the dollar, while the black market rate is 1000 kyat to the dollar.
At Bogyoke Aung San Market, I stroll through the aisles waiting to be approached. That takes about 30 seconds. I am offered 1120 kyat for a crisp $100 bill. Being that the hotel offered me 1080, I take this for a decent price. I follow the old man to a booth down a smaller aisle where he presents me with 112,000 kyat. I sit and count the 112 1000 kyat notes. Good to go. That way easy. I continue through the covered market where vendors sell jade, puppets, local clothing, jewelry boxes, hand-made purses, paintings. I could spend a lot of money here.
I then make my way to the nearest internet cafe. Because of government censorship, accessing websites like yahoo, hotmail and gmail is difficult, if not impossible. The internet staff helps me
set up an email account with a sanctioned provider - www.sailormoon.com. Sailormoon is a popular Japanese cartoon character. I have no idea what makes this free email provider
acceptable to the Myanmar government.
Many internet cafes use bypass programs to circumvent the government firewall. In reality, you can access any site you want. I find it hard to believe that no one in government is aware of this
work-around. It seems one of those things that is overlooked, not being worth the trouble of enforcing.
The Bagan Bookstore is said to have the best collection of English books. It is a narrow, dark shop on a quiet side street. I purchase a hard cover, photo-copied edition of The Glass Palace for $10. The owner, Htay Aung, sells the origianl for $30. Htay Aung shows me pictures of his recently deceased father, who was a renowned collector of rare books. Htay Aung is visibly proud of his father and still grieving.
There is a guitar leaning against the wall and I ask Htay Aung to play a song for me. We take turns playing Beatles songs. He shows me his favorite music CD: Joe Satriani and Steve Vai.
The Strand Hotel is, historically, the most elegant and exclusive hotel in Yangon. I walk around the lobby, sensing nothing that would warrent $400-900 per night. In fact, I am disgusted by the arrogance necessary in spending so much in a country where people subsist on $2 a day. In the jewelry shop I try on the most expensive ring - a garish diamond-encrusted monstrosity. In the bar, I order a $4 latte, served with biscuits (that's cookies for all you Yanks) and enjoy the
air-conditioning. The extent of my own tourist pretension doesn't go beyond ordering expensive drinks in nice hotels.
Walking back to my hotel I am approached by a smiling old woman. I immediately say "No thank you". She assures me that she isn't selling anything. Hard to believe. But she is vivacious, so I listen. Ethel is a tour guide with her "office" on the street next to the Baptist church. She shows me letters from past travelers (one being Adam Cohn from Seattle) and pictures of their excursions to Inle Lake and Mandalay. She charges $50 per week not including transportation and housing fees. Ethel is gregarious and charming. You cannot help but be engaged. He brown face shows her years and her belly protrudes, giving the first impression that she's pregnant. She gives a sly look and speaking out of the side of her mouth with one hand raised to indicate a secret, tells me that she'll talk about the political situation. I tell her that I'll think about it and invite her to meet me for dinner in a few hours.
Cherie and I take Ethel to a Chinese restaurent. We get lots of stares when we enter and I wonder if we've done something inappropriate, bringing a poor person into a regular restaurent.
Cherie and I share our dinner with Ethel, as she refuses to order anything, saying she isn't very hungry. Ethel tells story after story of all her experiences with travelers. Her type of talk is the kind where you needn't reply. She's just talking.
After dinner Cherie and I tell Ethel that we've decided to go it alone. While Ethel is a lovely woman, there is no way that I can listen to someone talk incessantly for a week. For her time, I give Ethel 2000 kyat ($2) which I imagine will feed her for 3 days.
Cherie and I then make our way to a bar/restaurant that has a live band every night. The band plays western covers and has 4 different singers that alternate. Their set list includes:
Take It Easy - Eagles
Gangster Paradise - Coolio
Staying Alive - Bee Gees
Hurt So Good - John Mellencamp
Material Girl - Madonna
Soldier of Forture - Deep Purple
When Your Gone - Brian Adams
Against All Odds - Phil Collins
We Will Rock You - Queen
One of the singers, a long-haired, tattooed "cool" guy, keeps giving Cherie the eye. We are giggling and can barely look towards the stage. Rodeo (that's his name) sends a note to our table asking for Cheries head scarf. We don't get it. But we're polite and invite him to sit down. Rodeo talks like John Wayne on speed. From what we can understand, he spent some years in New Jersey, but he can't explain why he would then choose to return to Myanmar. He hopes to make a political record in Bangkok. He says he knows a music producer. Um-hum.
When we leave the bar at 11pm, the center streets are all blocked off to through traffic. Something about curfews. We take the streets on the perimeter and wonder what the security issues could be.
----------------
Kandawgyi Park is filled with strolling families, groups of young men playing guitar and young lovers hiding under umbrellas. The lake is surrounded by foot paths and gardens. Cherie and I stop and listen to one group of naughty looking boys. They are smoking Cheroot and
drinking what I take to be whiskey from a plastic bottle. I pretend to take a picture of the whiskey bottle and one boys shakes his head "no", clasping his wrists together and says "police".
That night we try out another live music venue, this time at Mr. Guitar Cafe. This is a nice place with large tables in the center of the room and couches lining the walls. Nobody is wearing longyis, the sign of a modern crowd. The three piece band plays classic rock and folk. Lots of Eric Clapton. Their rendition of Dust in the Wind is spot on. Cherie and I are the only people that applaude after each song. The band does a double-take.
-----------------
After 3 days in Yangon, I'm still trying to figure out what a typical Burmese face looks like. Some look Indian. Some Chinese. Some a mixture of both. There are 8 official national races but these can be sub-divided into over 100 distinct groups. Even after 4 week in the country, I will be unable to look at someone and say "Yeah, they're from Myanmar."
-------------------
INLE LAKE
It is a 17 hour overnight bus ride bound for Nyaung Shwe which sits on the shores of Inle Lake. There are 3 other tourists on the "tourist bus". Fortune has smiled down upon me. I have 2 seats to myself. This will be the only time this will ever happen, I'm sure. I pop antihistamines and sleep. The bus stops at 6pm, 10pm, 1am and 4am for food/bathroom breaks. At each stop every local person sits down for a full meal. I watch in amazement as they consume plates of greasy fried-rice and chicken curry. I resist the temptation to buy a Coke as it will keep me awake and make me have to pee.
One of the best meals I have is at one of these ramdom road-side restaurants. I sit with the other foreigners: a middle-aged German couple and an around-30 guy from Brooklyn. The New Yorker is a sweet man but not the fastest car on the lot. I judge him harshly because he doesn't know the meaning of "prerequisite". I freely admit that my vocabulary is far from impressive, and this is far from an erudite (I just looked that up) type word, so if someone doesn't know a word that I know, well, you get the point.
We arrive at the Nyaung Shwe junction at 5am. I take a taxi with the other travelers to the hotel at which Cherie has told me she'll stay. She was a wuss and paid the $80 to fly from Yangon. The taxi driver has to wake up the owners. I ask, "Do you have 3 rooms?" "Oh, yes,
yes." As soon as the taxi leaves the four of us are shown to 2 rooms. I tell them that I don't know this man and I'm not sharing a room with him. Brooklyn and the Germans unhesitatingly take the 2 rooms. Okay then. I'll just wait in the lobby until the sun comes up. I read my book by candlelight waiting for sunrise at which time I walk down the road looking for another guest house. This is not a big deal, as I'm in a small town and the next guest house is a short 5
minute walk.
I fall into bed at the Mingala Inn, dirt and all.
I force myself awake before the complimentary breakfast has finished. I sit on the second-floor outside deck. The sun is warm. The sky is clear. The streets are quiet. The pancake is yummy. The coffee-mix is...not real coffee. That's okay.
While unsuccessfully trying to get online (Where is Cherie?), a French girl invites me on a bike ride. We ride down the east side of the lake, stopping to talk with girls who are working in the sugarcane fields. They give us fresh sugarcare to suck on. Now they want my hair clip. Uh, I don't think so. I give them a couple oranges instead.
At the tiny village of Maing Thaul we walk out into a wooden foot bridge that will soon connect a floating village with the mainland. The workers ask us where we're from. They tease their friend by saying that he's from Korea. Everyone in Asia hates Koreans.
After some really bad deep-fried tofu and a hike to a hilltop stupa, it's a long and bumpy ride back to Nyaung Shwe. My bum is beginning to seriously ache. We pass 4 older American tourists who are walking and, thus, must be staying at the outrageously expensive Inle Princess Resort. They are probably paying $150 a night. I am paying $4.
Back in town, I take a walk checking in a couple guest houses looking for Cherie. A kiosk owner starts up a conversation and so I sit and have some tea with him. I am once again struck by the warmth of the local people. It's a mental switch, not thinking that everyone wants something from me. After some time his sister drives up with her fiance. They are beautiful and dressed in western attire. They met while attending the nearby university and are to be married the
following weekend. I am invited to the wedding but won't be able to stick around that long. What I will be missing is an afternoon of eating.
On my way back to my guest house I run into Cherie. It had to happen. This place is only so big.
The next morning Cherie and I go to the docks to hire a boat for a day on the lake. We split the $10 fee with a French couple. The male component of this couple doesn't speak any English. This seems to be commonplace with Froggies. But for a couple this means that the girl has to responsible for all communiation: planning, ticket buying, bargaining, food ordering. Hopefully she's a control freak.
The downside of the day is that we're taken to every tourist trap they can think up: silk-making factory, cheroot-making hut, paper-making hut, silver-making hut. Each stop invariably includes a walk through the giftshop. The last stop is the Jumping Cat Monastery. Here,
monks have trained cats to jump through hoops, literally. A crowd gathers around a monk, who feeds the felines catnip. The crowd, mostly large tour-group types which I call "The Suitcase Brigade", oohs and aahs as the cats do their thing. Another backpacker and I look at each other. "I don't know which is more disgusting?" he remarks. "Cats doing tricks or the reactions of the tourists." I nod in agreement. "If you get me high, I'll jump through hoops too."
What's equally as appalling is the amount of vendors in what should be a spiritual place. Monastery or shopping mall. Pick one.
The upside of the day is the floating villages. These communities are amazing. Rows upon rows of houses on stilts. Kids play outside on small wooden boats. You can ascertain the economic condition of the family by the size of the house and the material used to make it. Having a small plot of solid ground is equivalent to a 3 car garage, a swimming pool and maid's quarters. I am surprised to see satelitte dishes on many roofs. They don't use motorized boats in order to save
money on petrol, but they have cable. Priorities!
I wonder where the toilets are and where their waste goes. I ask our guide and he points to an outhouse. Okay, so poop goes straight into the lake. I think about the oceans of the world filling up with the poop of 6.5 billion people. The Poop-ulation.
Motoring back to Nyaung Shwe, the lake is calm and the sun is setting, highlighting the opposite mountians in purple and red. It is getting chilly and I wrap my sarong tightly around my shoulders, cozy and content...
Others believe the path to political reform involves friendly diplomatic pressure. While most western countries have sanctions against Myanmar, there are plenty of countries who seize the
opportunity to exploit the land's natural and human resources.
It is a deliberate decision each traveler must make.
While the oppresive and corrupt government does benefit from tourism, 80% of travel dollars go to private citizens. While travelers are barred from areas where forced labor still occurs, the opening up and expansion of tourism has been and continues to be the impetus for the
cessation of forced labor in many communities. Blocking tourism also keeps locals isolated from international witnesses to internal oppression, which may aid the regime's ability to rule.
-----------------------------
The plane is descending over patches of stark brown farm land. Where are all the trees? Isn't this place supposed to be tropical? The change in cabin pressure combined with my hangover (Bangkok - need I say more.) has me chewing gum and taking slow deep breathes. There must be some empiracal evidence correlating the degree of excess of the unplanned evening with having to do something important the next day (like catching a flight or taking the SATs). Ten more minutes and we're on the groud. Then it's straight to an air-conditioned hotel room.
The arrivals hall has roll-away desks set up for the immigration officials. There are no electronics of any kind. They're writing things down. With paper! And pens! I look at the other passengers from the flight and think, "Oh my g-d! What am I doing here?" I am alone.
Outside, the expected surge of taxi drivers surround me like sperm. The only other single person IN THE WORLD and I look at each other simultaneously. "Do you want to share a taxi?" we say simultaneously. "Where are you staying," we ask simultaneously. "The White House Hotel," we answer simultaneously.
Cherie (Aussie from Brisbane) and I do the normal chit chat on the 20 minute ride into Yangon. How long are you blah blah blah. Where have you blah blah blah. What do you blah blah blah. Interesting looking blah blah blah.
At the White House Hotel, which is actually red, there are no more air-conditioned rooms available. Instead, I am staying in a closet on the 8th floor (no elevators mind you) with the bathroom down the hall.
YANGON
After a shower (due mostly to the trek up the stairs) and a quick nap I venture out onto the streets.
This is so much like India. This is my first thought. The variations in the types of people you see: body size, skin tone, facial features. Cars shoot out dark exhaust. The buses are filled far past capacity. Besides the few upscale tourist hotels, buildings don't extend beyond 10 floors, and these are all covered in black grime running down from eaves and window sills. Vendors line the sidewalks selling fruit, samosas, sunglasses and posters of Avril Lavinge. The women are
dressed modestly. However, most men wear "longyis", which is essentially a sheet wrapped around the waist and tied in front. And it becomes qucikly evident that it is impossible to buy a longyi that matches any shirt.
With map in hand, I head towards Shwe Dagon Pagoda, the largest and most impressive in the world. At one ponit walking up Shwe Dagon road, I am politely asked by a soldier to walk on the other side of the street. Okay. Walking in front of military compounds is not allowed.
Emerging from the covered stairway onto the pagoda floor, all eyes are drawn upwards. The sun shimmers and reflects off this upside-down margarita glass. Buddhist chanting is amplified through the air. It is magical, fairytale-like.
I harken and behold. Ahh. This is what I'm doing here!
And who disrupts my spiritual trance? Monks. Powada and Tharthana request a few minutes of my time to practice their English. I speak slowly. They speak enigmatically. "Look at me. puh. puh. puh Lips together." Monks get free English lessons. But the conversation progresses. "No, I'm not married. No, I don't know why." They tell me that I'm too beautiful not to be married. What? Huh? Are these monks flirting with me? This is a new one. "Okay, well. I have to go now. Nice meeting you. Bye."
Walking clockwise around the rest of Shwe Dagon (always walk around pagodas clockwise) there are Buddhas in every corner and alcove. Some are decorated with blinking lights mounted behind their heads somewhat like a halo, but more like a Buddha carnival.
A young boy in a Superman outfit is ringing a large bell.
It is dark when I start back for my hotel. I'm not sure if I should be worried. But people seem to ignore me or give a quick smile. Crossing a pedestrian bridge a young man says hello and asks where I'm from. I am forcing myself to be open so I talk to him. I ask John (obviously a self-given western name) where to get good street food and he takes me to a nearby stand. He sits with me as I eat. He's not hungry. We talk about his life. He's from Thailand (Chaing Mai) and
moved to Myanmar with his father when he was young. He father dies some time ago and now he's a student. It's hard for him to find work because he doesn't have legal identification. Only a student card. His mother is still in Chaing Mai and he must illegally cross the border to visit her. His story is incongruous but I'm not sure if I'm misundestanding or he's deliberately trying to guilt me into offering him some cash. As he walks me back to my hotel he offers his services as a guide. I knew this was coming. I decline and give him 500 kyat (pronounced chat) - about $.50 - for his help.
The streets of Yangon are relatively safe, a by-product of the omnipresent military. While there are incidences of travelers falling victim to pick-pockets and petty robbery, violent crime against
tourists is a rarity.
I start my first full day in Yangon with the most important of errands - exhanging money. No one exchanges money at banks. The black market is the norm. The official exchange rate is about 6 kyat to the dollar, while the black market rate is 1000 kyat to the dollar.
At Bogyoke Aung San Market, I stroll through the aisles waiting to be approached. That takes about 30 seconds. I am offered 1120 kyat for a crisp $100 bill. Being that the hotel offered me 1080, I take this for a decent price. I follow the old man to a booth down a smaller aisle where he presents me with 112,000 kyat. I sit and count the 112 1000 kyat notes. Good to go. That way easy. I continue through the covered market where vendors sell jade, puppets, local clothing, jewelry boxes, hand-made purses, paintings. I could spend a lot of money here.
I then make my way to the nearest internet cafe. Because of government censorship, accessing websites like yahoo, hotmail and gmail is difficult, if not impossible. The internet staff helps me
set up an email account with a sanctioned provider - www.sailormoon.com. Sailormoon is a popular Japanese cartoon character. I have no idea what makes this free email provider
acceptable to the Myanmar government.
Many internet cafes use bypass programs to circumvent the government firewall. In reality, you can access any site you want. I find it hard to believe that no one in government is aware of this
work-around. It seems one of those things that is overlooked, not being worth the trouble of enforcing.
The Bagan Bookstore is said to have the best collection of English books. It is a narrow, dark shop on a quiet side street. I purchase a hard cover, photo-copied edition of The Glass Palace for $10. The owner, Htay Aung, sells the origianl for $30. Htay Aung shows me pictures of his recently deceased father, who was a renowned collector of rare books. Htay Aung is visibly proud of his father and still grieving.
There is a guitar leaning against the wall and I ask Htay Aung to play a song for me. We take turns playing Beatles songs. He shows me his favorite music CD: Joe Satriani and Steve Vai.
The Strand Hotel is, historically, the most elegant and exclusive hotel in Yangon. I walk around the lobby, sensing nothing that would warrent $400-900 per night. In fact, I am disgusted by the arrogance necessary in spending so much in a country where people subsist on $2 a day. In the jewelry shop I try on the most expensive ring - a garish diamond-encrusted monstrosity. In the bar, I order a $4 latte, served with biscuits (that's cookies for all you Yanks) and enjoy the
air-conditioning. The extent of my own tourist pretension doesn't go beyond ordering expensive drinks in nice hotels.
Walking back to my hotel I am approached by a smiling old woman. I immediately say "No thank you". She assures me that she isn't selling anything. Hard to believe. But she is vivacious, so I listen. Ethel is a tour guide with her "office" on the street next to the Baptist church. She shows me letters from past travelers (one being Adam Cohn from Seattle) and pictures of their excursions to Inle Lake and Mandalay. She charges $50 per week not including transportation and housing fees. Ethel is gregarious and charming. You cannot help but be engaged. He brown face shows her years and her belly protrudes, giving the first impression that she's pregnant. She gives a sly look and speaking out of the side of her mouth with one hand raised to indicate a secret, tells me that she'll talk about the political situation. I tell her that I'll think about it and invite her to meet me for dinner in a few hours.
Cherie and I take Ethel to a Chinese restaurent. We get lots of stares when we enter and I wonder if we've done something inappropriate, bringing a poor person into a regular restaurent.
Cherie and I share our dinner with Ethel, as she refuses to order anything, saying she isn't very hungry. Ethel tells story after story of all her experiences with travelers. Her type of talk is the kind where you needn't reply. She's just talking.
After dinner Cherie and I tell Ethel that we've decided to go it alone. While Ethel is a lovely woman, there is no way that I can listen to someone talk incessantly for a week. For her time, I give Ethel 2000 kyat ($2) which I imagine will feed her for 3 days.
Cherie and I then make our way to a bar/restaurant that has a live band every night. The band plays western covers and has 4 different singers that alternate. Their set list includes:
Take It Easy - Eagles
Gangster Paradise - Coolio
Staying Alive - Bee Gees
Hurt So Good - John Mellencamp
Material Girl - Madonna
Soldier of Forture - Deep Purple
When Your Gone - Brian Adams
Against All Odds - Phil Collins
We Will Rock You - Queen
One of the singers, a long-haired, tattooed "cool" guy, keeps giving Cherie the eye. We are giggling and can barely look towards the stage. Rodeo (that's his name) sends a note to our table asking for Cheries head scarf. We don't get it. But we're polite and invite him to sit down. Rodeo talks like John Wayne on speed. From what we can understand, he spent some years in New Jersey, but he can't explain why he would then choose to return to Myanmar. He hopes to make a political record in Bangkok. He says he knows a music producer. Um-hum.
When we leave the bar at 11pm, the center streets are all blocked off to through traffic. Something about curfews. We take the streets on the perimeter and wonder what the security issues could be.
----------------
Kandawgyi Park is filled with strolling families, groups of young men playing guitar and young lovers hiding under umbrellas. The lake is surrounded by foot paths and gardens. Cherie and I stop and listen to one group of naughty looking boys. They are smoking Cheroot and
drinking what I take to be whiskey from a plastic bottle. I pretend to take a picture of the whiskey bottle and one boys shakes his head "no", clasping his wrists together and says "police".
That night we try out another live music venue, this time at Mr. Guitar Cafe. This is a nice place with large tables in the center of the room and couches lining the walls. Nobody is wearing longyis, the sign of a modern crowd. The three piece band plays classic rock and folk. Lots of Eric Clapton. Their rendition of Dust in the Wind is spot on. Cherie and I are the only people that applaude after each song. The band does a double-take.
-----------------
After 3 days in Yangon, I'm still trying to figure out what a typical Burmese face looks like. Some look Indian. Some Chinese. Some a mixture of both. There are 8 official national races but these can be sub-divided into over 100 distinct groups. Even after 4 week in the country, I will be unable to look at someone and say "Yeah, they're from Myanmar."
-------------------
INLE LAKE
It is a 17 hour overnight bus ride bound for Nyaung Shwe which sits on the shores of Inle Lake. There are 3 other tourists on the "tourist bus". Fortune has smiled down upon me. I have 2 seats to myself. This will be the only time this will ever happen, I'm sure. I pop antihistamines and sleep. The bus stops at 6pm, 10pm, 1am and 4am for food/bathroom breaks. At each stop every local person sits down for a full meal. I watch in amazement as they consume plates of greasy fried-rice and chicken curry. I resist the temptation to buy a Coke as it will keep me awake and make me have to pee.
One of the best meals I have is at one of these ramdom road-side restaurants. I sit with the other foreigners: a middle-aged German couple and an around-30 guy from Brooklyn. The New Yorker is a sweet man but not the fastest car on the lot. I judge him harshly because he doesn't know the meaning of "prerequisite". I freely admit that my vocabulary is far from impressive, and this is far from an erudite (I just looked that up) type word, so if someone doesn't know a word that I know, well, you get the point.
We arrive at the Nyaung Shwe junction at 5am. I take a taxi with the other travelers to the hotel at which Cherie has told me she'll stay. She was a wuss and paid the $80 to fly from Yangon. The taxi driver has to wake up the owners. I ask, "Do you have 3 rooms?" "Oh, yes,
yes." As soon as the taxi leaves the four of us are shown to 2 rooms. I tell them that I don't know this man and I'm not sharing a room with him. Brooklyn and the Germans unhesitatingly take the 2 rooms. Okay then. I'll just wait in the lobby until the sun comes up. I read my book by candlelight waiting for sunrise at which time I walk down the road looking for another guest house. This is not a big deal, as I'm in a small town and the next guest house is a short 5
minute walk.
I fall into bed at the Mingala Inn, dirt and all.
I force myself awake before the complimentary breakfast has finished. I sit on the second-floor outside deck. The sun is warm. The sky is clear. The streets are quiet. The pancake is yummy. The coffee-mix is...not real coffee. That's okay.
While unsuccessfully trying to get online (Where is Cherie?), a French girl invites me on a bike ride. We ride down the east side of the lake, stopping to talk with girls who are working in the sugarcane fields. They give us fresh sugarcare to suck on. Now they want my hair clip. Uh, I don't think so. I give them a couple oranges instead.
At the tiny village of Maing Thaul we walk out into a wooden foot bridge that will soon connect a floating village with the mainland. The workers ask us where we're from. They tease their friend by saying that he's from Korea. Everyone in Asia hates Koreans.
After some really bad deep-fried tofu and a hike to a hilltop stupa, it's a long and bumpy ride back to Nyaung Shwe. My bum is beginning to seriously ache. We pass 4 older American tourists who are walking and, thus, must be staying at the outrageously expensive Inle Princess Resort. They are probably paying $150 a night. I am paying $4.
Back in town, I take a walk checking in a couple guest houses looking for Cherie. A kiosk owner starts up a conversation and so I sit and have some tea with him. I am once again struck by the warmth of the local people. It's a mental switch, not thinking that everyone wants something from me. After some time his sister drives up with her fiance. They are beautiful and dressed in western attire. They met while attending the nearby university and are to be married the
following weekend. I am invited to the wedding but won't be able to stick around that long. What I will be missing is an afternoon of eating.
On my way back to my guest house I run into Cherie. It had to happen. This place is only so big.
The next morning Cherie and I go to the docks to hire a boat for a day on the lake. We split the $10 fee with a French couple. The male component of this couple doesn't speak any English. This seems to be commonplace with Froggies. But for a couple this means that the girl has to responsible for all communiation: planning, ticket buying, bargaining, food ordering. Hopefully she's a control freak.
The downside of the day is that we're taken to every tourist trap they can think up: silk-making factory, cheroot-making hut, paper-making hut, silver-making hut. Each stop invariably includes a walk through the giftshop. The last stop is the Jumping Cat Monastery. Here,
monks have trained cats to jump through hoops, literally. A crowd gathers around a monk, who feeds the felines catnip. The crowd, mostly large tour-group types which I call "The Suitcase Brigade", oohs and aahs as the cats do their thing. Another backpacker and I look at each other. "I don't know which is more disgusting?" he remarks. "Cats doing tricks or the reactions of the tourists." I nod in agreement. "If you get me high, I'll jump through hoops too."
What's equally as appalling is the amount of vendors in what should be a spiritual place. Monastery or shopping mall. Pick one.
The upside of the day is the floating villages. These communities are amazing. Rows upon rows of houses on stilts. Kids play outside on small wooden boats. You can ascertain the economic condition of the family by the size of the house and the material used to make it. Having a small plot of solid ground is equivalent to a 3 car garage, a swimming pool and maid's quarters. I am surprised to see satelitte dishes on many roofs. They don't use motorized boats in order to save
money on petrol, but they have cable. Priorities!
I wonder where the toilets are and where their waste goes. I ask our guide and he points to an outhouse. Okay, so poop goes straight into the lake. I think about the oceans of the world filling up with the poop of 6.5 billion people. The Poop-ulation.
Motoring back to Nyaung Shwe, the lake is calm and the sun is setting, highlighting the opposite mountians in purple and red. It is getting chilly and I wrap my sarong tightly around my shoulders, cozy and content...
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Part 6 - Bangkok Refreshed
Back in my home town of Camarillo, I go through the usual culture shock. Dinner for 3 costs $50! The nights are quiet. The streets are clean. No one is walking. Bar/Restaurants don't sell cigarettes. Strip malls create a nondiscript, sterile atmosphere. Everyone wears baseball caps. Asian people that speak perfect English. And all these white people! Out of habit, I keep throwing toilet paper in the trash can instead of down the toilet.
But I relish in the things that haven't been available to me in a long time:
Mexican food
Salad
Riding my bike
Great cheap coffee
A comfortable bed
A warm shower
Water pressure
A closet full of clothes
All my shoes
Bikram Yoga
Driving
People that know and love me
My sweet nephew, Noah
Cousin Danny's wedding was da bomb. An elegant, emotional, joyous affair that was worth every dollar and hour spent to get there I looked hot in my silk dress made in Bangkok. The Gill family closed the party down. Aged 3 to...really old, everyone was on the dance floor until the band unplugged. Of this I am exceedingly proud. My family knows how to celebrate.
But after 2 months with little to do except ride my bike to the coffee shop and gym I am more than ready to continue my journey. LAX to BKK feeling healthy, refreshed and excited.
-----------------
At 7:15am I am over an hour later in arriving at the Myanmar Embassy than was recommended by the travel agent at my guest house. There is a line of people sitting against a high cement wall. Curiously, the Thai woman selling fish-shaped waffles has a stash of visa application forms and glue stick. My wall mates and I glue our passport photos onto the forms and copy the address of a Myanmar guest house from the one girl who thought to bring an actual street address. It's better to give inaccurate information than to leave a blank space on the form.
It's almost 9am when the doors open. Each person signs the registration book, like this is a wedding reception. "Best wishes on gettng me my visa." Once inside I'm given the ticket number 25. Only 30 tickets are given out each day. If you don't get a ticket, you have to come back the next day.
There are hoards of people that have just arrived and are now waiting in line, not realizing that there is a ticket system in place and that the people seated in the waiting room have already been here for hours. They're in line wasting the time of the people behind the counter with their uninformed questions and pretty much garaunteeing that there will be no time to see poor person #30 before noon, when the frosted help window shuts tight untill the next morning.
But today the gods are smiling on me. A Thai man who is there with a stack of passports has to wait for another passport to arrive and wants to change tickets with me. I stare down at his #14 ticket in disbelief. I'm thinking it's a fake ticket and he's trying to swindle me. But it's real and I am obviously being rewarded for all the horrible things that happened to me back in September and October, which we don't think or talk about anymore because it's in the past and there's nothing we can do about it.
After 2 hours, number 13 is up. But what's this? Number 13 is 3 people, one of whom isn't ready with his forms. This sweaty, fat, old guy has manuvered his way onto line, hitching a ride off 2 naive Scandanavian girls. Drops of perspriation drip down his bald head as he frantically runs across the room in need of the all important glue stick.
Noticing the ticket loophole, an Israeli couple approaches me and asks if they can ride with me on #14 to visa heaven. As politely as possible, I explain to them that 3 people takes 3 times as long and if I were to do this I would simply be FUCKING everyone in front of them. At this point, it's quite possible that #25 won't even get in before the noon deadline. Sorry, but it just wouldn't be right.
I also explain this to the sweaty, fat guy who is still dealing with his paper work as my number is called.
"Sir, some of these people have been here since 6:30am."
"Well, you do what you can do", he replies.
"But wouldn't the world be a better place if sometimes we did what we SHOULD do?"
I think the woman behind the counter hears our exchange and refuses to help him.
-----------------
My visa is ready 2 days later and my flight is booked. Country #21.
But I relish in the things that haven't been available to me in a long time:
Mexican food
Salad
Riding my bike
Great cheap coffee
A comfortable bed
A warm shower
Water pressure
A closet full of clothes
All my shoes
Bikram Yoga
Driving
People that know and love me
My sweet nephew, Noah
Cousin Danny's wedding was da bomb. An elegant, emotional, joyous affair that was worth every dollar and hour spent to get there I looked hot in my silk dress made in Bangkok. The Gill family closed the party down. Aged 3 to...really old, everyone was on the dance floor until the band unplugged. Of this I am exceedingly proud. My family knows how to celebrate.
But after 2 months with little to do except ride my bike to the coffee shop and gym I am more than ready to continue my journey. LAX to BKK feeling healthy, refreshed and excited.
-----------------
At 7:15am I am over an hour later in arriving at the Myanmar Embassy than was recommended by the travel agent at my guest house. There is a line of people sitting against a high cement wall. Curiously, the Thai woman selling fish-shaped waffles has a stash of visa application forms and glue stick. My wall mates and I glue our passport photos onto the forms and copy the address of a Myanmar guest house from the one girl who thought to bring an actual street address. It's better to give inaccurate information than to leave a blank space on the form.
It's almost 9am when the doors open. Each person signs the registration book, like this is a wedding reception. "Best wishes on gettng me my visa." Once inside I'm given the ticket number 25. Only 30 tickets are given out each day. If you don't get a ticket, you have to come back the next day.
There are hoards of people that have just arrived and are now waiting in line, not realizing that there is a ticket system in place and that the people seated in the waiting room have already been here for hours. They're in line wasting the time of the people behind the counter with their uninformed questions and pretty much garaunteeing that there will be no time to see poor person #30 before noon, when the frosted help window shuts tight untill the next morning.
But today the gods are smiling on me. A Thai man who is there with a stack of passports has to wait for another passport to arrive and wants to change tickets with me. I stare down at his #14 ticket in disbelief. I'm thinking it's a fake ticket and he's trying to swindle me. But it's real and I am obviously being rewarded for all the horrible things that happened to me back in September and October, which we don't think or talk about anymore because it's in the past and there's nothing we can do about it.
After 2 hours, number 13 is up. But what's this? Number 13 is 3 people, one of whom isn't ready with his forms. This sweaty, fat, old guy has manuvered his way onto line, hitching a ride off 2 naive Scandanavian girls. Drops of perspriation drip down his bald head as he frantically runs across the room in need of the all important glue stick.
Noticing the ticket loophole, an Israeli couple approaches me and asks if they can ride with me on #14 to visa heaven. As politely as possible, I explain to them that 3 people takes 3 times as long and if I were to do this I would simply be FUCKING everyone in front of them. At this point, it's quite possible that #25 won't even get in before the noon deadline. Sorry, but it just wouldn't be right.
I also explain this to the sweaty, fat guy who is still dealing with his paper work as my number is called.
"Sir, some of these people have been here since 6:30am."
"Well, you do what you can do", he replies.
"But wouldn't the world be a better place if sometimes we did what we SHOULD do?"
I think the woman behind the counter hears our exchange and refuses to help him.
-----------------
My visa is ready 2 days later and my flight is booked. Country #21.
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