Part 10 - Pin U Lwin and Hsipaw, Myanmar

PIN U LWIN

I'm getting lazy with my road travel, the only adverse result being increased costs. Just the thought of a 3 hours drive through winding mountain roads in the back of a pick-up truck is making my stomach churn. Cherie and I secure a private taxi to the old British hill station of Pin U Lwin for the low low price of $5 each. This may not seem like much for a 75 minute drive, but for approximately the same price you can purchase a 7 hour train ride or a 10 hour bus ride. But like I said, I'm getting lazy.

We have been duped into paying for the local couple that joins us. The hotel clerk lies through his red-stained teeth when he says that we're all paying around the same price. This is far from likely.

I'm riding shotgun, the seat of death. There are no seatbelts. There's no "oh shit" handle. There isn't even an inside door handle.

We ascend through the green and brown hills of the Shan State, passing every other vehicle on the road. As we approach 3500 feet above sea level, the air is getting refreshingly cool. Controlled burns are visible on distant hillsides. Military units clear dry brush from the road's shoulders.

With wooden blocks propped behind each tire, the driver of a large delivery truck is napping under his vehicle, utilizing the man-made shade.

It's a quick ride to this quaint, quiet town. The one main street is marked by a clock tower donated by Queen Victoria and an out-of-service Mosque. The local market is authentic; No one vies for our business. There are 2 internet accessible computers in the entire town. The girls that work at this internet cafe / drug store are from Nepal. Together, we sing the most popular song in Nepal which I remember from 4 years prior. It's that catchy. We sang it that much.

Re some phee ree ree
Re some phee ree ree
U dede jomkey dada ma bajong
Re some phee ree ree.

Or something to that effect. Giggle, giggle.

A short bike ride way from town center is the Botanical Gardens est. 1915. It is a welcome deviation from what is the rest of the country. This refuge of tanquility and groomed beauty contains 344 species of trees, 42 species of indigenous orchids, 25 species of roses, a bamboo garden, an aviary and a pen of strange mountain animals that resemble a moose/goat hybrid. Unfortunately, due to the incompetance of the guy who burned my CD of pictures from my memory card and the lack of diligence on my part to check his incompetance, pictures from this day are to be lost. Sadly, there is no record of the alleged moosegoat.

With limited sunlight remaining, too many people want to stop and talk to me. One local man asks where I'm from.

"America."

"Oh, who will be the next US president?"

How the hell am I supposed to know! I'm still can't believe our current president is president.

The sun's quickening plunge powers my pace. A group of university students intercept my route. Their innocence and giddiness is more evocative of a group of 14 year-olds. You know that point in life before the consciousness of alcohol and drugs and sex. Oh, maybe I've just said too much. So, this group of kids want to take a picture with me. Okay, let's do this quickly. Group shots with everyone's cameras. Yes, those are gone too. All the boys had big smiles. The girls sat stone-faced. And then the Alpha male wants individual shots with me and each person. "Sorry dude, your time is up. I've got 40 minutes of sunlight. Nice to meet you. Buh-bye."

I ride back into town listening to the iPod. Big mistake. A couple near-misses.

LOCAL MUSIC

In every town, on every street there is at least one person playing guitar in front of his home/business. I take the Mynamar people's love of music as a good sign. A sign of what, I don't know. But a good sign nonetheless. There's something soulful, hopeful, passionate about music lovers. The most famous band in the country is IronCross, made up of maybe 5 guitar players, bassist, bongos, drums, keyboard. They all takes turns on vocals. At this point, I have seen and/or heard the DVD live concert numerous times: overnight buses, bars, small kiosks, restaurants. It is everywhere. A ticket to one of their concerts is an exorbitant $50 US. IronCross makes their fortune by translating popular western songs into Burmese. If I want to make the locals smile, I sing "Leader of the Band" in English. They all recognize it immediately. Somebody, please call Dan Fogelberg and tell him that these guys are getting rich off of his music.

In Pin U Lwin the guy who works and lives at the store next to our guest house sits each night with his out-of-tune guitar and strums IronCross songs. He is hesitant to play for us. He's shy. We request a certain IronCross song. He pulls out the CD sleeve which includes lyrics and chords. Even though these people can speak English, no one can tell us the English title of the song. Cherie and I take our turns. Locals peak their heads out of their front doors. It's nearly 10pm and the street is silent except for the regularly requested "Hotel California". Masmiliano, a colorful and convivial Italian traveler, is recording video. Cherie and I will forever be a part of his travel documentary. His friends will be forced to watch video of cute and talented stangers.

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I am standing on a metal grill welded to the end of a military jeep. The jeep is carrying at least 17 people: 10 inside and 7 others on the grill alongside me. As I lean into the curves of the road, I think about who I will use to break my fall if the jeep tips. It's a short ride to the stop for the Anisakan Waterfall. Everyone on the back grill tells us where to get off and points down a side road in the direction of the falls.

Emma and Jay (2 of the 8 travelers in Pin U Lwin) and I are soon joined by a group of local women also going to the falls. "How cute," I think. "The locals also come here for afternoons of leisure." It is a gradual 30 minute descent and the women warn us to be careful and go "slowly, slowly". One of the women is 8 months pregnant and yet she flits down the naturally-worn steps like a feather from the sky. She takes my hand at the especially steep steps and acts as a brace. I try to refuse her assistance. I can surely get down a hill without the help of a flip-flop wearing, pregnant woman. "It's okay. It's okay." I try to assure her but she doesn't relent. How can I argue?

When we reach the falls, these lovely women try to sell us sodas. Oh!!! So they're not carrying picnic supplies in the cylindrical coolers on their backs. They're not having a day of leisure. They're working. How naive of me. This is why they stayed so close. Nevertheless, I choose to feel that their concern was primarily genuine. I could just as easily feel used, conned, hornswoggled. But it is a beautiful day, the sight of the falls is gratifying and I'm thristy. I touch each can of cheap, local brands searching for the coldest beverage and happily hand over my $.80. Their work for the day is complete.

At the falls a youth group is having an event. I can tell it's a youth group by the speeches, alcolades and Kumbaya-type songs.

Boys in daiper-like, rolled-up longyis swim in the chalky, light blue waters. The girls, fully dressed in jeans and long sleeves, shriek wildly as they splash handfulls of water on one another.

The soda women lead us back up the hill, this time taking a more precipitous but direct route. When we stop to catch our breath, the women fan us with large leaves. Emma, Jay and I are all very uncomfortable being fanned by "the natives". We beg them stop.

Near the top, the soda women stop and wait for their next potential customers. Their work day is not over. They don't ask us for money. We don't offer. Thank yous and good-byes seem to suffice.

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In the morning while purchasing coffee and coissonts, I watch women stand outside their shops and homes combing their long black hair. The streets slowly awaken to a cool, overcast day. Emma, Jay and I take a horse-drawn, elaborately painted carriage to the train station.

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HSIPAW

I am finally getting my train ride. The journey from Pin U Lwin to Hsipaw (pronounced Sipo) is the most popular in the country, due to the famous Gokhteik Viaduct. Built in 1901 by the Pennsylvania Steel Company, this British designed bridge traverses a 990 ft deep gorge and is considered an engineering masterpiece. It is the second highset viaduct in the world. The government, with an unwarrented sense of paranoia and self-importance, prohibits photography.

The train approaches the viaduct slowly. Switchbacks ease the declivity from the mountain top. With the bridge outside the opposite window, I lean over a French couple and start snapping photos. A soldier appears out of nowhere. "No pictures." So they're serious about this. I sit down and turn off my camera, wondering if the soldier would be able to navigate my camera's interface and delete the photos. I get a couple good shots which will be sold to the highest bidder, though I'm not sure who has a grudge against Myanmar, besides it's own citizens.

The train stops at each small town where vendors sell food and water through the windows. We buy yams on a stick for lunch.

Cherie, who was too scared to take the train over the gorge, has headed in the opposite direction. Emma, Jay and I have picked up a new 4th: Valerie of France. We arrive in Hsipaw in the afternoon and make our way to the renowned Mr. Charles Guest House.

Mr. Charles has earned his reputation by taking travelers on various outings around Hsipaw. He is a charming, engaging man. He loves that I lived in Taiwan and tests my Chinese. Oh. This is embarrassing. But I recite the animals of the Chinese Zodiac. Good enough. Mr. Charles' father came from China in the 1950s, met his mother and never left.

On our first morning, we set out with Mr. Charles for the countryside. He points out the various types of crops and flowers. When the government insisted that everyone grow rice, the locals adhered to this ridiculous edict by planting rice only as far as an official could see from the road. Further out in the fields, they continued to grow the crops that thrive in this area.

We stop for tea at a family home that used to be a mill. The floor is compacted dirt, the thatched roof has sections that have worn away and will be replaced before the rainy season starts. We all ask if we should leave money but Mr. Charles encourages us to give "gifts". I search my backpack from something appropriate. Allergy medicine? No. Lip gloss? No. Tampons? A big no. Oh, here are some batteries. Those could come in handy. The Swiss boys have brought postcards of their home country. The matriarch is thrilled. She thinks that Zurich is a huge city, what with the towering 4 story buildings. These Swiss guys have made us all look like chumps. Without ceremony, I leave the batteries on the table.

Along the way, we are shown a genuine noodle factory, not created nor intended for tourists. We see the candle making factory, the town blacksmith and basket weaving groups, the later reminding me of American sewing circles, the women sitting together talking about their no-good husbands who spend all their time at the bar (or tea shop in this case).

Another tea break is on the edge of a watermelon field. The watermelon crops in the area are funded by Chinese and the harvest will be brought back to China. We sit with the Chinese workers who are smoking cigarettes out of a 3 foot bamboo bong. These water pipes are also used to smoke Kacoo, the resin from Opium.

At dinner every traveler in town sit around one table at Mr. Food's Restaurant. Mr. Food, a happy little man, seems to be the only Asian that can add without the use of a calculator.

It's tap beer and travel talk. Emma and Jay talk of their international love predicament. She can't work in the US. He can't work in the UK. Finally someone has the nerve to suggest the obvious. "Why don't you guys just get married?" Silence. "Or break up," I suggest. Both options seems to scare the bejesus out of them.

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EVERYBODY LOVES A BOAT RIDE

Today Mr. Charles is taking us on a boat ride. About an hour upsteam we disembark and make our way uphill. The path leads through pineapple and papaya plantations. I have never seen a pineapple plant before. Why did I think they grew on trees?

At a monastery, monks serve us tea and pineapple. We sit in a circle and Mr. Charles talks about the history of the Shan State. When Myanmar opened up the country to widespread tourism in 1995, forced labor stopped in many, but not all, areas of the Shan State. Hsipaw used to be all forced labor. According to Oren (Israeli), 70% of the tourists in those first three years beginning in 1995 were Israeli. Oren also insists and Israelis are the ones that named the Mr.s of Hsipaw: Mr. Food, Mr. Book, Mr. Bean. I have found no other sources to confirm or deny these proclamations.

Ack. Isn't this boring? What is a perfect day for me is, unfortunately, less than exciting story telling. I'll have to work on that.

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Tonight it's a semi-homemade group dinner. Even though every vege shop in town has closed, Oren manages to procure a large bag of avocados, lemons and onion. Israeli ingenuity. He makes guacamole and we buy Indian roti and chick pea sauce (it's almost hummus). Everyone at the guest house sits around the outside tables for a family style dinner. The anomaly of the evening is a nice touch and adds to the warmth and serenity that now characterizes our time in Hsipaw.

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For the past 19 days it has been Go Go Go. I'm carrying around a fat, hard-back book I've barely had time to crack. At night I'm so exhausted that I read 3 sentences are fall into heavy sleep.

The beds in Myanmar rank #1 on the Asian comfort scale. Soft yet firm mattresses and soft pillows. At Mr. Charles, I have an overly elevated queen size bed with heavy blankets. I snuggle in and feel like a princess.

With thoughts of sleeping in and an afternoon nap, I take the day off. My goal...sit on my ass. My exercise...turn pages.

At Black House Coffee, I order a real latte. And even though I'm propped on the deck overlooking the river with a book in my lap, the eccentric Aussie owner, a self-proclaimed "square peg in a round hole", comes and yaps at me. Deprived of native English conversation, are we? I am far from interested in her story and less keen in retelling mine. Clyde, an older American gentleman from my guest house, joins us and now I'm sandwiched between these garrulous geriatrics talking about landscaping.

I seek solitude back at the guest house. Everyone is out for the day riding bikes or looking for the popcorn factory. The mezzanine beckons, with promises of a warm beer and a cool breeze.