Part 9 - Mandalay and Around, Myanmar

THE ROAD TO MANDALAY

Cherie, Laurent, Stinus and I are determined to have at least one train ride. The trains are remarkably slow so what would be a relatively short bus ride is the perfect opportunity to spend half a day on the train looking out the window.

We arrive at the train station 2 hours before departure time. We cannot buy tickets in advance. The Kalaw stationmaster will know if there are available seats only after the train leaves it's starting point. Alas, it is not to happen today.

Back on the main road we talk to a shop owner who makes a call and reserves us some seats on a bus that should arrive shortly. It is a 4 hour ride to Meiktila, the main junction to Mandalay, Yangon and all places east and west.

The minibus is packed with people, all of whom have vast quantities of stuff tucked under seats and tied to the roof. The people in the aisle sit on red, plastic stools. I am sitting in a single seat next to the door, which remains open the entire way. There isn't enough room for me to put my legs in. I'm too tall!!! One knee faces forward, under the railing and into the butt crack of one of the standing bus attendants. The other is in the aisle, being stabbed by the oddly sharp corner of a betel nut-chewing woman's bag.

The two bus attendants take turns sitting on the roof, changing places while the bus is in motion . For most of the ride I watch one of these guys spit his betel nut out the door, and wait to get splattered. I let him listen to my iPod for a while and wonder if he likes Manfred Mann's Earth Band and Patty Griffin. After some time I notice that there's a dead chicken sticking out of the bag under my seat. Oh no! Bird flu! Bird flu!

In Meiktila, 20 men are crowding around the bus door shouting "Mandalay, Mandalay" in our faces. We wave good-bye to Stinus, who is heading east and approach an official looking booth inquiring about the price to Mandalay. At the actual bus, it's double. Laurent is pissed off. He angrily refuses and walks away. The catch here is that there is no other bus to Mandalay. A bus will sit there until it fills. Once it leaves, then the next bus takes its place. Cherie negotiates an acceptable price. But the bus guys are ornery. They throw something at Laurent as he's walking to get water. I am in the bus and see the whole thing. I scold the culprit, speaking plainly as if to a child. "No okay! No nice!" He tries to blame a 10 year old boy who thinks it's cool hanging out with the big boys. I shake my head and look at him like my parents used to look at me when they knew I was full of shit. After 11 days in Myanmar, this is my first encounter with such virulent behavior and will, thankfully, be an isolated incident.

I have chosen the very back, middle seat, thinking that this will at least give me some leg room for the 5 hour ride to Mandalay. To my extreme disappointment, my little plan backfires. As the space between benches is too small for most Myanmar people as well, the passengers on either side of me place one leg into the aisle, squashing my knees together. I later discover that the back bench also has far less padding. My bum quickly falls asleep and I continuously alternate my crossed legs, allowing one butt cheek at a time to recover.

After the dinner stop the courage of our fellow passengers raises to the level of their curiousity. The questioning begins. The young gentlemen sitting next to are civil engineers. "So you're the ones responsible for this road," I think. I can smell their betel nut breath and pray they don't use any "p" words. The extol the beauty of their country and ask me where I've been. They also clue me into some local prices. 100 kyat for an orange. I knew that orange vendor was trying to rip me off.

Cherie and Laurent are near the front of the bus, no doubt having the same conversation with their neighbors.

We arrive on the outskirts of town. A taxi driver actually climbs in the back window of the bus to ask me where I'm going. "I'm not going anywhere until I smoke a cigarette, buddy."

The truck-taxi itself is similar to a British Mini, except really frickin' old. There is the cab and there is the back which has the usual benches along the sides. The rear seats 4 uncomfortably. I ride in front. Every piece of interior that can come off has. There is barely any metal left separating the cab from the engine. Fumes pour into the cab. The little thing chugs down the road. It's like those commercials where the old lady is driving in the fast lane and everyone is passing her giving her the finger. My vibrator has more horsepower.

These little blue monsters are one of the few types of vehicles that have left-side steering. Most cars have right-side steering, as do the buses. However, the country drives on the right side of the road. When you get off the bus, you step out into the middle of the street. So, the cars are remnants from British Rule. No one car afford new cars. But the government has abandoned all British customs.

MANDALAY

Mandalay - what a romantic, poetic sound. The name alone conjures up exotic images of grandeur. Unfortuenately, it is no more than a dirty, dusty, noisy shithole. The roads are poorly paved, the sidewalks speckled with open trenches and filled with the crap that oozes out from small shops. The intermittent electricity is sustained through the use of generators which create a constant, annoying drone all over the city and especially outside of my hotel room. Trishaw drivers beg for your business. Clean, well-dressed, old ladies beg for money. And for the first time in Myanmar, people stare.

There is little charm, little character.

But my hotel room has a bathtub. After our day on the bus, a bath is in order and a rare travel treat. The water is only slightly yellow, but hot.

The complimentary breakfast at the Nylon Hotel consists of cold eggs, cold toast and cold tea. One morning we watch the waiters refold the cloth napkins they had just removed from our table. I call to them. "Hey, she (pointing to Cherie) just ACHOO (pointing to napkin)." What do they think people do with napkins?

SIGHTSEEING

We hit the big sites on our first day. The walk to the east entrance of the Royal Palace is long and on the way we stop at the luxurious Sedona Hotel. Another expensive drink in a comfortable, air-conditioned settings. We eye the guests suspiciously. Who are these people? What are they doing here? Why are they wearing dress shirts?

The Royal Palace is somewhat of a let down. It burned to the groud sometime during WWII and has been completely rebuilt, but to a far lesser degree of elegance and workmanship. The most interesting item on display is the very handy gilded chin rest. I think this could sell big back in the states. In the king's bedroom, a palace employee is asleep on the royal bed.

The once venerable palace is now covered in dust. No one cleans the floors. No one cares. Soldiers live outside the palace proper, but within the palace walls. They cultivate their own gardens to suppliment their meager wages.

Laurent and I take the long way up Mandalay Hill. We opt to walk rather than pay a taxi pick-up $7 to go the one mile. Shoes are prohibited as is the case at all pagodas. Except here the stares and floors are filthy. Absolutely filthy! There are several levels to the climb. At each level is a Buddhist shrine, usually protected in a locked cage. At each level we think we've reached the top. Nope. Another 20 minutes to go. The ubiquitous vendors line the stairways. The vendors have set up make-shift shacks where it looks like they live.

A palm reader has a sitting area on one of the levels nearer the top. Someone had told me about this guy. I stop and look at him. "4000 kyat," he says. "1000 kyat," I reply. Deal.

His fabrications are wrapped in good news, most of which I can't remember. His accent is difficult to understand. He says something about my second lover being the "one". Well now! We're a couple decades too late on that second lover. Let's change the word "lover" to "love". Ah, that's better. There's still hope.

At the top of the hill I am less than awe struck. What I was imagining to be a vast area of grass and trees is a small tiled area coverd in dirt and bird shit and partially under construction. The sky is hazy brown and it's impossible to see to the horizon. I don't bother with pictures.

Laurent and I go to the parking lot and try to hitch a ride down the hill with a tour group. A Swiss tour group loads into the back of a truck. I ask if we can get a ride. They invite us along. But then thier local guide says no. We can't ride down with them. The Swiss apologize. Maybe I'm being too American here, but I would say that the tour group, the paying customers (Yep, that's American), can decide for themselves who they'd like to give a ride to. If I were them, I would have spoken up. Such passivity coming from a group of adults! The Suitcase Brigade does not take responsibility for themselves. "'Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind."

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Our favorite restaurant is the Indian corner cafe. This posh little treasure uses plastic chairs and folding tables and opens when the shops clear their crap off the sidewalk, which acts as the restaurant floor. We drink sweet chai and eat chicken biriyani, minced chicken wrapped in a thin pancake and fried, and banana prepared the same way.

(I will later be shown an even better Indian corner cafe with a different group of people. This place has the best roti in the entire country.)

Our waiter is Bido. Sixteen year-old Bido looks. Besides what's on the menu, his English is non-existant. He works hard. He is polite, quick, efficient. Needing someone to take a group photo we teach Bido how to use a digital camera. It is clear that this is the first time he's ever touched one. I do a couple practice shots with him, illustrating how to get the people in the center of the screen. I put my finger over his finger over the shutter button. Halfway...beep...go. We laud a job well done but he doesn't seem pleased. He is reserved, maybe even a bit scared. Indeed, technology can be a frightening thing.

Ashi is a local man and friend of the owner. Our first night at the "Indian Corner" he helps us order and assures us that there are no "tourist prices" here. He is a delightful, friendly man. If only his teeth weren't stained red and erroding from betel nut. In the middle of sentences he leans to one side and spits in the gutter. Uummm. Yummy.

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DAYTRIP TO SAGAING, INWA & AMANAPURA

Cherie meets another lone traveler at our hotel who she says "seems lonely". She congenially invites him along on our daytrip. Paul, from Canada, seems to be a strange bird. We'll see how this goes.

Sagaing is a religious center, as it has been for centuries. Across the Inwa Bridge from Mandalay, it is home to over 600 nunneries and monasteries. The hillsides are enshrouded in pagodas.

We climb to the top of one paya (another word for pagoda). The resident monk is pushy and won't stop asking for money. Again, the behavior of some monks in this country is not what one would think of as pious and far from enlightened. A monk isn't a common beggar. Yet, here is seems as if joining a monastery is the best career option one has. You are fed and clothed and housed. And it certainly doesn't keep you from chasing life's little pleasures: smoke, drink, women.

The former capital of Inwa used to sit at the confluence of the Ayeyarwaddy & Myint Nge rivers. However, the 14th century King Thado Minbya had a canal dug to connect the Myint Nge and Myint Tha, and, thus, create an island safe from enemy attacks.

We take a wooden boat across a narrow section of river. Horse-drawn carriages await the constant flux of tourists. Due to Laurent's obvious and futile crush on Cherie, Paul has no other choice but to follow me into of the the carriages. He doesn't have much to say. It's hot and I am tired of looking at ruins. Inwa does have one stop that's out of the ordinary: an old teak monastery. It is a working school as well, and a group of children sit on the floor in front of low desks by some open doors, using the natual light to read.

Laurent and I do another climb to the top of another structure, this one being the 90 foot high Leaning Watch Tower of Inwa that was damaged (that's the "leaning" part) in the massive 1838 Earthquake.

Okay, another old temple. I'll stay here and play hacky sack with the kids. Oh, how sad. Their hack has no beans!

Back at the taxi park, we eat lunch while our guide is off somewhere taking his afternoon nap. We are all exhausted from the heat and sit silently. Except Laurent. He's never silent. He tells flight attendant horror stories: Having to lay on the floor of the bus for the hour long ride from the airport to the hotel in Congo; Police-escorted deportees who shit themselves; Subduing crazy passengers who try to open the hatch. He shows us his synthetic knife (metal-detector proof) that he carries at all times. "I'm not waiting for ze terrorist to keel me!"

I tilt one side of my plate of friend rice up and let the copious amounts of grease slide to the opposite side of the plate. I eat the rice from the top, leaving the bottom, oil-soaked layer untouched.

Paul, on the other hand, eats like a starving orphan, all five fingers gripped tightly around the fork, palm-side down.

Our last stop is U Bein's Bridge, the longest teak bridge in the world. I thought it would be bigger. "Elevated walk way" is a more accurate description, though it doesn't flow off the tongue as nicely. There are sections of the bridge that have no railings. This is not the place to anger anyone.

Finally, we're going home. The four of us deftly alternate legs and feet back into the blue mini-taxi. Paul's feet are moist and dirty. How is this possible? The rest of us have dry, reasonably clean feet. Cherie, who invited him, barely talks to him. Urbane Laurent doesn't speak to Boorish Paul at all. Laurent continues his one-man show for Cherie. I am pained. The time has come for a day of solitude.

As we near our hotel, the taxi driver pulls over to put his shirt back on.

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OTHER THOUGHTS AND OBSERVATIONS

Women wear towels on their heads, I would assume for lack of a fashionable scarf. But they all look like the just got out of the shower.

One of my trishaw drivers learned English in 3 years by watching American action movies.

No beggar ever says "Thank You". They don't say it to local people either, so it's not a language thing. Beggars in the States say "Thank You". Why don't they do it here.

What I call "The Longyi Ball Tuck": men take the extra cloth from the middle of their longyis and, with a quick bend of the knees, tuck it under their testicles, where it stays put. A little perspiration protection, no doubt.