No Lack of Backpacks to Track

So this was what riding on a motorcycle ride felt like. I was sitting behind a Burmese man whose name I couldn't really pronounce, cruising 50mph down a dirt road that doesn't show up on Googlemaps (I checked). Of the new experiences I was hoping to have on this vacation, a Hells Angel ride was not one of them. It would not be the most unexpected new experience though, but we'll get to that later.

We would later pass her

On Easter Sunday, we had taken the early bus from Bagan to Kalaw, which similar to our flight, was predominantly white tourists. We were very much traveling by the seat of our pants - Jackie was leaving Burma much sooner than I and her tight schedule motivated us to fit in as much adventure as we could in as little time as possible. We were hoping to hike from Kalaw to Inle Lake, a 2 or 3 day affair we'd read, and hopefully could start as soon as we hit the ground in Kalaw, despite not having made any bookings.  It was an improvisational type of trip which is the best kind of trip.

When we reached Kalaw, any worry I had at booking a hiking tour was instantly acquiesced by the group of tour promoters swarming our arrival.  Kalaw's main industry clearly was hiking to Inle Lake. We were led to a hostel while trying to figure out scheduling. It was around 4pm and they told us it was too late to embark on the hike - we looked at a bunch of maps of the routes and nothing would work. When I offered to say we could hike fast and sleep on the road, the hostel runner Robin laughed and brought up snakes. Robin suggested hopping on for a motorcycle ride to the last checkpoint, and then doing a 1 day hike and reach Inle by the following evening. So we met our drivers, divided 3 helmets among the 4 of us (guess who didn't get one), "checked in" our larger bags to magically reappear when we reached Inle. I took my valuables with me.

Robin for the record was one of many very very interesting people we'd meet on this leg of the journey. Robin's family were all descended from Punjabi Sikh Indians, but he was 3rd generation Burmese. He spoke Punjabi, Hindi, Burmese, Nepali and English (semi-fluently) and "some of the hill tribe dialects." He had a large family with 3 boys and they were all helping to run the hostel and tour business. They seemed to be doing well but he had never left the country. He said that when he was younger he had really wanted to see the world, but now he says running this hostel, the world comes to him. People from all over the world stay there, and he reads CNN, so he feels he has a pretty good beat on the world. He probably had a point, but I still hope he gets to travel.

So there we are on our motorbikes, cruising down some very rural areas. The landscape was beautiful with low flowing mountains and vegetation that flushed the tan brown and green parts of the color palette. On one occasion I saw what looked like a controlled forest fire. The ride was different than I expected - there were side handles, so I didn't have to clutch the strange old Burmese driver for dear life. With the milder weather of higher altitude and the bike speeding through the breeze, thermal comfort was ideal.

The ride was about an hour and a half, but it didn't feel like real time. I felt suspended along the space time continuum, with unfamiliar scenery flying by me. The motors were loud enough that I felt alone - despite the three people with me, I felt like they couldn't intrude into my moments, that I had all the serenity I needed.

The road twisted and turned and rose through several mountaintops, before the drivers slowed without warning and pulled in front of a monastery.

We met lots of European backpackers on our trip. There was the Dutch girl who only just graduated high school and was backpacking before studying medicine, the Danish couple who had one year left of graduate school, and the German guy who might just have been unemployed. There were lots of similarities to their stories and all of them had been on the road for several months and to several Southeast Asian countries - no backpacker starts in Myanmar. We had only scratched the surface of bizarre characters. At Kalaw we met Frank the French engineer, who had done projects all over the world and been to China 7 times, including months of wandering through Sichuan and Yunnan, and even more unbelievably only knew a few words of Chinese.  He also talked about his Cambodian girlfriend, who he met while he was alone and bored at a bar there. His girlfriend was a waitress at the bar and equally bored - and then he pulled out his ringed hand and told us they were engaged.  They'd only been dating for a year, with much of that time long distance, but he said that her family wants her to get married soon and "some compromises have to be made." I'm not sure if the word compromise has different connotations in French, or really if the concept of marriage is completely different to this guy, but I found the whole story a bit absurd.

Our guide, who arrived with two hikers, was named Sunny and also a cool character. He was also a 3rd generation inhabitant of Myanmar, with his roots in Nepal. He mentioned wanting to visit there sometime though he didn't have a passport and it was very difficult to obtain one, and also spoke about a year working in Bangkok previously. Those two stories didn't make sense to me until he told about his journey to the border and the three stages of bribes he needed to cross the border, on what was a well-established illegal migration route supplying Thailand with many laborers and domestic workers. He had worked at a tailor shop for a Chinese merchant, met a Nepalese-Burmese girl who became his girlfriend and had overall a positive experience in Bangkok, although he did mention being extremely lonely and sad at the start.  He had come back after a year because his father wanted him back, I forget the reason exactly, and started leading these hikes. He looked young but I assumed he was in his mid 20's - I was shocked to learn he was 19. I'm still not used to dealing with people younger than me, particularly people I hire (sounds strange to type that), but I shouldn't have been so surprised. We met so many teenagers and even pre-teens working in the tourism industry that I wonder what the nation-wide high school graduation rate is.  Sunny did graduate from high school, at the age of 16. He had some strong opinions of politics, partially shaped by his experiences in Bangkok and his interactions with tourists. He was critical of Bangkok's culture-less expansion that hadn't particularly helped the poor, and was hopeful that Myanmar would "open up, but not so fast." It would "make the poor people only sad."

And then there was Michael. Michael had grown up in the deep south during the height of segregation (but had made a pact at the age of 6 to not speak with a Southern twang, and didn't). He graduated from UNC in 1968 as an ROTC and was soon piloting planes in the Vietnam War. He worked with Continental Airlines after the war and the company was bought by United after 5 years. He was laid off, but his retirement package was insanely generous, and he's flown free on United since and 10% on most other airlines. 10%, not 10% off. So he's been retired for a while and basically been traveling nonstop. He met his French girlfriend Claire in the Gaza Strip (an underrated single's hotspot) where they were both protesting on behalf of the Free Palestine movement (which he got involved with in part because of the injustice he saw under Jim Crowe laws). They said they met in December, and since they were rather advanced in age I figured they meant December 1979, but no, they meant last December. Michael was full of stories, but I'll remember him for the story he added to our trip.

The monastery was devoid of electricity except for a few solar powered light bulbs, my first encounter with renewable energy used for off grid supply. The shower was hand pumped by a smiling novice monk into a bucket and used behind concrete walls about shoulder high. Lucky we hadn't hiked and didn't need a shower. The rest of the group were exhausted, especially Michael and Claire, and they gritted through the shower/bathe/bucket pour.

Darkness quickly settled and we ha a candlelight dinner with Michael, Claire and Sunny. A cook had driven along for the tour and prepared a very nice simple meal, pleasing to both the palate and the digestive system. Michael and Claire retired early due to their fatiguing hike, and Jackie and I chattered on with Sunny for another hour or two. This was when we learned about his experiences in Bangkok, his political views, his schooling, his family and the surprising fact that he has Facebook (about 1% of Myanmar has access to the internet - even Mongolia has 20%). We met the female guide leading the other group, who was also Nepalese Burmese.  I forget her name but she had been friends with Sunny since childhood and like so much of Asia had gotten interested in Korean dramas. She subsequently studied Korean in university and occasionally guides to Korean tourists. When we finally decided to let Sunny a rest, we strolled into the monastery. Cots had been laid out onto the floor and split among thin curtain dividers. Each divider probably held about eight cots and there were around eight dividers. Since only two small groups were on this hike, Jackie and I had our own divider to ourselves - or so we thought. 

I had just brushed and tiptoed in when I heard some rhythmic heavy breathing. The breathing crescendoed slightly and became distinctly audible, and was soon accompanied by the sound of bodies rolling on the cots. I looked up at Jackie, who was completely still and intently listening. Is this really happening? Is this what I think it is? I whispered to Jackie. She responded with a nod and a smile. Who do you think it is? I asked. As the couple next to us made themselves more known, the paper thin dividers suddenly seemed so inadequate. We heard enough of the male voice to deduce that we were likely a few feet away from Michael, who I guess did have a generous retirement package that allowed him to be a frequent rider. The couple was definitely trying to keep quiet - but not nearly enough. The identities were secured for me when after a rather subdued finale, I heard a woman with a strong French accent say, "I thought you were tired. You found your second wind!" My immediate thoughts were 1) I did not need to know that 2) "second wind" is a really impressive colloquial phrase for a foreign English speaker to know.

I saw Michael outside the monastery at 7am the next morning. Unbelievably, his first words to me were "How did you sleep?"  "Fine. Yourself?" His response, I swear, was nothing more than a knowing smile. I hung my head in amazement and walked away. I resolved never to repeat what Michael and Claire did, and certainly not on Easter Sunday in a Buddhist Monastery.

And So It Bagan

A woman tapped me on the shoulder. I opened one eyebrow and raised it quizzically. "Are you flying Air Mandalay? The flight is boarding now," she said in a polite British accent. I quickly got myself together, thanked nameless British woman, and shook Jackie awake. I never fully figured out how the woman had guessed our flight.  I took out my phone - it was 6:30am, and we'd been at the airport for over an hour. It seems all the flights out of Yangon took place at the crack of dawn, when the airfield wasn't quite yet an oven, and checking in we found ourselves behind several flights from the likes of Air Bagan, Asian Wings, and Myanmar Air, to the likes of Heho, Naypyidaw, and Thandwe. I was still clutching a styrofoam box with half a piece of toast, the legacy of an English breakfast our Yangon hotel staff had kindly prepared for us at 4 in the morning. We groggily made our way to the plane, and found that it was thin - the thinnest plane I can remember boarding. There were two seats on each side of the aisle, and not a lot of legroom or baggage space. I sat down and acted like I'd been here before, but I closed my eyes and secretly hoped this vessel was airworthy enough to do its job like every other flight I've ever boarded. It swayed and rattled a bit during the short flight, but it did its job.

Upon landing in Nyaung U, the whole flight boarded a bus that literally drove 60 yards before stopping 10 yards shy of the single-room airport. Maybe someone will explain to me that there's some regulation that prevents an airplane from deplaning and making its passengers walk 70 yards, and therefor forces them to load and unload from a bus, but until I get that explanation, I'm going to mock the system. We took a taxi straight from the airport to the grandest of the Bagan temples, Ananda Temple. We had decided against dropping off our luggage at the hotel and lose precious morning time, as we needed to see some sights before the oppressive heat.  As of yet, the 9am sun was quite bearable. Ananda was large enough to be difficult to visually grasp up close. Its stone was naturally white, but streaked black with time. Taking off our sandals, we noticed four large openings on each side of the square base. The tile floors reminded me of Arabic geometric patterns, though the historicity of that possible link eluded me. Four enormous gold Buddha statues, definitely not of Arabic origin, stood in the terminus of each entrance. I wondered if we should have done some more research, and briefly thought about inquiring for an audio guide, but decided we were budget travelers, and I would revel in the mystery. I had seen a lot of Buddhas touring Asia.  There were often 3 Buddhas, one each for the past present and future. What did four symbolize? Was Buddhism in Burma (Theravada?) different from Buddhism in China? I stared into the golden Buddha's face - he seemed to be staring right in front of him, at his nose? at his clasped hands? He didn't seem to care that I was there. I wondered briefly how many visitors he had seen over the years. Was he amazed at all the westerners that were now coming in? Probably not, we were all from this world...

I really had to step back from the temple to get some understanding of what this temple looked like. The architecture was very marvelous, with smaller temple forms protruding from the base up and up. At this point I remembered I had my disc with me and took it out for some photo ops. The outcome was the shot you see above, as well as some guy from Ohio asking if we wanted to toss for a bit.

Off to the side of the temple, a room full of painted murals told a story from the Buddhist scriptures, just like stained glass windows in a church. This story was very bloody though and involved mermaids and dark demons, people getting cut up or boiled alive. I was mesmerized and scared and utterly confused. I hadn't studied Buddhism enough to have ever seen dark stories such as this.

We weren't quite sure what to do after we were finished with Ananda, but it was still morning and I saw an open plane ahead of us and some large temples in the distance, and the urge to explore by foot overtook me. My gym bag bouncing behind me, we walked and were passed by a handful of tour buses. At first, I thought the tourists inside must be Japanese, because the tour bus had Japanese in it, but at a closer glance they did not appear to be. I realized that the cars themselves were Japanese - in fact, Burma is a huge market for second hand Japanese cars. The Japanese words for exit, which I could read, is still visible.  We passed by crumbling orange brick stupas, the base of the structures still flat and solid - perhaps partially restored or perhaps well built to withstand the centuries. Some stupas were more intact and fairly intricate, their spires reaching 20-30 feet, but completely ignored in the vicinity of greater temples. We walked into the clearing around the large temple we had aimed for and saw a miniature market set up. Miniature soccer balls woven out of some material somewhere between wood and bamboo caught my eye.

Jackie's BFF

This temple was not for walking inside, but for walking up, with it's higher floors selfings replicating miniature forms creating sizable land. A little kid pressed us to buy his postcards, and then followed us and played tour guide. Jackie took an instant liking to him, and asked him ridiculous questions like "What's your favorite temple here? Where do you think I'm from?" The steps up to the landings were through a dark narrow tower, and the climb through the steep ancient steps invoked my memories of the Great Wall and Machu Picchu. At the top landing, Jackie got a picture with our young tour guide and told him they were BFFs. "BFFs?" the kid asked? "Best friends forever. Don't you ever forget."

While centering the camera, I only now begun to realize the real marvel of Bagan. The flat plain stretched on interminably and as far as I could see was consistently speckled with temples and stupas amidst the trees. I couldn't count the number of spires I felt pointing to the heavens. It was hard to make out any particular temple details, but the whole scene, it's eerie grandeur, was unlike anything I'd ever seen before. The former glory of the Bagan empire was on display before me - a dynastic people who somehow built all these structures in this oppressively hot plain. And if I pretended that this was how it had really looked like, that the restoration process had been done accurately and sensibly, then the ancient pride of the Bamar people was undisturbed by their modern counterparts. No real sizable modern developments have taken hold in the former capital, destroyed by Mongol troops. The small farming villages have been removed or relocated and replaced with tourist towns. Fortunately tourist infrastructure was relatively low - I estimated that there could have been ten times as many tourists there before it would feel uncomfortably crowded. As I looked out on the impressive landscape I wondered if this scene would stay for the rest of my lifetime. What had it looked like in it's prime? What were people's real lives really like? Surely there were many non-temple structures missing in this picture, wooden houses and markets long eroded into the dust.

We found a donkey-drawn carriage driver, and though he had passengers, he called his "cousin" and a young man came riding in 10 minutes later. He spoke English quite well, but in an absurdly robotic way. We asked him touristy questions and he answered in a tour guide way, clearly having memorized pure passages of tour books with little intonation, soon putting Jackie off to sleep. I learned from him that the grand temples were built by kings and powerful people, but even normal families constructed their own stupas. Multiple generations of the Bagan empire witnessed style shifts in the architecture, and inspired the much later pagodas in Yangon. He had scripted answers for his favorite temple (I think it was Ananda) and for where else we should go (he took us to Dhammayangyi, the largest temple by area).

The donkey carriage had a driver's seat and a small cushion seat, which Jackie had taken and used as a bed. I had an awkward seat sitting perpendicular to the driver, on the other side of the donkey. We went through small paths through the dry brush, where I discovered cacti existed in Asia. Passing by another dozen stupas, we made it onto a main paved road. Here  as cars and motorcycles flew past us, our plodding pace seemed more obvious and the sun nearing its noon zenith and becoming less and less bearable. We began to see more and more villagers, and I asked our guide/driver if there was a "downtown" - there wasn't really. The villagers seemed oblivious to the UNESCO World Heritage site they lived next to - from my view wedged between a donkey, a robotic driverguide and a makeshift carriage hammock, their lives seemed incredibly ordinary. Part of this scene could have taken place in any small town in America - part of it absolutely could not.

Up next - night time biking and Be Nice to Animals The Moon.