Myanmar: A Beautiful Tragedy

Twenty-five days traveling under the world’s oldest military regime…

I was thankfully able to have a number of what I would consider to be candid conversations on various off limit topics in secure environments. So what did I learn about Myanmar?

The Junta

I think the following paints an accurate picture of the clowns in power:

In the early 1970s a fortune teller told General Ne Win that if the direction of traffic was not reversed, he would die shortly. The direction of traffic was reversed within weeks. Hence the reason you’ll see a right hand steering wheel in a car driving on the right side of the road.

These people run the country.

Myanmar has the 25^th largest military in the world at roughly 500,000 (larger than the United Kingdom). But why would anyone voluntarily join a military that is unanimously hated by its own people? This one was tough to answer but from what I could piece together half enjoy the access to power and corruption. The other half are just hungry. The pay is apparently nothing so it’s not as if the youngest son is enlisting to financially support his family. Needless to say I didn’t have a chance to speak with the other side of the aisle.

The Burmese

Despite what the newspapers would have you believe, Myanmar’s greatest resource is not timber, oil, gas, or precious jewels. It is its people. Despite the lack of personal freedoms, the ever present threat of spontaneous incarceration, and living in a world in which no avenues for vertical mobility exist, the Burmese are kind, warm, intelligent, welcoming, and would appear happy.

But like Mr. Joe’s sleepless nights which offset his jovial days, one can only guess how much deep fear and hardship the happy veneer these people wear on the surface hides underneath. But when generations know of nothing but suppression, perhaps ignorance becomes bliss.

What I do know is that life is a struggling for the overwhelming majority of people with which I interacted. Jobs are scarce. Corruption is not. Those with connections or money are able to break the cycle and fine work and relative security. The overwhelming majority without have no means to escape. Schools, the logical solution, are too expensive for most. And for those that can afford them (e.g. Mr. Joe), there is precious little left over afterwards. And for those coming out of school, there are no professional jobs. Unless you have a connection overseas your diploma isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on.

So why not leave the country? The government sees to it that passports are economically unfeasible for all but the most privileged, which makes them so far out of reach for the common man it’s not even on the table for discussion. And even if you had the money…you’re going to have to bribe someone to approve it. More money. And after all that the fickle government may just say NO. Or decide to close the borders. I did not converse with a single individual (outside of the two airports I visited) that had ever left the country.

When I asked an 86-year-old ex-municipality officer in Kalaw, who happened to be “incredibly poor but rich in family,” where he would travel if money was not an issue his answer took me back:

“I have never even dreamt of that question.”

He had never left his native town of Kalaw, and despite having worked diligently for decades as a well-respected civil servant, his government pension was 600 kyat a month. That’s $0.60 a month. It was so obscene and insulting that we all sadly laughed…right along with him.

Financial rich? No.

Father of six and grandfather to fourteen. Rich with family? Yes.

Life under the Regime

First off most people have no idea about what goes on in their country unless they see it with their own two eyes. Given the barriers to domestic mobility and absence of an independent news source, the internet and word of mouth serve as the only means of accurate news flow.

That said the internet is highly monitored and controlled. I couldn’t access this blog on most occasions. A guesthouse owner told me he never searched anything sensitive on his computer. “I always go into town.” He had heard of the government tracking IP addresses and taking action.

Internal transportation (i.e. buses) is so expensive that only the very fortunate can travel within. It was not uncommon to meet people to whom the very thought of traveling to Yangon or Mandalay was just crazy.

Tun Tun, the wise teenager of Bagan, had never left home.

“Will you ever leave Bagan?”

“No.”

“Would you like to see Yangon one day?”

“I’ve never thought about it. It’s too expensive.”

Too expensive. And here I am carrying enough money in my shorts to send him down and back. Twice.

No one has mobile phones. Too expensive. The government monitors the public lines. The majority of mail is opened, not for security purposes, but rather for financial gain. I asked Tun Tun’s family to explain what would happen if I tried to mail a package to them.

“It would be recognized as coming from outside the country and opened with the intent of stealing its contents. That would first happen in Yangon. Then at the regional level. Then at the local. It’s completely corrupt all the way down…”

Whether incorrect or not I’ve come to conclude regarding human rights abuses that few people can truly speak to the issue. Information, like the people, does not flow freely so I’m very suspect when I hear answers. Take Hillary, my personal guide in Yangon. When asked whether forced labor still occurs he replied he didn’t think so. When I address the lack of information he has access to he agrees that he’s in the dark.

And there it is. Like the power most nights…the people of Myanmar are in the dark. A credible source did say the “Ghost Highway” I rode from Yangon north was constructed primarily with forced prison labor. He said 10% of the prisoners died from disease related illness. Most internal airports were also constructed using forced labor – a fact that apparently has not reached the majority of package tourists (and yes I flew internal once).

In the end the country is massive, but the area accessible for travel is small. No one knows what goes on off the tourist trail. And that’s the scary reality.

The Future

As I’ve mentioned on several occasions the junta is awash with money. With its wealth of accessible natural resources that will continue to be of great economic importance to the key regional powers for decades to come, it’s no surprise the government enjoys favorable relations with its neighbors.

And what neighbors. Two of which represent 35% of the world’s population and one is the world’s next undisputed super power. Between the oil, gas, timber, and opium exports the government enjoys with India, Russia, Thailand, and China…no power outside the region is going to so much as rock the boat as long as the government has China in its back pocket. I was told that in exchange for 50% of the profits the government condones the cultivation of opium. How does it leave the country? On military trucks..

Obama sent several U.S. diplomats to Mandalay to reopen dialogue that had apparently gone cold under the previous administration. How did I learn? Every informed Burmese with a handheld radio listening to Radio Free America told me so. Talk. That’s all it’ll ever be. Sadly.

The government has said they will hold national elections next year. They haven’t said when of course. If you’re trying to visit pay attention. All borders will be shut three months before the date they select. The election is for show. The result, in all likelihood, will be violence. Nothing will change for the man on the street. And the people know it.

Eventually I started asking a question I’d phrase along the following lines:

Q: “I don’t care how crazy it sounds; I want to know how to change this country?”

The best answer I got also reveals another sad reality.

A: “Even if you dropped a bomb and eliminated all the generals and successfully removed the regime, this country is still made up of over 135 ethnic groups…none of which get along. Civil war would erupt immediately given the void of central power.”

And I believe it. I never felt so much as the slightly hint of national unity, only a shared distain for the military.

Worth the Visit?

Yes. An emphatic yes. The situation is incredibly fascinating, as I hope the above hints at. The people brilliant, the food forgettable, the landscape breathtaking. The travel can be as easy or as difficult as you want it. Granted the government has a tight leash on where you can and can not go, it doesn’t matter because all you have to do if walk twenty feet off the tourist trail…and you’ll find a smiling Burmese that can count on one hand the number of exchanges they’ve enjoyed with someone that looks like you and me.

The tragic reality is that there is no clock counting down to V-M Day. The Burmese will no sooner enjoy liberation from the west then the generals will voluntarily loosen their grip over their own people. The world’s longest running military dictatorship will remain just that. Sadly for some time to come…

I’ll wrap this up by sharing an exchange from late last night. I walked out of the internet café at midnight and turned left. I stood there gazing down the neon filled streets of Chiang Mai. I caught the eye of a beautiful girl sitting at an outdoor table. She looked at me. I looked at her. We both slightly cocked our heads to the side and made the connection. It was the same London couple from my epic first night on Gili T off Bali back in September. I sit down and the three of us swap war stories. Where you been? Where you going? The usual.

I mention my crossing from Myanmar three days ago and get the immediate question, “What was Burma like?” First time I’d been asked. I kind of froze. How do I even begin? As I began to describe my experience… the country…the people…the situation…the challenges, neither Brit ever broke eye contact. They were fixed.

They had traveled Sumatra, Malaysia, and had covered Thailand. They had, in their own words however, yet to experience anything close to what I was describing. The real Asian experience. The untouched villages. The genuine native people. In a word: sincerity.

I was told nothing in Thailand was real. Nothing left to be discovered. I was told that everyone here thinks they know where the real Asian experience is but when they get there they only find disappointment. 13,000,000 visit Thailand a year. What do you expect?

After lecturing for thirty minutes I could see the fire and intrigue in the eyes before me. I think they now know where to find what it is they came here looking for…

Myanmar. You know where to find it, I told them. It’s just across the border, a world away…

Its been…

http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&msa=0&msid=113857108228539669434.000475cd617df8978ac81&ll=19.020577,99.140625&spn=11.449853,16.940918&z=6

The Road to Thailand

Wednesday November 18^th:

LP and I are up early. After a hearty breakfast we walk to the post office. Just as negotiated our non-English-speaking-motorbike-facilitator has two bikes ready for us. Quick cash transaction and we’re off into the morning streets of Kengtung. Our plan was to head out of town until we were inevitably turned back. How’s that for a plan? We made it as far as fifteen minutes could take us before we were redirected to the immigration office, where we promptly had our bikes confiscated by two non-English-speaking immigration officers (that could have been physically subdued with one’s right arm while holding a cup of coffee with the left…and I’m talking no spillage). It was frustrating. We get our $16 back from the captain of the post office who is quickly brought in. We head off on foot back into the streets of Kengtung. Well that was short lived…

LP is not a fan of cities and tourists. If it’s not historically overwhelming (e.g. Bagan) or completely off the radar and seldom attempted (e.g. sleeping on the floor of a village hut where you’re not supposed to go)…he’s not interested. So the idea of joining us for hijinks in southern Thailand sounded like more hassle than it was worth. As such he spends the entire day going logistical and sorting out how to fly to the west coast and boat upriver to a place travelers seldom go. Hey, I can’t argue with that. And if you only have two weeks…do what you’ve got to do to feel fulfilled. Thailand isn’t going anywhere…

The nail in the decision coffin came that afternoon when we phoned the border and learned that his permit to cross was several days away. And with that things are set in motion…and I’m suddenly about to witness my last sunset in Myanmar…

The remaining daylight hours witness my unsuccessful attempt to acquire a Burmese flag. You simply can not find them for sale anywhere in the country. I’m ecstatic when someone in the market says to follow him. I hop on his motorbike and arrive at a military supply store. And there it is. The Red & Blue for sale. I take one look, however, at the army green wearing military dude behind the counter and tell my driver to get me the hell out of here. Like hell I’m buying a flag from that guy…

Time is running out and things are getting desperate. I inventory my kyat supply and start making offers to every building waving a flag…

Two post offices and two schools later I’m empty handed. God, it would have been an epic acquisition…the military is apparently going to change the flag next year.

We grab final beers on the lake and watch the sun dip into the mountains. And just like that it’s Twilight Over Burma.  I inform LP that my Last Supper will consist of the dodgiest street food I can find. Dinner turns into a riot with the locals descending on us with complete fascination. It was perfect way to go out.

We bicycle home in power-out darkness. Illuminated by enough candles to quickly burn down Harry’s Guest House Lucius advises as I shed unnecessary lbs in my bag. Why the hell am I packing jeans anyway? Cutting the fat…

 

Thursday November 19^th

The Crossing: Part II

Not to be confused with the original Crossing. My as-yet-unreleased 2004 self-starring mockumentary about a young man’s search to find himself…during the 50 minutes it takes to paddle across Moriches Bay…on Tyler Brawner’s surf board.

http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&msa=0&ll=40.784311,-72.692928&spn=0.062909,0.130978&t=h&z=13&msid=113857108228539669434.000478dd4b0fc3e1cceb4

Back to Asia…Up at 6:30am. LP accompanies me to the bus station. My original intention being to find the most beat up local transport imaginable and ride on the top to the border in high style (a la The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert). It doesn’t exactly work out like that though. I get to the none-English-speaking-ticket-lady and try to buy one of the last remaining seats on the bus to the border town of Tachilek. She starts objecting and with the help of my soon-to-be Fixer I learn I need yet another permit just to take the bus to the border.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fixer#In_journalism

So off Lucius, the Fixer, and I head to the immigration office on foot. We arrive and why wouldn’t they be happy to see us…again? After roughly twenty minutes a crowd of eight has formed, with each officer feeling the need to thoroughly inspect my passport, my visa, my (government-run) Myanmar Tour & Travel-issued permit allowing me to cross into Thailand, and my MTT-issued receipt showing payment…

I mean aren’t you guys all on the same money grubbing side? They finally draw up yet another permit which I’m to show at each checkpoint along the road to Tachilek.

Permits in hand, a goodbye to Lucius, I board the bus and assume the legendary middle aisle seat. Two people to my right. Two to my left. Aisle-seat passenger to my front.  Aisle-seat passengers (mother and vomiting daughter) to my rear.

We depart at 9:03am…

• 9:16am. First checkpoint. Everyone out of the bus. Barb wire. Police. All good. Everyone back on the bus.
• Surrounded on all sides by the very people that for the past 25 days have made my journey unforgettable, we begin to climbs a great mountain. Rice terraces on either side radiating in the morning sun. Mist covering the mountain pass ahead. Windows down. Wind swirling the interior…a rush of incredible excitement comes over me. This is real. This scene is real. These circumstances are real. It was a real high. We cross the pass and drop into the depths of the Golden Triangle. Dense. Jungle. Steep. Winding. Mountainous. Brilliant.
• 12:07pm. Second checkpoint. Everyone out of the bus. Barb wire. Police. All good. Everyone back on the bus.
• 1:36pm. Third checkpoint. Everyone out of the bus. Barb wire. Police. All good. Everyone back on the bus.
• 1:54pm. Tachilek.
• Motorbike ride to the border.
• Papers to the MTT officer.
• Exit stamp.
• He escorts me to the middle of the footbridge…

I stop and look below at the tiny river dividing countries. Dividing worlds. I turn to my escort:

“I’ve had an incredible experience in your country. Jez zu beh.”

I turn back to the Blue & Red of the Burmese flags lining both sides of their half of the bridge. Pause. Grin.

And with that I turn, march, and am engulfed in the red, white, blue and yellow of Thailand….

Planes, Trucks, Bikes & Whiskey – An Epic 24 in Asia

Today was a flippin’ awesome travel day. The type of day you travel to have.

Today was undeniably a Transit Day.
Last night was undeniably a Whiskey Night.
Maybe it’s best to start with the latter.

Whiskey…

For two nights the very gracious Mr. Joe had asked us to join him for “spicy Asian beef” and whiskey in the evening. And for two nights things got in our way. My last night in Inle…my Night Five…nothing was going to prevent me from sharing home cooked beef and downing whiskey with The Myth, The Man, The Legend himself. Nothing.

The sun drops and the power dies. Standard protocol in Inle ‘round sundown. Lucius and I walk into the candle-lit (and empty) courtyard of the Pyi hotel and find the 1000-watt smile himself happily seated and grinning.

Lucius, Mr. Joe and I assume the round table by candle light. The moonless night sky above just oozing with stars. Royal Club whiskey is Mr. Joe’s brand o’ choice. I learned this the moderately-hard way a few nights back. So tonight I came prepared with my own bottle (Soap + whiskey = $2.20…remember?). We pour glasses and smoked beef cubes appear from the darkness by Mr. Joe’s wife (they sleep in different rooms and he refers to her as “my sister” with a hearty laugh). Pretty sure their magic has faded.

Mr. Joe has a decent grasp of English, but hand gestures are required and I have to occasionally remind LP to sloooow down. Many laughs are shared. The comedic highlight of the evening is when Mr. Joe volunteers his thoughts on the frugality of Israeli tourists. And when that guy laughs…its not possible to not laugh with him.

Laughs are mixed with sober words regarding the hardships of his struggle to put his two daughters through university. His eyes don’t lie when he describes the lonely nights awake…

“Always thinking. Always worrying. Much thinking…”

I had heard all this before on a previous night, just the two of us.

Mr. Joe is not unique. His life is full of stress. He doesn’t know what will happen next month or next year. But by comparison to many of his fellow countrymen Mr. Joe is doing extremely well. Mr. Joe is no more deserving of a handout than any other struggling man in this oppressed population. The only difference between Mr. Joe and all the others I’ve met along this strange and incredible Walkabout through this strange and incredible land is in the personal connection I formed.

I’ve sustained on an average of $27usd per day since I arrived in Myanmar 23 days ago. That daily figure accounts for food, lodging, transportation, and miscellaneous. I mention this because I budgeted and entered this country with enough currency to cover twice that amount. So as my time here winds down I’m in a position to finance some charity in the twilight of my stay…

With the Royal Club nearing its grave…we thanked Mr. Joe for his generosity and kind words. Letting Lucius settle into his room, I shook Mr. Joe’s hand and told him what I told him the other night: “I’ll do what I can.”

Fueled by goodwill and whiskey I took an inventory of my kyat and dollars. I wrote a brief note reassuring Mr. Joe that when his daughters finished school their lives, and consequently his life, will improve for the better. I tucked the note into an envelope along with a few SBO contact cards and placed it in the breast pocket of the custom tailored Kim Jong Il shirt I was yet to wear. With that I promptly hit the pillow…

Transit…

My phone alarm goes off at 6:15am as planned. The head has felt better. We both pack and walk into the courtyard at 7:00am for breakfast. “Spicy Asian breakfast” for a fifth time for this kid. Mr. Joe is all smiles. We down a quick breakfast, grab our bags, and meet Mr. Joe in the courtyard. His eyes kind of light up when the shirt appears. I explain its origin and tell him it was meant for a ‘movie director.’ We share a laugh. I glance down at the breast pocket and lock eyes with him.

“I said I would do what I can. I hope this can help your daughters and you.”

“I will not forget,” he replies.

His wife and daughters are quickly summoned and both offer gracious thanks. And with that we march out of the courtyard and into the morning sun. Not a cloud in the sky (going to be one of those days). I look back and do my best to return the 1000-watts coming at me as our view of one another is slowly obscured by trees. And with that Mr. Joe is gone…

My tab for five nights was $25usd. Lucius…$15. I sincerely hope the two hundred and fifty US dollars resting in the breast pocket can ease his worries, even if only for a handful of nights. The Great Mr. Joe…

With Operation Golden Triangle fully approved, LP and I needed to navigate our way to the Heho airport and board an 11:55am flight to Kengtung. Why are we walking out the door at 7:30am then? We both loath the idea of being like every other tourist and taking a 15,000 kyat taxi to the airport an hour away. “No no.” We’re playing local today and taking local transport. Bring on the pickups.

We arrive at the market and find an empty pickup apparently headed to our junction. For $0.50 each we’re good to go. They load our bags on the roof and we wait.

*Blue bag. Top of the mountain.

Worth mentioning that Lucius’ packing for his two week jaunt in SEA consists of little more than a grade-schooler’s day pack. If it weighs more than 10 lbs I’d be amazed. The thing I love about the kid are the little things. For instance, instead of using a money bag or something along those lines LP keeps his mint Benjamin Franklins safe and wrinkle-free between the pages of a hardcopy edition of Thomas Paine’s…Common Sense. If that’s not classic I don’t know what is.

About thirty minutes later we hop aboard and peel off into the woods. 40 minutes later we arrive at _______ (Some name I can’t pronounce) Junction and hop out. Now I’m 6’1” – 185 lbs with red hair. Lucius is 6’1” – 210 lbs and looks like the Terminator. We stick out. We stick out and absolutely dominate the masses in both height and physical prowess. OK, maybe not me but the ex-MLL lacrosse player in my company sure does. Its fantastic. Truly.

So people just approach us… We don’t have to find the connection to Heho. The connection to Heho finds us. And it finds us. They pop our bags on the roof and we find a tea shop across the street. Two giants sitting on those tiny stools 12” above the ground is quite an attention getter. We have some tea. LP does a card trick. About ten minutes go by when…

“Holy %*#@$!!! Where the #@%* did our truck go?”

You know. The truck. The truck with our luggage on top…

Worth mentioning for those thinking this a careless move…Theft against tourists does not exist in this country. It just doesn’t. It doesn’t because if it did, you would go to the town police, report it, and the police would get medieval on the town’s people until the issue is resolved. My guard has lowered here in Myanmar. It will be back on full alert in Thailand.

We bolt into action and kind of scatter. I’m about two steps from throwing money at a motorbike driver to take me tearing off up the road to Heho in search of our truck, when a recognizable face appears and tells us the truck is getting gas. We breath. Then we laugh. Then we paid for our coffee and stand next to our truck. After twenty minutes we switch to another truck that’s about to leave. As we all know time trumps all when headed to an airport. Lucius plays extreme local and hangs off the back with three others. I sensibly sit in the flatbed and film.

Forty-five minutes later the truck stops. We are told this is the stop for Heho. No airport in sight. It takes 2,000 kyat and ninety seconds before both of us are on the back of separate motorbikes heading towards an airstrip. Ten minutes later we blaze into Heho wearing sunglasses and smiles. That’s the way to make an entrance. Time to get our domestic flight on…

We’re an hour early for check-in so we wander and find ourselves a nice shaded spot…on a quiet corner of the runway. It would be about twenty minutes before we are asked to leave, but that was more than enough time for us to discuss (at length) many important topics such as how many U.S. special forces tactical units it would take to overrun the entire country of Myanmar. We settle on seven 7-man teams. 49 are all it would take, we decide. Hell, Rambo was only one man. These are the type of conversations that keep Lucius and I communicating virtually none-stop when we’re in one another’s presence. (Sidebar: We made a road trip from D.C. to Nashville and back in three nights. The only time the air wasn’t filled with dialogue was when the noise level from the helicopter we rode over Smokey Mountain NP in for thirty minutes drowned us out. I mean why wouldn’t you take an impromptu helicopter ride for $20/each when the opportunity presents itself along the highway? But that’s another trip all together…)

Heho airport is tiny. Tiny and crawling with military brass. The camera takes a sensible rest. Our bird arrives courtesy of Yangon Airways. We walk out to the tarmac and board our Fokker. Fokkers, as explained by the Dutch couple, are Dutch-made planes possessing the same mechanical reliability as a certain Yellow Defender 90 that some of you reading this might be familiar. The plane boards from the rear and we take two seats in the rear. The last row to be exact.

We take off (#1). Thirty minutes later we land (#1) in Mandalay. People get off. People get on. We take off again (#2). As we fly over opium rich jungles below (overland transportation off-limits to us honkies, hence the flight) we are served coffee and cake. Lovely. After discussing the merit of a would-be anything-goes reality-travel-show staring the two of us (on HBO of course) we trade turns acting as The House over 1,000-kyat-minimum hands of blackjack at 10,000 feet. I share with Lucius the story of Midd Gaming, LLC and the short-lived one-night-engagement when four of us run a legitimate blackjack casino in college during our senior year (one dollar mins…three dollar maxs…alcohol free for players…in case you were wondering).

Our gaming goes uninterrupted when we land (#2). I’m about to get up when the voice comes on and says “Welcome to Tachilek.” So apparently the flight from Heho to Kengtung doesn’t go Heho  Kengtung (as I was told) but rather Heho  Mandalay  Tachilek  Kengtung. People get off. People get on. And when people get on you laugh when you hear with machine-like repetition: Mingalabah (hello)…

Mingalabah
Mingalabah
Mingalabah
Mingalabah
Mingalabah
Mingalabah
Mingalabah
Mingalabah
Good afternoon
Mingalabah
Mingalabah

And with that you give dirty looks to the only other western person who just boarded the plane.

We take off (#3) and bank to our left. A lazy river meanders into my view from the port side window seat. I follow the river north and spot a small foot bridge that looks familiar from a picture I saw recently.

“Holy sh*t dude. That’s the Thai border right there. That’s Mae Sai! That’s the bridge! We’re in Thai airspace. That’s where we’re crossing.”

Just awesome. Great surprise from 2,000 feet. Back to gaming…Twenty minutes later we land (#3) in Kengtung. Lots of military brass to greet us. We get our bags and secure two motorbike drivers to ferry us the twenty minutes to Harry’s Trekking Guesthouse. The place is as great as the write-up describes. Great and empty. We land two killer rooms for six bucks each.

We immediately inquire about motorbike rentals having read that bikes are available for rent here (a rarity in Myanmar). We are promptly shot down. No one rents them, we are told. Good thing that Lucius Polk and Steve O’Neil don’t get shot down when they travel together. We rent bicycles and head off into late afternoon sun in the direction of town and in search of a different response. After two badly needed and well deserved beers we’re off again. We visit three travel agents and they all claim no one rents bikes.

I locate a diamond in the rough; well it was actually in the street: a Burmese man who spoke clear English. We explain our desires and he brings us to the captain of the post office. He plays translator as I negotiate for two bikes. Terms are agreed upon and hand shakes are exchanged. Pickup time: tomorrow morning. Early.

We then decide it a sensible idea to identify where we can ride and where we can’t ride. What better place to source that info than…the police station. I mean why not? So we peddle up and ask to see someone. Suddenly we’re talking with the Man in Charge along with his entire staff of eight. After twenty minutes we are left with no answers. None of these guys speak English. We leave and share a good laugh at the sign out front that reads (in English): “May I Help You.”

Its now dark and we stumble across an old man who adores America who gives Lucius a map of the area. I lose interest and escape to an internet café to summarize an incredible day of travel with a grade-A friend and road companion.

Tomorrow we ride. It should be an epic day. And why not? That’s how it always goes with LP & SBO. We find adventure and adventure finds us. Lets also hope we don’t find the inside of the police station and the inside of the police station doesn’t find us.

This was an enjoyable one to write. Thanks for reading.

Operation Golden Triangle is a Go…

After Mr. Joe fed me “spicy Asian breakfast” (think noodles) for the forth consecutive morning (each day hottest than the previous…by request), I walked across town to the truck pickup spot. My permit to cross into Thailand was to be waiting at the MTT office in Taunggyi (Town-G)…one hour north of Inle Lake. Now I’m all about playing the role of small time Robin Hood in this country, but I have no time for taxi drivers. I’ll allow myself to get taken for a slight financial ride when it comes to street food, fruit, bottled water, and the like because these people have nothing, but when the fare for the 15 minute ride from the bus stop to your hotel costs a ½ the price of your 15 hour bus ticket…something is wrong. Cause: I avoid taxis when possible. Effect: I am literally encased in Burmese for the one hour pickup truck ride to Taunggyi.

For one dollar you can play local for the morning commute between Inle and Taunggyi. Sure, I’ll play. So I’m sitting on a tiny stool in the middle of a flatbed pickup truck. To my rear is a woman on a stool. To my front our two women on stools. Flanking both my left and ride sides are seats containing six people each. Four grown men stand on the flatbed door and hold on to the roof. Above me are three teenagers. Like I said, literally encased in Burmese. But it’s only an hour and really…what is an hour?

I get out one stop early. Slightly lost I find a guy who will drive me to the MTT office on his motorbike within three minutes. Moving right along. I blow in to the MTT office, make friends, and am pleasantly relieved when everything goes smoothly.

“Mr. Burke, here is your permit. And I have called the border office and you may cross on the 19th, 20th, or 21st.”

Gem.com/takemetothailandalready

I could have kissed him, if he were not a man…and an ugly man at that. Back on the bike. “Where you want to go?” Take me to the pickup station. Nothing in town to see. I find another pickup home within minutes, make some kid’s morning by dropping a whopping 1000 kyat ($1.00) on ten oranges, and grab a seat.

Back to Inle by 11am…over to the ticket office…buy two one-way plane tickets to Kengtung for tomorrow morning…and away we eff’ing go…

I’ve made enough hardship currency deposits in the Bank of Travel since October 26th to feel very good about…

So now I’m ready to embrace the ease of Thailand, treasure some incredible company, sit on a beach, and enjoy making a few withdrawals…

Thailand…
Its time…

Inle Lake

I would like to begin this blog-a-roo by observing the fact that while waiting to use this computer I just walked across the street and purchased a one liter bottle of Royal Club Whiskey (product of Myanmar) and a bar of soap…for $2.20usd (the soap cost fifty cents). What? The bottle is a gift for Mr. Joe, the proprietor of the Pyi Hotel. The Pyi is, or as I told Lucius…“the worst lodging house I’ve called home yet.” That said Mr. Joe is the Burmese reincarnation of legendary American film producer Robert Evans, complete with a 1000-watt smile to kill for that more than offsets any, um, hardships. But seriously though, when the lights go out here in town every evening around 8pm, they might as well just hook Mr. Joe up to a power lines and have him smile. Pictures to come…one day. Anyway, Mr. Joe is the man…and poor. I’m going to see to it that he gets a nice bonus on top of the $5usd/night he charges his few guests. I may also leave him the tan linen shirt I had tailored for me in Yangon (for $9usd). Per Mr. Polk, “it makes you look like Kim Jong Il.” Accurate and not a pretty picture. Haven’t worn it yet but its staying here. Whiskey, linen, & money. What more could he want? Sadly a great deal…

I finished off the trek recap from Kalaw with our arrival at the river mouth. A handful of long boats waiting patiently as the muddy river slowly rolls by. We all board and go tearing off up the inland river no wider than a yellow school bus (if only the A-Team theme song had been playing at the time). And by tearing off up the river I mean we’re cruising. Where the hell are Marty Sheen and Marlon Brando? I mean really. It hints at that kind of environment.

We emerge from the inland marshy waterways onto Inle Lake itself. Roughly 12km long and four wide, it actually is as placid as Lake Placid is falsely advertised to be. Flat surface, clear blue water and aquatic village life straight from primetime Discovery Channel. The local fishermen spend hours on the lake and have perfected the art of balancing on one foot while rowing their canoe with their leg. With the top end of the oar anchored in the bend of their elbow and their free leg wrapped around the oar body, they weave their leg in an S-like motion which slowly propels the canoe. All this taking place inches off the water line. Sound excessive? Try practical. This ballet frees up both hands to work the fishing nets. Talk about zero room for error. In addition to the Jedi fishermen there is all sorts of other boat traffic. Long boats ferrying monks, nuns, and villagers to and fro. Men harvesting kelp-like beds. It’s an orgy on the eyes. Photographers dream. Yada yada yada…

We get to the other side of the lake, up the canal, disembark, and find no hostels available in town. Anywhere. Thus our introduction to Mr. Joe. Team Holland and I have a killer night out complete with tall ales and karaoke. Night One.

The two Dutch and I hit the water again the next time for a proper tour del lago. $12usd gets you your own long boat for the entire day. It’s sick. One day the footage will hopefully speak for itself. The highlight is visiting our driver’s home…on stilts…over the water…happily devoid of spiders. We take a late day swim in the middle of the lake. It’s brilliant. Home, they change money in a dark stall (below), more ale, and sleep. Night Two.

The Dutch leave the next morning for southern Thailand (via an 18 hour bus to Yangon and flight to Bangkok). Our paths will cross again…I’m sure. Not six hours later Lucius fills their void and walks into the courtyard of the Pyi Hotel. Take about one in – one out. It takes us all of 4 minutes and we’re back into our old shtick. Few tall Myanmar beers and bed. Night Three.

Yesterday was Groundhog Day on the lake for SBO. Lucius needs to see Inle. We hire a boat and head out. This time though I wave off the obligatory stop at the silver and umbrella workshops. With extra hours to kill we head to our driver’s home. It may sound orchestrated, but I have a strong feeling that very few of the long boats shuffling six to eight overweight and ancient Europeans around the lake ever make the detour to a driver’s home. Again it’s a house on stilts over the water. So here I am going two for two. I think I’m doing something right.

The back story on our driver this day was identical to our driver two days prior. Youngest son of the family. Only one to attend school. Only one capable of speaking English. Only one not working as farmer/fisherman. Great sacrifices made so the family could purchase long boat. All real financial hopes rest on tourist-boat-driving-youngest-son.

Two towering Americans are greeted warmly by the six immediate family members of our driver. Within fifteen minutes the audience has swelled to 18 people. I counted closely. Aunts, uncles, newborns, friends, you name it. So picture the two of us sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor in front of a semi-circle of curious on looking Burmese. Talk about just plain awesome.

(Great shot by Lucius. I’m in there – stage left.)

When you’re in an environment like this you speak slowly. You annunciate. You use your hands to help clarify your words in every way imaginable. You smile. A lot. You drink tea. You drink lots of tea. You eat the green stuff and dried lemons provide for you. You eat lots of it. You eat the second plate and then the third plate. You have the lone translator thank the man of the house. You ask the translator to ask them if they have any questions. You answer slowly. The only thing you don’t do is tell the truth when asked how much your plane ticket costs. Knowing the concept of airline miles would get me no where I lied and said my ticket (actually free) cost a realistic $1,000usd. They gasp and that harsh chasm between our worlds gets reinforced a bit stronger.

We take photos and I show them some video. Many laughs. They appear it enjoy us. When its time to leave they pull out all the stops and the father appears with an old beat up ukulele. Father strumming, his two eldest sons singing, all watching, we are treated to a song. Amazing footage.

We head home across Inle as the sun is heading for its home. Talk about a picture. A knockout. We skip dinner and talk about our respective adventures for hours. Night Four.

Two Yanks are always more entertaining than one…

…and Introducing Lucius Polk

Fresh addition to the traveling circus and partner in crime for the Golden Triangle…

Straight out of our nation’s capital…

Ladies and gents…

Lucius Polk.

Visuals always help, so here you go:

I’m the thirty year old filming…

He’s the twenty-four year old jumping…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qeZb4lT6cgI

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hPJsbVji6TI

On Foot to Inle Lake

I received an email from a close friend yesterday. It read: “Radio silence from you. Usually means you’re having an amazing time…”Amazing time would not be an incorrect assessment of my last five days, but it wouldn’t do justice.

Last time I wrote it was the evening before our three day / two night trek from Kalaw to InleLake. I feel like I’ve squeezed two weeks worth of treasured experiences into those five days…

Tuesday November 11th:

9am we set out from Kalaw. Five strangers. One Burmese guide, two Dutch, one American, one Italian. Along the way we would pick up a Portuguese and a Brit. With the aid of a cook, we set off to cover the 53 kilometers on our one-way ticket to Inle. I would discover early on, and to great pleasure, that our guide was an extremely intelligent, well-spoken, and well-informed young man of twenty-five. And surrounded by empty hills everything was on the table for discussion. Every off-limits topic was addressed and answers unfolded like encyclopedia entries. Religion, botany, politics, military, village life…it was all covered. I’ll address some of those findings later, but needless to say it was an extremely informative three days.

Day One would take us past two poisonous snakes (albeit both DOA), train track bride crossings straight out of Stand By Me, and secluded and unspoiled villages that made you pinch yourself. Mix in a healthy dose of blue skies, perfect late day light, and you had yourself a photographer’s fantasy. Convenient as between the professional Italian and the amateur Dutchman, they were rolling through the hills with roughly $6,000usd worth of state-of-the-art camera equipment.

*Note the Novice monk second from right

“Hey Verne, where’s the comb?”

As 5pm rolled around, after enjoying the passing commuter train from five feet away…we found ourselves walking into the regional train stop. Train stop that doubles as a village. You buy water, buy a soda, buy cookies, trade smiles. Twilight fading as the sun sets into the hillside, the golden color of the farmland comes to life. You would swear you were in the Tuscan region of Italy (or so I was told).

It’s almost dark when our guide leads us to a two story wooden village hut on stilts. Home for the night? Yes. Electricity? Not a chance. Running water? Try a well. View? Try incredible. We ascend the stairs from the ground level (which doubled as the water buffalo’s quarters) and are greeted by a family of eight. Three generations living under a thatch roof no larger than a quarter of an end zone. Quite humbling. Beds? Try five 1” thick mattresses, five pillows, and five blankets thick enough to make a Siberian smile, lined up adjacent in the corner of the kitchen/living/dining/family room. A candle light dinner on the floor is pretty freaking incredible. The stars outside under a moonless sky…not bad either. A cultural experience worth the sweat and dirt and price of admission alone.

*Lit by candlelight.

Wednesday November 12th:

You wake up with the roosters. It’s kind of that simple. Unfortunately so. The morning brings a laughable discovery. The dark walls from last night, now lit with dawn’s light, are covered with posters of Burmese movie stars. The alarming realization comes when you identify at least four prominent faces. Recognizable from the hours of crap-tas-tic Burmese cinema you’ve been subjected to over countless hours on the road. It’s a proud moment, but you also realize its time to get off buses.

Life in the hut at dawn is pretty surreal. Watching a two month old baby boy get bathed, wrapped like a mummy up to the chin, and covered in organic sun block is a slightly different start to your Hump Day.

Wednesday is the long day at 25km. The path takes you from tiny village to tinier village. The hills are alive with locals harvesting gold fields of rice. The land truly looks like a post card picture out of a Visit Italy tour brochure.  By midday you’re passing through farms that look as though they were lifted straight from the Shire set from Lord of the Rings. No joke. Narrow dirt paths that to your left play home to endless fields of purple lilies, and to your right endless fields of yellow daisies. Just an orgy of photographic opportunities.

A personal highlight comes in late afternoon when we come across a little boy, no more than 5, slingshot in hand. His target: the silver-dollar-size banana spiders hanging in the trees above that scare the bee-Jesus out of me. He goes zero for three. I then put my hand on his shoulder, say a prayer, and step back. Like David taking aim against Goliath…he lets his rock fly…contact. The only thing left in the web are a few legs…missing a body.

I rejoice like it’s the World Cup. Everyone thinks it a little strange. I would have slipped the shortie a twenty had I had one handy. Big victory for the anti-arachnid community.

Day Two ends will a killer sunset and a traffic jam of water buffalo traversing the mountain pass. Where the hell are we? It’s the stuff of Natty Geo. Not another tourist is sight.

Just after dusk we blow into an old monastery and find our accommodations for the evening: six 1” thick mattresses, six pillows, and six blankets thick enough to make a Siberian smile, all lined up adjacent to each other in the corner of monastery. I know this drill. Caked with red earth and having gone without running water for two days, you’re going to embrace whatever bathing options are available. Trust me. In this case it’s in the form of a tub of fresh well water and a bucket. Fill bucket, dump over head, repeat. Potential Top Five Shower Experience. You have an incredible dinner and hit the bed, err floor.

Thursday November 13th:

Wake up call comes at 5am when the monks start praying.

Ear plugs in and back to sleep. I load up on bottled water at the local Deer Park man and grab a red bull for $0.40 for good measure. And with that I’m off to the races. Team Dutch and I are complete chatterboxes all day as topics range from why my car is nicknamed “The Bullet” to why the Stealth Bomber would fly over the Preakness infield. You know…important American stuff. About midday we finally reach the summit of the hill bordering InleLake to the west. Quite a view. Our journey ends thirty minutes later at the mouth of a narrow river, a fleet of long boats waiting. We enjoy one final meal together, tip the ShanState’s best trekking guide, and step aboard the final leg of our journey: the hour boat ride across InleLake…

I’m tired.

“Chelsea…Manchester….”

Yesterday was without fail…a Transit Day.

4:50am wake up in Hsipaw. Out the door at 5:00. Bus departs at 5:30am. By 5:30 and 15 seconds I’m already starting to curse the family of the driver. There is no medicine for the pain that comes with unmercifully loud karaoke music at five-thirty in the eff’ing morning on transportation you paid for. At the first stop I unloaded what seemed like half of the passenger’s luggage underneath the bus to extract my ear plugs (I’ll never travel without them again). It was to be one of those days.

At 11am I arrive at the dusty, dirty, but not seedy Mandalay bus terminal. I spend the next seven hours befriending what seemed like half terminal’s employees. Many of these would find it other-worldly strange that I would take an hour and visit each bus company before selecting a tin box for the eight hour ride to my next destination. I mean as the customer, why shop around? I settle on Seat 38 in the best of the lot (which isn’t saying much). I then find a bench, order soup (x2), do some magic for a child, eat an apple (x2), buy some oranges (x3), do magic a group of old men (x10), consume a bag of tangerines (x2), and have coffee bought for me (x1).

— I just had the most expensive dinner in Myanmar yet ($22usd split three ways…mostly due to the beer). So I’m going to fly through this as quickly as possible since I’m tired and walking 15km tomorrow… —

I surmise the Mandalay bus stop is not too dissimilar from all other bus stops throughout the world in that it serves as an employment center for…how to put it…not the most sophisticated of people. As such the bus company employees that I called friends between the hours of 11am and 6pm spoke zero English. That did not stop us however from attempting to communicate in wildly entertaining bouts of hand gesturing. It’s really something strange when you share the same air space with a handful of grown men for quite some time and yet despite your best attempts…simply can not communicate on any meaningful level to save your life. It was great though. I thought I had made a breakthrough when I introduced the topic of English football. With this one of the old dogs immediately perked up, pulled out a TV schedule from his pocket, got real close to my face, looked me in the eye, and said:

“ Chelsea … Manchester ….”

I thought we were actually heading somewhere.

“Yeah!? Yeah!? Chelsea … Manchester …OK, what about?”

“ Chelsea ….Manchester….”

“Yeah, I understand. Chelsea and Manchester . So you like them?…”

“ Chelsea ….Manchester….”

“Yeah. We’ve established that…”

“ Chelsea ….Manchester….”

“OK! What about them for God’s sake!?”

“ Chelsea ….Manchester….”

“I’m tired. Go away.”

“ Chelsea ….Manchester….”

“Seriously. Stop looking at me. You’re creeping me out old man.”

“ Chelsea ….Manchester….”

It’s kind of nice sometimes being able to say anything you want to someone while in a translation vacuum.

“Piss off Old Man River before I take that sack of apples over there and bludgeon you to death.”

“ Chelsea ….Manchester….”

(Laughter)

The crew hadn’t seen anything like me up close for a long time. And by long time I feel like ever. I ended up offloading a blue Shure Shot lacrosse t-shirt to the timeless ring leader. He nearly wept.

Bus from 6pm to 2am. I’d rather not write about it. I was in the back. The far back. Arrive at 2ish, find a hostel alongside an awesome Dutch couple in my same situation, and crash. Thus concludes another hellish 20 hour transit day. Thankfully that’ll be my last long haul…in Myanmar .

I wake up in Kalaw (Claw) this morning to perfect blue skies and crisp mountain air at 4,500feet. The town, a trekking hub, looks Nepalese. I join forces with the two Dutch and, along with an Italian girl, hire a trekking guide to lead the one-way trip to Inle Lake . Two nights, three days. Head out manana at 8:30am. First night in a village, second in a monastery. Should be brilliant.

Radio silence till Inle.

… Chelsea ….Manchester…

Hsipaw

This country continues to surprise. I wanted to share one encounter that typifies that statement before it gets shuffled way to the back…

The other day in Mandalay I walked by an old man slumped over in his bicycle seat. His bicycle, complete with passenger sidecar, was his livelihood. He was a bike-taxi driver, and an old one at that. I strode by, we made eye contact, and I threw him that disappointing look and head shake that conveyed “No thank you. Your services are not wanted.” I thought to myself just how tough life must be for this ancient man, who likely can’t communicate with foreigners, and is spending his twilight years breaking a sweat and his back trying to eek out a living…

I emerge optimistically from the MTT office an hour later with a head full of answers and a new found pep in my step. I pass by the old man again but this time think to myself oh what the heck. I’ll throw him some business. No sooner then I had taken my seat he breaks into some of the most clear and grammatically correct English I’ve heard yet. Oswe, 68 years young and blind in his left eye, was forced to switch professions, a teacher in his former life, years ago to make ends meet. He was knowledgeable in many things western and clearly an Obama fan — “I listen to Obama win on BBC and RFA (Radio Free Asian).”

My note pad out and scribbling, we talk about many things during the 25 minute peddle across town…the rental cost of his bicycle ($0.50/day)…his rent ($5.00/month)…his wife…his three children…his oldest son…his two deceased daughters…

An hour earlier I had passed judgment without even exchanging a word. Ninety minutes later, having just made my morning, I decided to pick up Oswe’s rent…for two months. Like I said…this country continues to surprise.

That out of the way let me begin…

Thursday November 5th started at 4:50am in Room 402 on the top floor of the Nylon Hotel in Mandalay. Alarm goes off; I brush my teeth, load up, and walk out into the empty black streets. The only other foot traffic at this hour are the monks. Still haven’t gotten used to seeing them. Eight blocks away I arrive at the bus pickup. 5:30am and I’m sitting on the flatbed of a pickup being shuttled towards the bus station. At 6am I’m boarding the Tomato Bus – aptly named because occupying the entire aisle are crates of tomatoes. This might sound interesting for half a second until you arrive at your seat to find those same crates fill the entire space underneath every seat (you know, the space where your legs should go). Imagine getting on a yellow school bus and not having leg room….for 7 hours. Welcome to bus travel in remotes corners of the Third World.

About an hour in I somehow manage to shift the boxes just enough to wedge both feet and legs into a space no more than one square foot. It wasn’t comfortable but being 6’1” I can’t describe the relief. The journey takes us, for the first time in Myanmar, away from the plains and into the great hills of the Shan state. About four hours in we meet an identical bus coming head on in the opposite direction. Both drivers stop, Burmese is exchanged and suddenly all passengers transfer buses. I step foot onboard the Sofa Bus and am pleasantly greeted by the lack of crates. I eye that the rear ¼ of the bus is empty, all seats removed. I forgo my assigned seat and sprawl out in the rear (Sofa like) on a mountain of luggage, bags and a sack of rice (nice pillow). Talk about an upgrade.

We arrive into Hsipaw (See Paw) around 2ish. Late enough in the day to give the town that warm and fuzzy afternoon glow of sunlight. I immediately understand why people go so far out of their way to come here.

Hsipaw – Minus the faces, minus the language, minus the food, and minus the lack of technology…minus those few things…this town is exactly like Cool-Ski-Mountain-Town, Colorado. There is just something in the air about it. The dusty dirt roads, the crisp mountain air, the antique pool tables in the lone pool hall, the old school single-screen movie house, the football pitch along the river where balers share grass with cows, the basketball court turned mini-football pitch, the volleyball court used for chinlon, the river that doubles as the bathhouse for locals, and a great general feeling of seclusion tucked away up in the hills. It’s easy to understand why travelers linger here…

Friday November 6th:

I’m woken up at 7am with the sound of construction hammering. Mr. Charles is apparently expanding his guest house monopoly in Hsipaw with more rooms. A big breakfast and out the door by 9am with Israel, Argentina, and Slovenia (x 2). I tag along for a hike. That’s all I know.

Two hours later, after passing through farmland and villages so beautiful and pristine you can’t help but pinch yourself, we arrive at a waterfall so tall and refreshing and deserted…you can’t help but pinch yourself. We get lost on the return and end up seated in a village hut where conversation turns to profit margin analysis of the watermelon we’ve just bought for $0.50. Is the fifty cents pure profit to the farmer? Are there taxes on the land? Where did his seeds come from? Fertilizer? Sadly with really important questions like this, answers will never be found. When we come to a road I realize we’re a good several miles outside of town. With the midday sun becoming an issue, I do the natural thing and flag a lift home on the back of an elder’s motorbike.

I clean myself up and head off. Stomach starting to feel a bit off. My destination is a quiet coffee house where I can crack the spine of my newest read: George Orwell’s Burmese Days…acquired on the street for a mere 2,000 kyat. I find my destination and the quiet seclusion I was looking for. I also find a puppy that won’t leave my feet alone and three glasses of the cheapest and most refreshing fresh squeezed orange juice this side of the Mekong.

As the sun starts to sink the river comes alive with late day long-boat traffic. The proprietor joins me on the veranda. His eyes are that of a late middle age man that has witnessed a great many hardships against his countrymen, yet his appearance, build, and posture conveys a sense of success enjoyed in life. I ask him about farmland and whether the government collects taxes. He replies that they do, but how much is lost in translation and unclear. He motions to the sea of farmland across the river and proudly claims to own it. He shares that he rents the land to farmers. 150 x 80 feet of riverfront farmland…$10usd/month.

He picks up my copy of Burmese Days and studies it. Without warning he turns and disappears, returning several minutes later with a tiny manuscript in hand. He hands the book to me. On the cover, reclining and posing on an ornate couch and dressed in traditional Burmese attire, is a striking young western woman. The black and white photograph is clearly taken some time ago. The book, Twilight Over Burma, is the autobiographical story of Inge Sargent, an Austrian woman who falls in love and marries a Burmese while studying together in America. Only upon returning home to his Burma does the bride learn that her husband, Sao Kya Seng, is the much beloved prince of the country’s largest province: the Shan state. Sargent and Sao Kya Seng would work tirelessly from their home in Hsipaw to improve the lives of the Shan people throughout the 1950s. In the early 1960s when the military took full control, Sao Kya Seng would be one of the country’s first casualties – jailed and eventually murdered behind bars.

Captivated by this tragic yet compelling story, set in this very town of Hsipaw, I immediately regret buying Burmese Days. I thank the owner and head off towards the book seller I had just done business with. “Do you carry Twilight Over Burma?” I ask. From behind a dusty counter of books comes a reply, “That book banned. You go jail for selling.” The book seller then glances past me to my right, then my left. Seeing it appears to be safe he waves me around to the rear of his shop. Voices lowered to slightly more than a whisper, we exchange words. Becoming visibly choked up, his pupils becoming blurry through the swelling of tears, he tries to articulate the love that all Shan people felt for Sao Kya Seng and how devastating a loss his was. His English was not great, but his message was clear. “I want democracy. I want our Lady,” as he gestures towards a framed picture of Aung San Suu Kyi tucked away in the corner underneath a ceiling rafter. He wipes an eye as I shake his hand to leave. Quite an unexpected exchange…

Still feeling a bit off and unable to sleep, I rose at 6:10am this morning. I walk out to the courtyard and another communal breakfast. The sky is a thick, slightly ominous, low-hanging fog. Odd. This is a first. I take a seat in the middle of a long table dressed for 12. There are only three others seated with me at this hour. All Chinese, I would learn quickly. As the clock rolls over to 7am the table fills out with similarly dressed men of varying ages. Something strange here. Can’t quite place it though. These men don’t have the look and sound of travelers.

I have a huge breakfast in the hopes of curing what ails me. I sit for an hour, sipping tea, and observing the interaction of this group. I decide to write it off as yet another unanswered question when one of the elder men speaks. A young man, seated at the opposite end, jumps into action as if spring loaded. What the hell? You never see a traveler move that quickly for anything. The only time a man moves that quick is when danger is imminent or his boss says so……Bingo!

“Are you on business?” I ask one of the original three.

“Yes”

I pause a moment, mentally assembling the pieces, and reply:

“Pipeline?”

With that twenty-two eyes reposition on me.

“How you know pipeline?”

“I smart,” I lie pointing to my head.

http://online.wsj.com/article_email/SB125712409500421827-lMyQjAxMDI5NTA3MjEwMjI0Wj.html

(*Courtesy of Atwood Research, Ltd)

Many in this country are hopeful that the national election scheduled for 2010 will bring about some type of positive change for the common people.

The men I just ate breakfast with will play a small role in ensuring that the pockets of the junta remain heavy for some time to come. And as long as they do, that Lady, that Democracy, that change…will never come.

The 1% Border Crossing

I’ve come to realize that basically every day on the road can be put into one of three buckets:

1. Transit Days – Pretty self explanatory. You wake up, pack, pay your tab, find your way to the bus/train/sea/air port and navigate your way to your next destination. For example my Monday was spent on a bus for 8 hours from 9am until 5pm from Bagan to Mandalay. Legroom was tight…And the bus broke down…
2. Tourist Days – These are the days you wake up in a new bed, in a new town, grab breakfast, and head out with pep in your step to see what there is to see. For example this morning I walked out the front door at 5:45am and started up a motorbike in search of the world’s longest teak bridge (about 15 miles south of Mandalay). You get there by 6:45am and its you, fishermen, farmers. Not a tour bus in sight. Just the way I like it.
3. Lazy Days – These are the grab-bag days. You’ve been in a town for a few. You’ve walked all over the joint, you’ve sampled the finest of street foods, you’ve seen what you came to see, and you’ve embraced the locals so you just want a day of doing nothing. Lay on your bed and read the day away. Sit in a cafe and write. Blog because you think a handful of people might find it interesting. Dealers choice. You get the picture.

Lazy Days, however, serve another crucial purpose other than decompression. Lazy Days are sometimes Logistical Days. Those are the days where you research the feasibility of your loose game plan and get your ducks in a row. To me these can be some of the most exciting and satisfying of days. It may sound like mundane and tedious research, but these are the days when dreams are either shot down or come into focus. These are the days where you find real answers to the “But Can It Be Done?” questions.

Yesterday would technically fall into the Lazy Day bucket, but in reality yesterday was a Logistical Day of Logistical Days.

The Burmese government has a real stick up its *ss when it comes to a great many things. One of which happens to be making it painfully difficult for foreigners to get off the beaten path. Every tourist/traveler that visits Myanmar arrives via Yangon airport. Every single one. You can not enter the country via land. All borders are closed. I was told this face to face standing in the Myanmar embassy in Washington D.C. and I was told this again in the Myanmar embassy in Kuala Lumpur. Well, to be fair you can cross the border from Thailand at two crossings but only for a one day visit. And who gives a damn about that?

So everyone gets funneled through Yangon, where they inevitably spend a day or so…sweating. Following Yangon the lion share of visitors make their way north. Those without time to burn but will money to burn…take a plane to Mandalay. Those with time to burn but without money to burn take a 12-16 bus to one of three destinations: Bagan, Mandalay, or Inle Lake.

Myanmar’s Big Four: Yangon, Bagan, Mandalay, Inle Lake.

The path to and from and around and through these four is beaten. Not well beaten, since NOTHING in this country is easy, but beaten nonetheless. After checking most of these off an itinerary in one form or fashion, every visitors leave the country the same way they entered: Yangon airport.

Allow me to digress for a moment. I don’t care for circles. OK, digression over.

There is one exception to this rule however…

In the depths of the Golden Triangle, where mountainous jungle canopy provides haven to the world’s largest harvest of opium, there is a crossing. Its the one place in southeast Asia where you can stand still and spit on Myanmar, Laos, and Thailand (China, 70 miles to the north, would be within reach for only the most skilled). A narrow river and two lane bridge are all that separate Tachileik (Tat-che-lake), Myanmar from the northern most outpost in Thailand: Mae Sai.

To exit Myanmar from Tachileik requires permission from The Man. The process requires you to submit a request (in person) to the MTT (Myanmar Tour & Travel) bureau in…Yangon. They take your application and 14-days later issue you a permit. So basically you’re tell me to fly into Yangon, apply for the permit, travel north, see your country, travel back to Yangon, pick up the permit, only to travel north again to cross into Thailand? Yeah thanks but no thanks.

Like with all travel resources, you should always double check what you read and what you are told. The truth can be a pleasant surprise…

I knew before yesterday morning that Mandalay had two MTT offices, so I grab my passport, some crisp clean large U.S. notes, and head off to get answers. The first MTT office is located in the train station. Next to no English spoken here. I learn however that permits are issued to cross the border but they take 10 days and can only be picked up from Mandalay. Deal breaker. Not about to linger in town for any stretch of time, and not excited about leaving only to backtrack later on.

Again, I don’t care for circles.

A bit dejected I head off the second MTT location. More English is spoken here, but the details are still fuzzy. I learn a critical piece of info though: the permit can be sent to the MTT office in a town outside Inle Lake…conveniently just where I’ll be in five to six days. Thus no backtracking required. We go around in circles as I try and get answers regarding specific details.

I thank them for the info and bolt. Next stop: travel agent. It is not possible to travel overland to Tachileik from the rest of the country. Well, at least foreigners can’t. The road from Inle Lake to the eastern reaches of the Shan State is closed for safety reasons. Foreigners, however, are allowed to fly to Kengtung (Cheng-dong). From there its a six hour bus to Tachileik. The area around Kengtung is apparently gorgeous and offers some of the best trekking in the region (think hill tribes where little has changed in centuries). So you chat with the travel agent over flight options, dates, and price.

Armed with three hours of info gained walking the streets of Mandalay, you go back to your room, turn on the AC, scribble down a calendar, count your money, and research how to get from Mae Sai, Thailand down to Bangkok.

That afternoon I walked the 911 steps to the top of Mandalay Hill with an Argentinean and an Israel. Much time spent contemplating the pro’s, con’s, risks, & rewards. You go to sleep thinking about it, but you know you’ve already made up your mind.

So after a lovely little three hour motorbike ride this morning I paid a visit to the powers that be at the MTT. One magic trick, numerous smiles, and $50usd later…things have been set in motion. Will the permit get approved? Likely. Will it actually get sent to Inle Lake? Hopefully. Time will tell. It always does.

Before I leave I ask:

“How many people cross there?”

“Not many. Maybe 10 a week.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. Ce zu beh (thank you).”

So lets be conservative and say that only five-hundred thousand people visit Myanmar a year.

Now lets be generous and assume that 50 people a week pull off what I intend to and cross from Myanmar into Thailand.

So you’re saying that of all the people that visit Myanmar, the country least visited of all southeast Asian countries, only half of one percent elect to leave the way I intend do?

I like being in that bucket. That small bucket.