Myanmar Chapt. 6: Heading North

Morning at the Tea-Shop...

Myanmar is an oddly shaped land, resembling a very rough diamond with a long, curving tail. The northern tip of the diamond runs into the foothills of the Himalayas. The southern tip is the tangled delta of the Ayeyarwady (Irrawaddy) River, and beyond that the Andaman Sea. The tail reaches far to the south, sharing a boarder with Thailand, and splitting the narrow isthmus between the Gulf of Thailand and the Andaman Sea.

Traveling south to north is a slow process, as is any overland travel in Myanmar. Everything is slow. Aside from the main highway between Yangon and Mandalay, most roads are narrow and rough. A traveler cannot use distance as an accurate measure. First-World yardsticks of distance versus time are of no use here. Time, then, becomes the only measure. To get anywhere in this country, a traveler will need time, and usually more than he or she thinks.

North to south, Myanmar is divided by three rivers. The rivers are separated by jungle-clad mountains. From west to east, the rivers are the Chindwin, the Ayeyarwady, and the Sittaung. It was up the central valley, the valley of the Sittaung, that we would travel, bound for the small town of Thazi. This is the stopover for travelers bound for Inle Lake. The lake itself would be a long two days of travel, by train and vomit-van.

The rutted alley that leads to the Bago train station is lined with tea-shops. Let me tell you, friends and neighbors, there are few better ways to start the day than a busy Myanmar tea-shop. A man with the purple smile of a betel-chewer greets us at our table. He is wearing a dirty wife-beater and a longhi. The open-air shop is packed with local folks starting their day. Vendors, cops, taxi drivers; they are crowded around the decrepit wooden tables. Our tea arrives; thick, milky, and sweet. A plate of samosa drops to the table. You can eat them or not. On every table is a thermos pitcher of plain oolong tea. You drink down the first sip of the chai, then dilute it with a bit of oolong to cut the sweetness of the condensed milk.

The Busy Main Line...

Ready for our long day of train travel, we join the folks on the platform. The morning is already hot, with the promise of more to come. The train from Yangon is late. It is almost always late. I spend the time watching people, of course. There are no Farrang here, just local folks waiting on the train. The vendors are ready with baskets of food and drink. When the train arrives, they will storm it, hoping for a sale.

If you look at the picture above, you will see grass-grown tracks leading north. These train tracks are not some forgotten siding leading to nowhere. This is the main line, the Yangon-Mandalay line. Take note, traveler. The grass grows more quickly than the train rolls.

Commuting Bago Style...

While we are waiting, an ancient two-wagon commuter train pulls into the station. Those aboard clamber down without benefit of platform or ladder. They have come from an even smaller town to do their business on the dusty streets of Bago.

The Mighty Locomotive...

The echoes of a train horn sound out over the sultry morning air. When the locomotive appears, it is like a machine from another era. This is not an impression, it is a fact. The Myanmar rolling stock, even on the mainline, is half a century old.

The Smoking Section...

Today we are traveling in the Upper Class wagon. The leg from Bago to Thazi will take at least ten hours to cover a distance of 460 kilometers, or 276 miles. The math is simple: we will not be traveling quickly.

Upper Class means that a passenger will have padded, reclining seat. The seat will probably be reclined permanently, fixed in whatever position if was in when it ceased to function. Like the Ordinary Class, the windows are open. There are steel shutters that can be lowered against the rain. Mind your fingers if you chose to adjust the shutters. They will fall like a guillotine if mishandled.

If you need a smoke during the long trip, do not despair. The smoking section is near the open door. Take a seat on the floor, light up, and watch the rice paddies as they slowly roll past.

Slowly, that is the key word. My Heart and I relax as we watch the countryside roll past. Far to the east and west, green hills roll up into jungled mountains, but the valley to the north runs on forever. The train chugs along, stopping in small villages and larger towns. The rhythm of the journey blends together. Rice paddies and fields stretch out on both sides of the tracks. Snowy egrets stand like statues, waiting for a careless frog or fish. Everywhere the landscape glistens with mirrors of standing water, punctuated by emerald green. The vendors climb aboard, hawk their wares against the lurching of the train cars. Time ceases to move; it simply is.

Ten hours have passed, night has fallen, and still the train rolls north. The lights have come on inside the train, illuminating the car in a ghostly wash of fluorescence. The light attracts insects, clouds of which find their way in through the open windows. The smaller bugs mob the overhead lights, creating dancing swarms that swirl and bob. Huge dragonflies attack the swarms, careening about in a feeding frenzy. People are sprawled across the seats, swaying back and forth with the rocking of the train. The dragonflies perch on sleeping passengers, gathering their strength for another go at the insect buffet above.

I would love to tell you that the trip was all a pleasant dream, but that would not be the truth. Ten hours stretched to twelve, and the last two hours were hard. The novelty, the charm of train travel, both of these had worn thin. We were left with stiff muscles, grimed with dust and grit, and ready to be on unmoving ground. 

The night was full and dark by the time we reached our destination. We made out way out of the decrepit station and past the sleepy scrum of taxi drivers. It was a short walk to our guesthouse, past rows of open-air cafés and bars. Scooters raised clouds of dust as they passed us. Two-wheeled horse carts clip-clopped along the dark street, pulled by small, lean horses. 

We had paid the Travel gods for our passage. Now it was time for food and sleep. After stowing our bags at the very modest and friendly guesthouse, we found the nearest open joint. It was wonderful to dig into a dinner of Myanmar curry with all of the side dishes. Then is was time for sleep before the next leg of our journey.

The Vomit Van View...

The morning was bright and hot, the local tea-shop was busy, and the street theater was in full swing. Another day of travel lay ahead, twisting over the jungle and mountains to Inle Lake

The road distance from Thazi to Inle Lake is about 172 Kilometers, depending on who is doing the counting. The driving time is about five hours. That's a heart-stopping speed of 34 kilometers per hour, or 20 mph for you folks on the far side of the Pond. Remember, Traveler, it is all about the time to your destination, not the distance.

There are two ways to get to Inle Lake: Bus (read Vomit Van) or train. The train is so slow that the Burmese call it "The Slow Train." If they think it's slow, you can take that one to the bank. My One put her small foot down in no uncertain terms. No more long train rides for a least a few days. That meant we had to deal with the dreaded Bus Manager.

The Vomit Van stop was next to our guesthouse. There are no set fares, no schedule; the vans leave when they are full. The sleazy bus guy quoted us an exorbitant price, and the hard haggling started. Once we got the fare down to the proper range, we had to wait on a van. There were some shenanigans with an actual bus that would barely run, and we the only ones one it. When we protested and demanded our money back, a functioning Vomit Van appeared, along with the smiling sleaze ball. Finally sorted, we crammed into a van full of locals; full being the operative word.

Vomit Vans are the ubiquitous form of travel for much of Southeast Asia. They are aptly named. The drivers get paid by the run, thus they are in a hurry. The roads are bad, and often twisty. Add in a few Farrang who are unused to the cramped conditions and non-functional air-con and, well, you can guess the rest. Fortunately, we were the only foreigners aboard, and the ride was not as bad as some I have been on.

Our little van climbed the hills, screeched around hairpin turns, and climbed some more. The road wound its way over steep hillsides, climbed deep river valleys. Thick jungle rose away on every side. The road itself was in what appeared to be a constant state of decay and repair. There was as much gravel as there was pavement, and what there was by way of pavement was rough chip-seal laid by hand.

We saw the workers laying the chip-seal. There were a few machines for the heavy digging and compacting, but most of the work is done by hand. Working in the fierce heat, women carry heavy baskets of crushed stone atop their heads. They dump it on the road, where others spread and rake the piles. On the side of the road, men cook barrels of asphalt and oil over open fires. The oil mixture is spread over the rock, by hand of course. The whole operation looked like one of the lower hell circles from Dante Alighieri's Inferno.

Somewhere far up the mountains, we stopped for lunch. There is some complex kickback system that determines which drivers stop at which roadside café. I don't understand it fully, but I know such a system exists. The food at these joints is surprisingly good, and cheap as well. There aren't any special "Tourist Prices," unlike our sleazy bus manager back in Thazi.

We reached the high country around Kalaw, a former British colonial outpost at an elevation of 5,000 feet. These high valleys were the site of tea plantations. It was odd to see the local folks bundled up in parkas and hoodies, trying to fend off the freezing temperatures of seventy degrees Fahrenheit. We made a quick stop, and couple of young Farrang women crammed into the van.

From Kalaw, the road drops back down the mountains, twisting and turning until a butt-sore traveler reaches the town of Shwendaung. This is the jump-off for Inle Lake. We formed an impromptu collectivo with the two foreign women, and negotiated a decent taxi fare into the small town of Nyaungshwe on the borders of the lake.

Night, Nyaungshwe...

I liked Nyaungshwe from the moment we got there. It is a dusty little burg, laid out around a small central market. This is a popular tourist spot, but it was just the end of the rainy season. The full flood of the high season had yet to begin. This place is probably unbearable in mid-December, but at the time of our arrival, it was just right. There were plenty of good cafés and guesthouses, but not yet enough Farrang to make it feel cramped.

Our taxi dropped us at the guesthouse, and we discovered that My One had chosen wisely. The host was charming, and we ended up in one of those wonderful bungalows that are remembered long after the trip is done. Our travel days were over for the nonce.

The was travel done, the bungalow occupied, and dinner was found and consumed. It was time to enjoy the veranda and the sensation of sitting still. For me, that means a good evening smoke. I set aside my traditional cigar for the equally traditional Burmese Cheroot. These rustic smokes have a long history in Burma, now Myanmar. The outside wrapper is dried leaf of carbia myxa (thanal-phet). The filler is a mixture of bits of dried wood and crushed tobacco. The Cheroot features a filter of a sort; a rolled section of corn husk. The result is pungent and sharp, nothing that is going to win away fans of Cuban puros.

With two days of travel behind us, we were looking forward to local exploring from our new base of operations. Tomorrow: Inle Lake.

Thanks for your interest in my travel blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here, how about a free short story? My short fiction piece "The Cave" has recently been featured at the great English journal Storgy Magazine. You can check it out here:

"The Cave" at Storgy Magazine

Or perhaps one of my other novels? All of the information is at my website:

Marco Etheridge Fiction

You can check out books, blog posts, book reviews, or even get a free book. Just look for the big button that says "FREE BOOK." It's kind of hard to miss. Happy reading!!

Myanmar Chapt 5: Mao Bikes and Bugs

Shwemawdaw Pagoda

Bago is a busy provincial town in southern Myanmar, complete with a bustling market, a noisy, dusty main street, and a crumbing train station. In the 14th century CE, Bago was the capital of a Mon-speaking kingdom that spread over this region. Pagodas and temples were built across the bottom land that lined the banks of the Pegu river. The city grew in importance, both as a center of trade and a hub of Theravada Buddhism.

History was not kind to Bago, nor contact with the outside world. The Portuguese opened trade with the Mon Kingdom in the late 1500's. By the end of the century, the Europeans had taken over. Two centuries of troubles followed, which saw the town looted, burned, rebuilt, and abandoned. Eventually, the Pegu river changed course enough to cut of Bago from the sea, thus ending its reason for existence. The British took over in the mid-1800's and the name of the town became Pegu.

These days, Bago gets a few tourists out of Yangon, mostly folks on day-trips. My One and I were all set to explore the scattered temples and palaces from the relative discomfort of rented bicycle seats. Oh, the joys of rattling across rutted backroads aboard a rickety Mao bike, or worse, a barely functional bicycle cleverly disguised as a modern mountain bike. Many are the times I have wished for a cutting torch, a grinder, or even a sledgehammer; some device for taking revenge on the evil that lurks inside the very core of Southeast Asian rental bicycles.

Our first stop was to be Shwemawdaw Pagoda, the tallest Zedi in Myanmar, despite what the folks in Yangon will tell you. After that, we would enjoy the splendors of ancient palaces, reclining Buddhas, and other wonderful attractions. But first, I had to turn into an insufferable idiot.

Hot Day on a Bicycle...

And now for the mea culpa:

For the most part, I am able to take the heat, horrible bicycles, crappy maps, and complete lack of road signs in stride. Nine days out of ten, I laugh about the hardships, knowing that they are a part of the journey, and usually make a good tale. This wasn't one of those nine days, at least not at the opening.

The first problem was that I was nursing a little gastrointestinal bug. It was nothing serious, not a debilitating, floor-crawling, where-are-my-antibiotics sort of bug. No, this was just enough of a belly bug to give me a good case of the rumbles and turn me into an ill-tempered pig.

It was hot, I got us lost, and then I got us lost again. We found a wonderful small pagoda, not the one we were looking for, and My One took a break from me to enjoy it. I sulked in the shade. Eventually figuring out where we were, I managed to steer us to the Shwemawdaw Pagoda, but not before pulling a few stupid bicycle stunts that pushed things passed the bearable. My One told me, in no uncertain terms, what she thought of my actions: Message delivered, and clearly.

We circled the pagoda under a merciless noon sun, making merit as the hot marble baked our bare feet. I am happy to relate that the combination worked wonders. The Travel Gods smiled on me, and I regained my traveler mojo. I did my best to make amends, and we pedaled off to take a lunch break.

A Typical Myanmar Lunch Spot...

My Heart had picked out a traditional Myanmar joint, and it proved to be a worthy pick. Not a Farang in sight, crowded with local folk; the place seemed like an oasis. The young serving staff were at a loss as to what to do with us. At least five smiling faces were crowded around our table, uncertain as to how to proceed. We ordered by pointed to pictures of food on the wall, which amused everyone. All was well, the food was good, and joy was restored.

After a wonderful meal, we paid the ridiculously cheap bill. The idea of a tip so confused them that one of the young women followed us to our horrible bikes, trying to return the money we had forgotten on the table.

A Palace Hideaway...

I was back on my game and we were back on the bikes. Our next stop was Kanbawzathadi Palace. the original wooden palace buildings were burned down in 1599. The palace was reconstructed in the 1990's. We were more interested in the shady palace grounds than in the buildings.

A few twists and turns aside, we found the palace gate and pedaled into the green shade. The smaller outbuildings held our attention far longer than the main palace. The tour buses idling outside the palace, disgorging folks for a quick photo op, until the guides herded their charges back into the air-con cocoons. As far as I could tell, the tourists were mostly Myanmar folks from other parts of the country.

The Palace Has Seen Better Days...

We found our happy place at a smaller palace building a few hundred meters from the main event. It was quiet and shady, with a few local couples looking for a place to be alone. The sleepy watchman ignored us altogether. We wandered about, rested, and enjoyed the quiet.

After an obligatory (and quick) walk through the main palace, we were back on the bikes and braving the main-street traffic. Our next destination was an enormous reclining Buddha, which would push morning's unfortunate into unimportance. 

A Very Large Buddha...

The Shwethalyaung Buddha is big; really, really big. It is so big, one cannot take a photograph of the whole thing. This reclining Buddha is 180 feet long and 52 feet high. More remarkable than the size is the fact that this immense statue of the Buddha was lost for more than a century. How you lose a thing the size of a small ship is beyond me, yet that is what happened.

Built somewhere around 1000 CE, the huge statue saw the fortunes of Bago rise and fall. When poor Pegu (Bago) was pillaged, again, in the mid-1700's, the statue was forgotten. The jungle grew over the massive thing was and it was forgotten. It was not until 1880, during British colonial rule, that the Buddha was rediscovered.

The Buddha is housed under a strange structure that resembles a dirigible hanger from the 1930's. The cover protects the Buddha and provides a lovely bit of shade for over-heated bicyclists. I was quite happy to spend the rest of the afternoon here, wandering around, discovering small (and very large) details, and watching the pilgrim folk.

We strolled about, took a rest on the cool tile floor, and explored the bas-relief murals on the back side of the statue. The murals were a series of pictographs depicting the story of how a faithful Buddhist wife led an erring ruler to the proper path. In graphic detail, we see how the wife worships the Lord Buddha instead of the local deity. The priests condemn the wife, telling the ruler that she must die. The king agrees that it must be so, but as she is led to her death, her faith in the Lord Buddha causes the images of the false idol to shatter. Thus seeing the truth, the king and kingdom embrace the teaching of the Buddha, and the king causes the huge reclining Buddha to be built. Everyone lives happily ever after, except the broken idol.

The Buddha has Big Toes...

At the feet of the Buddha, My One and I were engaged in a bit of tourist theater. A little kid ran up to smile at me, I smiled at him, and before you know it the whole family was involved. In short order the dad of the family was arranging the kids and Farrang for a group photo. Other folks wanted in on the show, so there was a shifting cast of folks sitting around us on the cool tiles, everyone posing for photos with the strange foreigners. There was much laughing and giggling as moms and dads directed their offspring this way and that. Then the adults had to have pictures as well. A good time was had by all, including My One, who is normally a bit camera-shy.

I don't know how much of my recovery I can directly attribute to being around the Buddha's likeness, but it certainly did not hurt anything. I managed to finish the day in fine spirits, if not perfect health, and without any further peskiness. We pedaled homeward along shady lanes, past a tiny parade in a small hamlet, waving at kids and giving out our best Ming-ga-la-BAH.

We were tired and hot, happy to give up the bikes, and happier for the lovely shower in our guesthouse. All was well once again.

Myanmar Froggy...

With noodles for dinner, and my guts at least deciding to remain neutral, I adorned to the garden for an evening cigar. We were kept company by myriad insects and one curious amphibian. I believe it was a White-lipped Frog, (Chalcorana chalconota) but I could be mistaken, If anyone can come up with a more accurate identification, I would be happy to send you an eBook for your trouble.

Tomorrow would be a serious travel day, a distance day, a long day aboard Yangon-Mandalay train.

Thanks for your interest in my travel blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here, how about a free short story? My short fiction piece "The Dino Kid" has recently been featured at the great journal Every Day Fiction. You can check it out here:

"The Dino Kid" at Every Day Fiction

Or perhaps one of my other novels? All of the information is at my website:

Marco Etheridge Fiction

You can check out books, blog posts, book reviews, or even get a free book. Just look for the big button that says "FREE BOOK." It's kind of hard to miss. Happy reading!!

Myanmar Chapt. 4: Riding that Train

The aging Yangon station...

Before we begin, I am obliged to come clean with a Fan-Boy disclaimer: I love trains. More than that, I love old, slow trains. The clickity-clack rhythm of an ancient rail coach being pulled by a decades old diesel locomotive? That's the ticket, Jake! The open-windowed wagons wallow along over absurd narrow-gauge track dating from colonial times. We are talking train cars that rock from side-to-side like a woman of questionable morals in a David Bromberg song. Yes Sir, I admit it: I love me some old trains. Sri Lanka, India, Thailand; bring them on. Now we could add Myanmar to the list.

The smiling man behind the barred window pushed his hands out, fingers splayed wide: "Upper Class all booked. All Booked!" We would be riding Ordinary Class from Yangon to Bago. The queue for tickets is a scrum, a polite but firm pushing match. The object is to maintain position and at the same time block out the steady, fleshy pressure of a longhi-clad Auntie forcing her way past like a slow and slippery eel. A young-old guy with the purple-stained teeth of a Betel-chewer leans against the railing, asks us the ubiquitous question:

"Where you go?"

"Bago," say we, trying to nicely ignore the guy. I'm concentrating on the scrum. My one is guarding the bags outside the steel railings that hold in the queue.

"Two people, two passports please."

Now there are three prime forces in play, all pressing in on me. There is the force of the scrum, and Auntie Eel trying to slip under my elbow. There is the force of the prime directive: Never Give Up the Passport! And there is the force of me wanting to know what the scam is.

My Heart shrugs at me, standing outside the press, and we hand this purple-smiling guy our passports. He immediately launches himself over the scrum, looking like a body-surfer in a mosh pit. His hand swoops through the bars of the ticket counter, landing our passports in front of the ticket guy. Our guy flashes us the crimson teeth and disappears into the crowd; there was no scam. I look up to see a dusty sign overhead: "Be helpful and courteous to Foreign Tourists."

The Beginnings of the Magenta Smile...

Crimson teeth? Purple smile? I can hear you asking: "What the hell are you talking about, Marco?" Yes, it is time for the Betel Nut Aside:

You know that Yangon is a Buddhist town, a peaceful town, yet there are splashes of crimson at nearly every curb, every lamp-post. The red splatters that you see are not blood, but rather the expectorate of betel chewers. There are Kun-Ya stands on almost every block in Yangon. These tiny kiosks supply the chewing needs of the people, and many, many people have the need. Paan, or Kun-Ya, is a quid made from areca nut, betel leaves, dried tobacco leaves, and slaked lime paste. The quid  sellers spread the lime paste (calcium hydroxide) on the betel leaf and sprinkle the tobacco and powdered areca nut on top before neatly folding the leaf into a small, square packet ready for chewing. A fix of betel chew costs the equivalent of $0.13 for four to six servings.

Betel quid acts as a mild stimulant, while staining the chewers teeth a violent magenta. Articles I have read suggest that 50-60% of Myanmar men chew Kun-Ya, and 40% of the women as well. It takes practice to avoid staring when a betel chewer flashes you the purple smile.

Another Scrum...

Meanwhile, back at the station, the ticket man examined our passports, hand-wrote and stamped our tickets, gave the back of the tickets a few stamps for good measure, then handed the things over. The fare from Yangon to Bago was about $0.80 per person. Here in Vienna, eighty cents won't get you on anything, even if you are a senior citizen with two canes. In Myanmar, that same worthless eighty cents is going to entertain you for a good, long time.

It is about ninety-one kilometers, or fifty-seven miles, between the Yangon station and Bago. The train time between the two is two-and-a-half-hours. I'll even do the math for you. That means our speedy train is hurtling along at an average speed of 36.4 kilometers per hour, or 22.8 mph. Yes Sir, our train is a slow train, a train worthy of Flanders and Swann, or Bobbie Dylan.

Rolling Stock from Another Era...

My One on the Green Train...

The conductor led us to our Ordinary Class coach, making sure we had the correct seats. The plastic seats are hard and slippery, replacements for the older wood-slat benches. The gimbal-mounted overhead fan is exactly the same model as trains in India, Sri Lanka, etc. It is a brilliant old piece of engineering, a heavy thing that oscillates and maintains a tilted angle at the same time.

The train car begins to fill with locals. Folks settle in, stashing their bundles and bags. Finally, not far off the scheduled departure time, the train whistle echoes down the platform. The cars lurch, squealing in protest, and we chug out of the station.

Train Buddy...

Traveling out of a city by train is to see the unvarnished, the sights and smells that are hidden from the road. It is not necessarily the prettiest view of a city, but it is often the most real. This has been my experience across the globe, whether coming into the South Side of Chicago, or the teeming shanty-towns on the outskirts of Bangkok.

Along the periphery of Yangon, the less-than-lovely pass by: piles of plastic trash, ditches of fetid water, clusters of shacks that are home to entire families. These are the visions not captured on the travel sites, not hawked as picture postcards.

The World Passing Slowly...

Once out of the city, our train lumbers across impossibly green fields. The wet season is sputtering to and end, leaving the entire land soggy and fecund. Ponds and irrigation canals are full to the brim, the surface of the water backed up to within a few feet of rickety houses on teak stilts. The water table lies just below the surface. A few strokes with a shovel will strike water.

Time Moving Slowly...

I love these slow train rides because the train becomes the journey. The destination is not the point. Nor is it wise to concentrate on the end point. The trip may take a lot longer than one thinks. We are only going to Bago, but our speedy little train will go all the way to Mandalay, fifteen to eighteen hours up the track, depending on the whims of the Travel Gods.

We stop in small stations, where passengers and sacks of freight are loaded onto the train. Vendors pile on as well, or walk past the open windows. They are selling fruit, sweets, quids of Kun-Ya, anything you can imagine and many things that you cannot. Sometimes we stop in the middle of nowhere, for no apparent reason. Through the open windows, I see rice paddies stretching away as far as the eye can see. Snowy white egrets are reflected in the still waters. Then the train whistle blows, the wagons lurch and groan, and we lumber off.

Finally, as the shadows are growing long, our train crawls into Bago. As with every other place in Myanmar, there are many names for this town. It is also called Pegu, for the Pegu river that flows through it. It was once part of the Pagan and Hanthawaddy Kingdoms, dating back to somewhere in the sixth to eleventh century CE. It is a famous site for Buddhist pilgrims, with pagodas and Buddhas scattered across the river plain.

We dodged off the first two shills that pounced us outside the train station. There was the usual strange smattering of stilted, formal English.

"I am a guide, Sir. Will you not take advantage of my knowledge. We have taxis here. Have you booked a room?"

Shouldering our packs, we left the shills behind. A block further on, we found two moto-taxis and negotiated the fare to our guesthouse. There was some discussion as to where it might be, some puzzling over the screen shot of a map, then we were off into the evening traffic. You are a big Farang with a backpack, perched on the back of a tiny scooter. Hang on, keep your knees in, and hope for the best. 

Riding out into the river flats, I figured the scooter guys would either take us to a dark rice paddy and murder us, or eventually find the guesthouse. It was full dark by the time we arrived at our guesthouse. I tipped our guys for not choosing option number one, and sent them on their way happy. The Travel Gods had smiled on us. Another day of journey was safely done.

Sources on Betel Quid: 

Myanmar Health

by Mratt Kyaw Thu, Yangon, Myanmar 8 Aug 2019

Betel Use in Myanmar 

Thanks for your interest in my travel blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here, how about a free short story? My short fiction piece "The Dangerous Egg" has recently been featured at the Manzano Mountain Journal. You can check it out here:

"The Dangerous Egg" at Manzano Mountain Review

Or perhaps one of my other novels? All of the information is at my website:

Marco Etheridge Fiction

You can check out books, blog posts, book reviews, or even get a free book. Just look for the big button that says "FREE BOOK." It's kind of hard to miss. Happy reading!!

 

Myanmar Chapt. 3: Building Pagodas, Making Merit

Myanmar Brekkie...

Before setting out on a walkabout, it is always wise to lay in a solid breakfast. Today's choice was roasted and salted chickpeas with flat-bread and mohinga, a fish curry noodle dish that is the standard Burmese brekkie.

Myanmar is a land renowned for its pagodas. Burmese pagodas, like European cathedrals, or Thailand's many wats (temples), are a mixed blessing. We have a saying, a result of many trips to Thailand: "Here a Wat, there a Wat, everywhere a Wat-Wat." I do not mean to be sacrilegious. There is, however, a point at which the awe-inspiring fails to inspire awe. It is what I call the Angkor Wat syndrome. The traveler can only take in so many glorious monuments to this or that deity before it all starts to wear a little thin.

And yet, Myanmar is the Land of Pagodas, reputed to have more Buddhist Phaya, Zedi, and Phato than any other country. There is usually at least one gold spire or dome in sight at any given time. Why so many pagodas? A good person (or a bad person hedging his or her bets) can donate money to build a pagoda. This is a solid way to make merit. People erect a pagoda in this life with the hope of reaping rewards in the next life. The Lord Buddha did not teach any sutras regarding the building of pagodas. Dogma being what it is, redemption through pagoda building became an add-on, much like Papal Indulgence in the Catholic Church.

Our goal for the day was Shwedagon Pagoda, the crown jewel of any Yangon tourist worth their salt. It was a long walk, so we opted to shorten it by using the public bus system for a portion of the distance. Mastering the mysteries of a city's public transit system is a joy in itself, particularly when one is in a land that makes use of non-Latin script. Poor Traveler, you cannot read the signs (or numbers!) on the buses. Let the games begin!

Tiny monks...

Before we could set out on our adventure, there were necessities to attend to, specifically coffee and a morning smoke. While enjoying both, we were witness to a much more common method of making merit. The local monks were making their rounds, collecting food alms for the day. Preparing food for the monks is a common practice here, as it is in Thailand and Laos. It is a daily routine which keeps the monks fed, and allows the lay people to acquire merit for their good deeds.

As a nation, Myanmar has the highest percentage of Buddhist monks based on population, and the highest percentage of income spent on religion. A large percentage of boys and young men become novice monks for a period of time. Buddhist monks have been a significant force in the politics of Burma, and later Myanmar. The influence of the monastic orders remains a powerful force in Myanmar politics, with sometimes questionable results.

Yes, these are the main train tracks...

We are off into the heat of Yangon, the sun pressing down on us. A ride on the public bus costs 200 kyat, or about twelve US cents. For that modest price, the rider is treated to a respite from walking, and an up close and personal experience of humanity. This would be the time to abandon any notions one has of personal space. Packed cheek-by-jowl, the good commuters take it all in stride as the bus defies the laws of physics. More people are crammed into a defined space than there is space, but somehow it is accomplished. The riders remain stoically cheerful, squeezed all together like longhi-wearing sardines.

Pagodas and clouds...

Gawking our way through small, twisting streets, we made our way north of the huge public market. Even the pedestrian bridge over the train tracks was used as a market space. Beyond the market were shadier lanes, then dead-ends that spit us out onto one of the huge sun-baked boulevards. Feeling the need for refreshment and shade, we veered off into the pathways of the lesser pagodas and mausoleums that line the approaches to Shwedagon Pagoda.

We wandered about the vast complex of monasteries, temples, and tombs. Scattered amongst the gleaming gold spires were the ancillary businesses catering to the religious pilgrims. There were cafés, of course, of which we took full advantage. But there were also astrologers, fortune tellers, and shops selling all manner of Buddhist icons. 

Lunch for the foot-sore pilgrims...

One would not think it possible to lose a 368 foot high golden pagoda, but lose it I did. We twisted through a narrow maze of a neighborhood, a wonderful distraction in itself. Finally, catching a glimpse of our goal, I managed to right our course and we found one of the four main entrances.

Barefoot now, we climbed the long, covered stairs that lead to the heights above. Like any good temple stairway, this one was lined with stalls selling all manner of religious souvenirs. it is a common gauntlet, on that repeat itself in religious sites the world over.

A maze of pagodas...

Shwedagon Pagoda is a Zedi, a bell-shaped dome containing sacred relics of the Lord Buddha. In this case, the relics were a few hairs of the Buddha, given to two Burmese merchant brothers who had traveled to India. The sacred hairs were returned to this ancient Burmese city, where they were enshrined in the original Zedi. Destroyed many times by war, earthquakes, and fire, the pagoda has been rebuilt following each disaster. With each rebuilding, it has grown taller and more magnificent.

Shwedagon Pagoda

The main spire is surrounded by many other pagodas, temples, and monastic buildings. Arriving at the main platform of the place, we found out where the other tourists had been hiding. we certainly had not seen them on the streets of Yangon.

There were many, many people here. Myanmar folks were busy making merit, laying lotus blossoms and lighting incense sticks. There were monks everywhere, their saffron robes a vivid contrast to the immense fields of gold paint and gold leaf. Outnumbered by the local folks, small knots of foreign tourists made their way around the pagoda, cameras at the ready.

Despite my jaded comments about temple burn-out, Shwedagon Pagoda is indeed magnificent. It was made more so by the dark afternoon thunderclouds that threatened, but did not strike. The golden spire seemed to pierce through the heavy, sultry clouds, shining ever the brighter. We lingered long, circling the pagoda barefoot to make merit for the day.

The gloaming of the day above the spire...

The gloaming of the day was upon us, and our feet weary. It was time to think of things more temporal and leave the sacred behind. We wandered off into the darkened streets, seeking out food and rest.

The gateway at nightfall...

Neon Temple...

Even amongst the city streets of Yangon, there are constant reminders of the religious nature of this country. A neon-bright Hindu temple lit up the street, adjacent to a Buddhist monastery and a very incongruous Salvation Army building. All this in one city block.

After a wonderful Thali platter in a busy Indian joint, our weary feet drew us home to our guesthouse. Along the way, we passed a busy mosque where the faithful were heeding the call to prayer. We had been good tourists today, "Pleasuring with a vengeance" as Mark Twain would say. The rest of the evening was spent at the outdoor bar in front of the guesthouse, sipping tepid drinks, smoking, and watching the street theater. Tomorrow we would set out for Bago, riding the narrow-gauge trains of the Myanmar railway.

Thanks for your interest in my travel blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here, how about a free short story? My short fiction piece "The Broken Vow of Ramón Torres" has recently been featured at Inlandia Journal. You can check it out here:

"The Broken Vow of Ramón Torres" at Inlandia

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Myanmar Chapt. 2: Yangon

Sule Pagoda Circle, Yangon's Center Point

What can I tell you of Yangon, the former colonial capital known as Rangoon? First, there is the obvious: Yangon is hotter than a wet monkey in a Turkish bath. It is a welcome reminder, an embrace as sticky as an old Midwest Auntie in August. But I am out in it, running sweat, feeling the noise, the heat, the smell of a new Southeast Asian city. Life is good.

The neighbors across our street are already in full swing. The tri-shaw repair shop is open. Banging hammers and snarling grinders are the soundtrack for the impossibly overloaded tri-shaws pedaling past. They are called "saiq-Ka," a transliteration of side-car; old Mao bikes with a flimsy two-seat sidecar welded to the questionable bike frame. I saw one of these contraptions loaded down with 200 kilos of rice, the pilot standing on the pedals to force the thing down the baking roadway. Anything can be transported by tri-shaw: thirty-foot bamboo poles, steel pipe, families; anything.

In front of the tri-shaw shop, life is going on. Hair is tended to, babies are washed, games are played. City buses lumber by only a few meters away and no one dies. I am mesmerized by the scene, but the city is calling and it is time to go walkabout.

Yangon versus Nature

Yes, what can I tell you of Yangon? `It is not Bangkok, nor is it Colombo. Yangon feels like a synthesis of SE Asia and the subcontinent, yet separate from both. It is a city under siege, not from armies of the past, but rather from time and the elements. Water and humidity eat into concrete, into brick. Concrete sprouts bands of black mold. Cornices crack under assault from the probing roots of clinging vines. The water seeps in, slowly, cracking façades, nibbling away stucco. Tiny ants attack any wood that is not teak. The wood is bored, eaten, digested; miniature pyramids of fine dust are left behind. Trees grow inside buildings with no roofs. The tree roots topple walls. There is a dream-like surrealism at work here, a feeling of being inside a Gabriel García Márquez novel.

Colonial Spiral...

When this city was known as Rangoon, it was the main port for the British colony of Burma, part of the larger Raj of India. Burma was considered a hardship post, the furthest-flung corner of the Raj. The legacy of the colonial era can be seen throughout the center of the city. Colonial buildings, many of them in danger of tumbling down, are cheek-by-jowl with more modern concrete shophouses. The British laid out the main avenues east-to-west along the confluence of the Thwante and Pegu rivers. The goods extracted by the colonialists were shipped down the river to the Andaman Sea. Yangon fell to the Japanese in WW2 and was not recaptured until late in the war. The British tried to reinstate their colonial control, but Burma became an independent country as the British Raj fell apart.

We walk and we sweat, exploring the narrow north-south streets that form the grid between the few larger boulevards. Along the riverfront, warehouses block the view. Colonial edifices line the Strand: the Strand Hotel, the Post Office, the Police Courts. A night at the Strand Hotel will set you back about 400 Euro, in case you were feeling posh. Our modest guesthouse is about $30 per night, just for reference.

Myanmar Curry

After a first round of walkabout, it is time for a shady street and food. The centerpieces of Myanmar cuisine are rice and curry. The curry here is not as fiery as Thai curries, nor as creamy as Indian curries. The Myanmar curries are cooked "until the oil comes," a separation of the oil used to make the curry paste. The curry and rice are accompanied by soup, a platter of fresh vege and greens, and an ever-changing variety of condiments served as small side dishes. A full meal of curry with all the fixings will set a hungry traveler back about 3000 Kyat, or a bit less than two dollars.

Turtles, Sky, Clouds

There is shade in the colonial park, near the bustling traffic circle that girds the Sule Pagoda. People sprawl in whatever shade there is. There are birds, turtles, and the occasional rat wandering along. Yangon rats do not run. I believe that they know that the majority of folks here are Buddhists. The Indian folks are mostly Hindu. I guess the rats figure their odds are pretty good; there is no need to scurry.

The ubiquitous chai, the milk tea of India, is a staple at the many tea-shops. The sweet, thick tea is served alongside all of the oolong tea one can drink. Hot afternoons are spent in the open-air tea shops, squatting on rickety plastic stools, smoking and talking. Coffee drinkers are at a disadvantage here. Aside from a few trendy coffee houses, most of what is on offer is vile instant.

Men crowd around the low tables, watching the afternoon go by. They pull up their longhi, or longyi, wrapping it around their knees. A longhi is a type of sarong, an ankle length tube of cotton that is gathered and tucked at the wearer's waist. The majority of men wear the longhi. This makes for an interesting societal observation: Myanmar is a society without pockets. Thus, cellphones, wallets, etc, are tucked into the upper fold of the longhi, exposed and in plain view to all. This city would be a pickpockets paradise except there do not seem to be any pickpockets. It may be one of the safest cities in the world, at least from petty theft.

Bogyoke Aung San Market

We thread our way through the city, past the colonial center and into the teeming Indian and Islamic quarter. The narrow streets are packed with three- and four-storey shop-houses, their goods spilling out onto the sidewalk. Sidewalks are not for walking; they are an extension of whatever business they front, be it a shop of a café. One walks in the street, making room for tiny delivery vans, tri-shaws, and scooters.

Our furthest stop of the day was the teeming warren of the Bogyoke Aung San market. Every Asian city worth its salt has at least one huge covered market. In Yangon, this is it. Flip-flops by the bale, cheap jewelry in gleaming displays, side aisles so narrow you have to turn sideways to allow a fellow shopper to pass. It is shaded from the sun, yet the heat is amplified by the metal roof high overhead. It is a bit like shopping in a giant toaster oven.

Train tracks pressed by city and jungle...

Done in from our first Yangon walkabout, we turn our steps back to the guesthouse. Not far from our digs, we have to cross what looks like an abandoned train line. As I was to learn late in the night, these tracks are not abandoned, despite all the evidence to the contrary. The tracks lead to a locomotive yard on the far side of our street. I was awakened from a dream by the moaning horn of a locomotive picking its slow route along these very tracks. I cannot explain the how of it, only that it happened.

Halal Chinese, a new delight...

After a long rest, we ventured out for our evening meal. Both of the places I had researched were closed, but we were rewarded for rolling with adversity. We found a small joint on a narrow side street, a Halal Chinese place. I did not know that such a combination existed, yet here we were. The food was so good we went a little crazy, spending the princely sum of ten dollars for dinner for two. Everything was exquisite, from the prawn salad to the fish stew.

Back at the guesthouse, it was time to enjoy the gloaming of the day. We sat in the street-side outdoor bar, watching the local folks party it up. The drinks were tepid, the night was sultry, and my cigar was well-earned. Our first full day in Yangon had been a great introduction to Myanmar.

Thanks for your interest in my travel blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here, how about a free short story? My short fiction piece "Ghost Hats" has been featured at Literally Stories" You can check it out here:

"Ghost Hats" by Marco Etheridge -- Literally Stories 

Or perhaps one of my other novels? All of the information is at my website:

Marco Etheridge Fiction

You can check out books, blog posts, book reviews, or even get a free book. Just look for the big button that says "FREE BOOK." It's kind of hard to miss. Happy reading!!