Hpa-an

When I got off the boat in Hpa-an, as per usual, an employee from a local guest house was advertising his services.  He gave me a reasonable price and took me to the Soe Brothers Guest House.  But before checking in, I had someone to whom I needed to pay a visit.  Aung Kyaw Min, the young boy I met at Kyaiktiyo, initially displayed the same militaristic stoicism he had a couple days earlier.  But that soon faded into a usual child’s behavior as he paraded me in front of his family.  He already had the picture of he and I at Kyaiktiyo laminated and hanging in his room.  The family was incredibly nice as they bought me a Coke and some crackers and we sat around and kinda talked.  I even got a chance to meet the grandparents.  Aung Kyaw’s grandfather showed me the full-leg tattoos he got when he was 15.  He said that in his day, the Burmese tattoo was always on the legs.  Today, it is displayed above the waist.  When it was time to go home, Aung Kyaw cried as his brother drove me back on a motor scooter.  Hopefully I’ll see that boy again and God-willing, he will be in college, not in the military.

Remember those limestone spires I mentioned?  The ones covered in pagodas?  Well, one among all of those was especially intriguing.  The tallest and largest of them all, Mt. Zwegabin–as I would learn it was called–stands at roughly 2,400 feet high.  I knew that Buddhists are renowned for constructing holy sites in essentially unreachable locations, but I couldn’t believe that they would haul stone and bricks up a nearly half-mile vertical path.  But as I squinted my eyes, I thought I could vaguely make out a faint shimmer of gold and white.  So I took a photo at maximum zoom and then zoomed in on the photo.  Sure enough, there could be seen an almost indiscernible speck at the very top.  A pagoda.  Amazing.  The next morning, I was off to Mt. Zwegabin.

The town was abuzz with activity when I woke up at 5am.  It was imperative that I get an early start or else the sun would bake me like the powder-skinned ginger I am.  The weather was cool and steamy.  The combination of the low sun, pastel buildings and mist rising off the river gave the morning a light purple hue.  I paid a guy to drive me to the base of the mountain where he left me with a look of pity.  He could obviously tell that I was out of shape.  I think he was expecting the worst.

A salient limestone tower on an otherwise flat plain, there is a clear line where Mt. Zwegabin pops out of the earth.  I literally got out my protractor and measured a 100 degree angle against the ground.   My point is that it’s steep.  But hey, at least I didn’t have to carry stones.  A couple feet up, I began to sweat as if my body was rejecting water.  Four feet up, my clothes were soaked through.  Six feet up, a small stream was now flowing behind me.  I’m just trying to say it was hot.

Besides heat, another obstacle I knew I would encounter was monkeys.  Big ugly monkeys that like to steal your stuff and then while laughing, rip it up and throw it in the air just for spite.  I could hear them all around and after a while with no confrontations, I presumed I was in the clear.  Then all of the sudden, a man-sized primate approached and planted his better end on an overhead rock directly in my path.  I would have had to pass under him, which didn’t sound too wise so I just waited until he left.  After a couple minutes, I thought it might be okay to proceed.  But then he yawned a big yawn, flashed his big teeth and nonverbally bullied me into waiting a while longer.

When he left, I continued my trudge upwards.  And two hours and 10 pounds of water weight later, I reached the summit.  Gratified to have completed my pilgrimage and looking forward to discovering whether a wise man on the mountain resided at the top, I took off my shoes and immediately burnt my feet on the hot rocks.  So with my aching body and swollen hands–due to high elevation (does this happen to anyone else?)–, I took a seat to enjoy the view.  When what to my wondering eyes should appear…a monkey.  Many monkeys in fact.  Big ones, small ones, some with hands and some sans hands (seriously).  They were dangling from cliffs and rooftops trying not always in vain to snag a treat out of someone’s unsuspecting grasp.

There was a large golden pagoda, food stands and a monastery at the top.  Far below, the sizzling plains shot off toward a haze that masked the horizon.  I shared some tea with a couple fellas under the shade of a durian tree drooping under the weight of its fruit.  And then I went to find the wise man.  I’m not sure if I found him, but he was bald and draped in robes so I gave him a dollar.  In return, he offered a piece of paper, which I’m sure contains helpful life advice but which I’ll never be able to read as it’s in Burmese.  I also got three pieces of string.

Burdened with gifts, I hurried back down with the looming sun in tow.  When I reached level ground a couple kids–likely 12 or 13 years old–offered me a ride into town.  The thought went through my mind, “If I were 13 and gave a foreigner a ride on a motorbike, I’d likely want to show off a bit.  Test the limits of the speedometer, catch a bit of air, maybe pop a wheelie.”  So of course I said okay.  After all, I already knew my insurance was good for it.

As we neared town, I could faintly hear music over the engine.  Not nice music mind you.  But thumping music.  House music.  As if heading into a trap of mind-numbing Euro beats wasn’t daunting enough, I had forgotten that it was the first day of Thingyan, the Burmese new year marked by a continuous four-day water festival.  I was promptly reminded when a flying liquid foot drop kicked me in the face.  The streets were lined with young people standing on over-turned oil barrels, dancing in full clothes to deafening music pumped from  megaphones.  All were soaked and all were equipped to soak passerbys.  And instead of speeding through the crowd, my young driver and his sidekick thought it would be appropriate to come to a complete stop in order that I be left with not a single dry spot.  But they were courteous not to douse my camera.  I can’t say all people are as lucky.

After 6pm, most of the hoses turn off and it is once again safe to roam the muddy avenues and alleys.  That is unless a 5-year-old decides to snipe you from the comfort of his parents’ doorway.  I found the best way to fight this kind of toddler terror… is with terror.  Make a scary face and lumber toward a child and it’s likely they won’t come after you again.  That is until after 10 minutes.  Then they sneak up and shoot you in the back while you’re drinking tea at a shop.

I could have spent a week in Hpa-an, swimming through its caves and chatting up its good citizens, but I had a party to get to.  In Yangon awaited a guerre à outrance of aquatic proportions.  Could it be that a whole city, nay an entire country could halt nearly every action of daily life for the good part of a week just to drench their neighbor with unsanitary water?  I had to see it for myself.  But first, I had to ride a seat-less bus for 10 hours while lodged between mother and her newborn and a man whose penchant for sticking his feet in my face was renowned.  Ah, life is good!

The muddy Thanlwin

No other geological features quite define and encapsulate the soul of Southeast Asia like its rivers.  Peacefully meandering  or violently thrashing, they etch themselves through the mountains, rice patties and jungles of every country.  For their passengers, they provide a relaxing motion picture of overflowing life and indescribable scenery, uncontainable excitement for unknown adventure or romantic feelings of stepping back in time.  Whatever effect they have, no one can deny that a visit to this part of the world is not complete without  an expedition down one of these waterways.  So naturally, I was very much looking forward to the day’s boat ride up the Thanlwin River to Hpa-an (the ‘H’ is silent).

Our journey started on a wide section of water where the mouth of the Thanlwin begins to open into the Andaman Sea.  Because we were to be making our way upstream, the river would only get narrower as the day passed.   Our vessel was maybe 60 feet long with one covered deck that was occupied by about 100 locals and me.  It was an old, loud diesel boat that burped black smoke.  I was the only English speaker on board.

The heat of the sun was biting.  I was happy to be on the river because wind often funnels down rivers.  However, I did not sit very strategically.  Forgetting to account for the sinking afternoon sun, and failing to observe the tilt of our craft caused by all the people in the know that crowded the starboard side on the east, I shifted to the right for hours as the line dividing sun and shade slowly encroached upon my feet.

Through rice patties and endless fields of tall grass, past towns and towering limestone spires–all laden with pagodas–we made our way north.  Each time we docked at a village, I stood up to get off and a local would gently grab my arm and shake his/her head signaling that this was not my destination.  All for the better though as I was in no hurry to finish this $2 cruise.  As the crowd became less sparse, I was able to walk around more freely, which provided me the opportunity to befriend a couple kids and their family and enjoy a cold beer with the captain, named Meeya-aw.  My conversation with Meeya-aw consisted mostly of simple present tense verbs and nouns with a few pointing actions, but I knew that he was describing the oppression of the Burmese people.  This pervading topic is always at the forefront of Burmese life and on the top of my list of questions.  In this secluded setting, Meeya-aw was free to speak.  And though he makes barely enough to feed himself, he still would not let me pay.

 

Mawlamyine

The following morning I woke up, packed my things, enjoyed the complimentary toast and jam and headed to the bus station in the sweltering 8am heat.  A tricky circumstance of traveling in Myanmar is that they have a completely different group of numerical symbols.  A set of squiggles and dots, they are often indistinguishable from Burmese letters.  As a result, my bus ticket rendered me with a cemented perplexed look in the same vein as Mark Wahlberg in even his least complex roles.  But when you have fried crickets to barter, anyone will help you out.  So I eventually found my bus and set off for Mawlamyine.

Mawlamyine is rather quaint for a large port city.  The people are friendly, there are some interesting sights and the food is good.  But for travelers, it serves much the same purpose as Wahoo, NE or Barstow, CA, in that it is a convenient pit stop en route to a bigger, better destination.  The destination in this case is actually a journey up the lazy Thanlwin River to Hpa-an.  As my ferry didn’t leave until the following afternoon, I checked myself in to the river-side guest house, Breeze Rest House and decided to check things out.

Following the Burmese tradition of changing the names of locations and thereby confusing and flustering tourists intent on being politically correct, Mawlamyine was changed from Moulmein.  This was the town’s title when George Orwell was stationed here with the Indian Imperial Police in the early 1920s.  He actually chose the station because his grandmother lived here.  It’s my hope that it was his time spent on the force and not the company of his grandmother that inspired Animal Farm.  Some people might know of Moulmein from its mention in the Rudyard Kipling poem, Mandalay:

By the old Moulmein pagoda
Lookin’ lazy at the sea
There’s a Burma girl a-settin’
and I know she thinks o’ me.

For the wind is in the palm-trees,
And the temple-bells they say;
“Come you back, you British Soldier;
Come you back to Mandalay!”

I got directions from Mr. Lao, the owner of the Breeze, and headed uphill to the Kyaikthanlan Phayar.  With huge halls and a façade of intricate art shimmering in brilliant reds, greens, blues and gold, Kyaikthanlan looks more like a palace than a holy shrine.  At the top is the Kyaikthanlan Pagoda.  Constructed in 875AD, it has a circumference of 450ft.  From this vantage point 150 feet high, one can scan the entire surrounding landscape.  But the best view is west as the setting sun lights the Thanlwin on fire and turns every pagoda into a candle.

Not surprisingly, I wasn’t alone on my perch.  A group of novice monks had an audience and curiously waddled by me passively wanting their pictures taken.  Of course once you take a single picture, children tend to get even more animated.  Two young monks were particularly inquisitive.  We spent about a half hour discussing what my home was like and what it was like in the daily life of a monk.  Then they invited me to their monastery.

It was dark by now and in this part of the world, it rarely means the activity subsides.  So you can imagine the excitement of riding on a small motorbike with a couple monks.  Here were two Asian guys who fast regularly–and when they do eat, it’s rice and vegetables–and one American gluttonously constructed through gorgings of  cheese burgers and Mid-west potlucks.  I don’t think that poor bike had ever been so heavily-laden in its existence.  It must have bottomed about five times and exhausted every last Chinese-made part inside itself.

But eventually we arrived at their monastery.  Essentially a collection of wooden huts, it epitomized simplicity and was nothing similar to the Buddhist temples seen on Kung Fu: The Legend Continues.  There, I met the master of the monastery.  He was probably in his forties and he welcomed me with water and a preserved peach drink poured from a whiskey bottle.  I wanted to ask where the bottle came from, but I refrained.  It wouldn’t have surprised me if the monks had a couple bottles stashed away for certain occasions.  After all, as I found out many Burmese monks have an affinity for smoking, chewing bedel nut and getting tattoos (although they may have had the tattoos before becoming monks).

As we sat around on the floor, we continued the conversation the young monks and I were having previously.  He was very interested in our perceptions of Myanmar and enjoyed describing to me Buddhism in Burma and how one becomes a monk.  To be brief, Burmese Buddhists are collectively called the Sangha.  Most parents send there boys off to perform a right of passage at or after age seven where they become novice monks, called samanera, and study and live at a monastery for at least a few weeks.  The boys can stay and often do as the alternative would essentially be to join the military.   At the age of twenty, they can choose to become a true monk, or a bhikkhu, and keep all the practices taught by the Buddha.  Females can also become nuns, known as sila-rhan.

When his English had reached its limit, I thanked him and one of the young monks gave me a ride back to the Breeze.  In true Burmese fashion, I wasn’t allowed to pay for anything though I did donate some American cash to the monastery (though I think the master kept it as a collector‘s item).

At the Breeze, Mr. Lao convinced me that I needed to rent a motorbike and take him to see the World’s Largest Reclining Buddha the following morning before my ferry left.  He actually guilted me into it.  I’m not sure exactly how he did it, but he told me that if he did something for me, I should do something for him.  As I paid for everything and received no discount, I still fail to see how he helped me out.  Whatever.  It turned out to be pretty cool although I later learned that many places claim to have the “world’s largest reclining Buddha”.  Google the topic and the first page lists five apparent list-toppers of Biggest Buddhas, none of which are truly number one.

The Buddha to rule them all is still under construction in China‘s Jianxi Province.  Carved out of a cliff side, the image blows away its competition at 1,365 feet long and 223 feet in height!  But the particular Buddha I visited was by no means unimpressive in size .  Called the Zinathuka Yan Aung Chantha, it is actually the world’s second largest as it extends 400 feet and measures 110 feet high.  Oh, and it also contains 182 rooms, some of which are in the head.  So now, after Richard Gere and generations of young monks have spent their lives in search of nirvana I, Nathan Johnson, paid $2 and now know what’s going on inside the mind of Buddha.  Namely construction.

After our road trip, I thanked Mr. Lao and prepared for my cruise to Hpa-an.

Kyaiktiyo

It might seem counter-intuitive to visit one of the hottest places in the world in its hottest month. But a very special little celebration occurs there every April, called Thingyan. For five days the entire country puts down what they’re doing, picks up a hose, bucket or squirt rifle to engage in one of the world’s largest mass water fights in recognition of the Buddhist New Year. Neighboring Thailand holds the same festival where it’s called Songkran. Together this must make for the most non-lethal holy war on Earth.

Because I still had five days until Thingyan and the north was inaccessible, I decided to hop the earliest bus headed east. My first stop would be the sight of the hallowed Golden Rock of Kyaiktiyo (pronounced CHIKE-TIYO). I learned a couple things on that trip. 1) Burmese apparently don’t wait for the first day of Thingyan to start celebrating. I became aware of this as my bus was speeding along, windows down and I was viciously slapped across the face by a warm liquid and stunned to be soaked. Evidently, the occupants on the roof of the oncoming truck couldn’t find anything better to do with a bucket of water. 2) Burmese are collectively the friendliest people I’ve ever met. I had already attracted more glances than the Elephant Man before we made our first stop. The next four days in fact, I would see six Caucasians in total. Upon our first stop, a man started up a conversation with me over the usual “Where are you from? Where’s your wife?” kind of thing. Eventually, we started talking food and his eyes lit up. “You want try?” No, that’s okay. “Okay here you go!” After a few of these transactions my hands were full of fried crickets, a large fried chip with whole prawns in it, and some sort of sour berry. He wouldn’t accept any money. This is a country where the GDP per capita is $1,100.  That’s $3 per day.  It would be only the first instance of such warmth and hospitality I would encounter here. What an amazing place.

We arrived in the town of Kyaiktiyo that afternoon. At the bus stop were two kids in their late teens each spewing crimson betel nut juices from their mouths and trying to convince me that their respective guesthouses were better than the other. I’m not sure if he was pulling my leg but one of them told me the competing place was owned by a general in the army. Not wanting to support any punk associated with the military, I took his word for it and bunked at Pann Myo Thu Inn.

Kyaiktiyo is a small, dusty little town at the base of a sprawling mountain range. When I say mountains, think more of the Sierra Nevadas than the Rockies. The town is crisscrossed by small dirt roads and if there is any pavement it’s covered by dirt. The steep road up to the Gold Rock at least is paved. There are two ways to get up the mountain: walk or ride in the tray of an old Japanese truck full of people packed like sardines and sitting on 2x4s.

An interesting fact about Myanmar is that in 1970, the government thought it would be cool to switch from driving in the left lane to the right. But because most automobiles are either pre-70s or second hand Japanese imports, the steering wheels remained on the right side of the car. In fact, there are still streetlights in Yangon that are on the wrong side of the street! I mention the change in lanes because it appeared that only half the drivers in Kyaiktiyo got the memo while the others preferred the vestiges of British colonialism. I’ll say that it’s quite difficult to stay seated on a 2×4 with ten fellow humans. Flying up the inclines, we prayed we were still on the road. On declines, we couldn’t see where we were going until we were vertical and staring straight down to the road below. On turns, we pleaded with God that if no truck was coming round to send us off the cliff we would devote ourselves to lives of celibacy, prayer and beer brewing (Is it only Lutheran monks that brew beer?). Steve McQueen would have been quite impressed at our driver’s ability to peel around 180 degree switchbacks and Pol Pot would have related to his noticeable lack of concern for human welfare. The thirty or so of us on the truck were thrown around and mashed together so violently that by the time we stopped we had collectively morphed into one human being. I think at one point I may have actually been wearing the robe of the monk sitting behind me.

Well, we did end up making it…sort of. To my endless delight, I discovered we still had a forty-five minute hike up a forty-five degree hill! Keep in mind this is the hottest part of the day in the hottest month of the year in one of the hottest regions of the world. My pride was immediately raised however, upon seeing that what initially appeared to be royalty was in fact a portly foreigner being carried Helen of Troy-style on a glorified lawn chair by four very fit, very keen Burmese boys. Forget Olympians, these guys were ultimate athletes. “Well at least I can make it on my own two feet,” I thought. With that a young guy tapped me on the shoulder and asked, or at least that’s what I discerned from his Burmese, if I’d like to walk with him. I gladly accepted. Immediately, my pride was brought back down to the proper level when I saw that he was going to make it up the hill on a crutch! One foot! These are truly resilient people.

Midway up our sweaty, wheezing hike (when I say our I mean my) and a couple more locals added to our entourage, we stopped to replenish fluids. My friends ordered me one large coconut and a pack of cigarettes and betel (pronounced like beetle) nut each for themselves. Our server hacked open the coconut revealing the well of water inside which I happily guzzled over a pseudo-conversation about American rock ‘n roll. When I felt rested, I bid my friends adieu and headed up while they stayed behind to take bets on whether or not I would pass out before reaching the top.

A few liters of sweat later and with a this-better-be-the-coolest -thing -I’ve- ever-seen attitude, I did reach my destination. And it was one of the coolest, amazing, most mystical things I’ve ever seen. Towering majestically in front of me was a miracle of geological progression and testament to the Burmese’ Buddhist faith. By some incalculable chance, somewhere in time a rock the size of a pair of Mack trucks was set so precariously on the edge of a cliff atop Mt. Kyaikto that it appears to defy physics. Though it has the square footage of small house, from the right angle you can see that the only contact it has with the ground is perhaps five feet in diameter. Steady and unwavering, it has survived multiple earthquakes.  And what’s to boot, it is completely gilded in gold leaf–every inch from where it touches the ground, around the sides and up to the top . It is said that the boulder was retrieved from the bottom of the sea by an ancient king.  In the 11th century, a hermit constructed a small pagoda atop  the rock and enshrined within it a hair of the Buddha.  Whatever the explanation, it is no myth that this sacred place evokes awe and wonder from even the staunchest cynics.

It would be hard to believe then that beholding this treasure so rarely witnessed by Westerners (nor any foreigners for that matter) was not the most rewarding experience of the day. No, the true prize I received from my visit was the overwhelming attention from the locals. Adulation is probably the closest word I can find to describe their response to me. My sensation was pure joy and utter humility. After all, it was I who came to their country to meet them and see how they lived. I wanted to interact with real Buddhist monks. I came to Kyaiktiyo to see their Golden Rock. I could not have predicted that at a Buddhist holy site, pilgrims would find me an intriguing attraction. But there I was.

To ask to take photos of or with others isn’t difficult, especially if they’re children. Kids are the most photogenic and enthusiastic subjects and once you ask to take one picture they follow you around the rest of the day like a magnet, competing jovially for camera time. This is pretty universal. But I hadn’t anticipated the same reaction from teens and adults. Once I took one snapshot with a middle-aged lady the camera clicking didn’t stop. For around two hours people lined up to get photos of the glamorous, pasty Yank with a copper mop top. I was in family portraits, group photos of monks, poses with toddlers, adolescents and elderly alike followed by individual shots with all of the above. My favorite admirer was a boy of around ten by the name of Auma Myo Htike. He was bright and cordial and spoke the best English out of his family. Auma came up to me and tugged on my shirt and asked if I would be in a photograph with he and his mother. I talked with him a while after as he translated for his family. When he had to leave, Auma gave me his contact information and asked if when I was passing through Hpa-an in a couple days I could stop in to see his house. I told him I would. I had one last question for him though. I asked what he wanted to be when he grew up. “A soldier,” he said. “I want to fight.” Auma’s family is of the Kachin ethnicity. They are notorious for their discipline and skill as warriors and in their hills they train a formidable rebel army. How heartbreaking it can be to have reality set back in all of a sudden.

As the sun sank below the mountains, the scenery only became more brilliant. The sky turned a hazy yellow, then pink, then purple. And the shadows that appeared upon the imperfections of the Golden Rock gave it a new character all together. I wish I could say more but I noticed that I had only ten minutes before the last truck left for town. Doubtful I would make it but not keen at all on hiking back, I burst into an all out sprint. What had taken me forty-five minutes to ascend took me exactly nine minutes to descend. When I finally got to the truck and hailed it to stop, I was a flood of sweat. This however had a bright side. No one wanted to sit near me!

That night I went to dinner at a local restaurant. Some very drunk middle-aged patrons invited themselves to my table and proceeded to engage me in a rather incomprehensible conversation filled with accompanying hand gestures and body gyrations. What I gathered was that the following morning they were going to assemble with other men, shave their heads, discard their clothing and old vices and devote themselves to the teachings of Buddha—if I had to guess I would say the fat one. So their goal was to get blind wasted and smoke as many cigarettes as they could before the morning. They really had to twist my arm to join in but I eventually obliged. Again, they wouldn’t accept a cent from me. This was a great ending to a great day. As I was skulling a refreshingly intoxicating beer I wondered if every monk induction was full of fowl-smelling men groaning audibly so that even the daftest person could tell they were unsuccessfully nursing a hangover. If so, I need to attend an induction one of these days.

A bit of history

Now, let’s clear up any confusion and give a little background of this exotic nation. The Union of Myanmar (pronounced MEE-AN-MAR) is the official title of the country. Burma is the British bastardization of Bamar, the most populous ethnicity. The English empire held sway over Myanmar for over a century until its independence in 1948. Consequently, many Burmese are quite well spoken in English. In 1947, the leader for independence, Bogyoke Aung San was voted into power but was assassinated before taking office. In 1962, the socialist military displaced the democratic government, which was loosing power due to ethnic fighting and general anarchy. They nationalized everything, bringing the economy to its knees.

The year 1988 saw then leader General Ne Win ousted but only after his military killed over 3,000 pro-democracy demonstrators. The following year, the government formed SLORC (State Law and Order Restoration Council) and declared martial law. They also changed the country’s name from Burma to Myanmar and held the first democratic elections since 1947. The enigmatic daughter of the slain leader for independence, Aung San Suu Kyi, won a landslide victory. Fearing a loss of power, SLORC arrested Suu Kyi and the Nobel Peace Prize winner has been under house arrest on and off ever since.

Senior General Than Shwe is the current despot. His crimes range from ethnic cleansing to opening fire on protesters in the 2007 demonstration against skyrocketing fuel prices when fuel subsidies were pulled. In November 2005, the government moved the capital to the remote Naypyidaw. The former capital of Yangon (Rangoon to the British) is still the largest and most influential city. Many government workers were forced to pull up their roots and move 400kms north to the new capital. Foreigners are not allowed to visit.

Myanmar, wait Burma, wait Myanmaaaaaagh screw it!

It takes around an hour to fly from Bangkok to Yangon, the recently annulled capital of Myanmar. But the time spent running around Bangkok trying to find banks that carry crisp US$100 bills that don’t have codes beginning with ‘CB’, submitting your visa application before the embassy closes due to some random holiday, and convincing your family and yourself that you’ll be fine traveling in a country essentially under martial law with all the luxuries of a true third world country takes at least two days to two months depending on whether or not you were recently run over by a boat.

Now, I’m not usually a fan of flying when I can tightrope the middle of a cushion-less bus seat with my tailbone instead.  As it were though, I had only three weeks in the country and I wanted to see as much of it as I could.  Besides, I would soon find that all torturous modes of transportation are in spades in Myanmar.  Air travel is by far the most common way to enter the country for folks who don’t deal in illicit drugs.  This is because the majority of Myanmar is off-limits to foreigners.  Forbidden roads, railways, and boat routes are largely believed to lead to uranium mines, opium fields, child soldier camps, Russian-built nuclear research facilities and any one of the nefarious businesses of the government.  There are only two land crossings from Thailand, one from China and none from Bangladesh, India, or Laos.  In a way, I kind of felt like an ill-equipped spy because I could see these things from the air but unfortunately had no way of distinguishing them from the rest of the jungle or doing anything about it if I could.

So around an hour after leaving the modern megalopolis of Bangkok, we descended into the steamy heap of buildings that is Yangon.  Through the haze simmering off the surrounding jungle could be seen shimmering specs of white and gold stretching across the green landscape.  These were my first glimpses of some of the millions of magnificent pagodas (Hershey’s Kiss-shaped temples and shrines) that are so highly prized here.

“Amazing, huh?” commented a girl sitting near me with a surprisingly refreshing American accent.  “Frankly, I’m nervous as hell.  Oh, my name is Jenny.”

“Why are you nervous?” I responded, a bit worried she’d heard of some recent outbreak of Japanese Encephalitis or some other disease that would leave me drooling in a vegetative state for which I had no vaccination.

“I’m from Miami and I’ve never been here and I’m supposed to get married here in a week.”

“Well, getting hitched in a Buddhist totalitarian state on the opposite side of the planet wouldn’t be my first choice, but whatever floats your boat.”  Maybe she really didn’t like her parents.

It turns out her name was Jenny and she was to be married to a fella from Mandalay who had escaped to Miami some years ago.  Apparently he was a member of the Burmese national badminton team, which upon arriving in the US for a tournament never bothered to return.  That’s right.  In one fell swoop Myanmar lost its entire badminton team, one of the best in the world!  Now he was trying to return to have a Burmese wedding before they went back to Miami to get married there.  I wished her great luck as she departed with her fiancée’s cousins.

While Jenny was spelunking into a new chapter in her life, I was preoccupied merely with getting into town from the airport.  Obviously, I couldn’t speak Burmese and I had no idea who was helpful and friendly and who was a maniacal government spook.  I don’t think the innocent act of hailing a taxi would be cause for a sequel to Brokedown Palace but in a country slithering with secret police where you can’t even discuss government corruption out loud, you can never be too careful.  (Paranoia while visiting any country I found is generally 10% genuine and 90% the fault of American news conditioning.)  An amiable guy by the name of Zaw Zaw relieved me of the worry with a friendly Burmese greeting of “Mingalába!”  The guesthouse he worked for had rooms for $5 and free transportation to and from the airport so a few other gringos and me accepted.

I was doing well so far. I had sun protection, I had enough cash to cover my trip, and I knew where to get kyat (Burmese currency, pronounced chat).  Many tourists don’t realize that April is the hottest month in Myanmar.  Others don’t do their research and are more than a bit perturbed when they find that there are no ATMs and credit cards are not accepted and they must return to Bangkok.  Some that do remember to bring cash take the first offer from a guy off the street to exchange it and end up a couple hundred thousand kyat short.  Of course this isn’t as bad as trading their dollars at the official exchange rate.  One US dollar is roughly one thousand kyat on the ‘black market’ (this sounds cool but really just refers to a local currency exchanger or hostel).  The official exchange rate is six kyat.  SIX!  I feel sorry for that sucker.  The one detail I did overlook was that because the Burmese celebration of the Buddhist New Year called Thingyan was in a few days, there was no transportation north to Mandalay where the biggest party is.  No dramas.

S**t Happens

Man, Forrest Gump was right.  I swear that movie holds lessons for about every situation in life.  I would though, like to refute his momma’s infamous adage, “Life is like a box of chocolates.  You never know what you’re gonna get.”  Because if life were really like this, then no matter what you got, it would still be coated in chocolate.  And that just isn’t the case.

For some of you, February 8th, 2010 probably passed by without a thought.  But for me?  Well it was a bit of a hiccup in my travels.  Didi had found a couple local fisherman that would take me out to the island of Limasawa to search for whale sharks.  I thought my money would be better-spent if I waited until I reached Donsol where the sightings are practically guaranteed.  But as the opportunity to get in the water and swim alongside the biggest fish in the world doesn’t come along very often, I took the chance when it was available.  It proved to be kind of an ill-fated decision.

After trolling around the island for about an hour and a half, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a huge spotted tail below the water.  My heart leaped into my esophagus, but the big fella swam away before I could get in the water.  I didn’t know I would be getting wet anyway in a few minutes.

We decided to head back to Padre Burgos as the wind whipped up the water.  Puttering along, a small wave tipped our tiny double-outrigger and caught me unaware.  I fell over the side and felt the bottom of the boat against my feet.  Then all of the sudden, VWOOM!  The propeller hit me.  I came up and felt where the prop hit not feeling any skin, I knew I was in a bind.  I don’t think I’ve ever swam so fast as I did back to the boat.

I’ll paraphrase because the details are a bit gory and the story is just really when told in person.  In short, I lost around 2 1/2 liters of blood in the four hours it took to get me to the hospital and I had to get a transfusion. I have 6 lacerations, the deepest of which was around 3 inches deep and over half a foot long.  I had an excellent surgeon but the facilities could have used an upgrade. No sink, no toilet seat, limited clean sheets, I had to shower with a bucket of cold water, and all my medicine had to be bought in cash at local pharmacies including my blood! Hahaha! But considering all that, I was very lucky.  And now, after my transfusion, I am considered a mestizo, or a PhilAm.  So I would like to say thanks to all my Philippine brothers and sisters for all your help and care.

After another week in Padre Burgos and 7 weeks enjoying some quality time with my lovely Aunt Pat, Ray, James and Elena in Guam, I was on the road again.  This time:  Myanmar.

I would just like to thank my family in Guam for everything they have done for me.  You are a true blessing.

Southern Leyte, Philippines

My purpose for visiting the island of Leyte—besides it being on my way to the big island of Luzon—was to snorkel with whale sharks, or butanding, in Padre Burgos. These gentle behemoths frequent particular locations around the Philippines during the first few months of the year and truth be told, they were the only reason I came to the Philippines.

When I reached Padre Burgos, I did not have any lodging so I checked in with the local dive tour operators/resorts. Being far out of my meager price range, I meandered about hoping to find a more reasonable place. Walking up the street, a local said hi and I asked him if he knew any locals that I might be able to stay with. His eyebrows raised and he led me to the home of Didi Nable and his family. He seemed a bit reluctant to accept me, but hey, money talks and you have to feed your family. If you ever want a true cultural experience, staying with a local is the only way to do it.

The village was right across the street from the ocean. Didi, his wife and 38-year-old son lived in a concrete home of Didi’s construction. His daughter, her husband Plong Plong, and their three children lived behind him in what is essentially a hut on cinder blocks. I don’t understand why, but at least in this part of the Philippines, called the Visayas, people call their children by two, often Western names or even words—quite odd names I might add. Didi’s grandchildren had names like Pearly Mee, Jake Brian and Honey Joy.

Well, as beautiful as this place is, it has an inherent lack of things to do.  Perhaps that’s why you walk around and see so many people asleep in the middle of the day.  But one thing that is never in short supply in the Philippines is a karaoke bar.  They’re like Starbucks here:  stand on a street corner and you can see three more.  It’s like a national identity.  And people are serious about it here.  If you suck, you can get beat up.  If you sing too many songs in a row, you can get beat up.  If you sing Frank Sinatra’s My Way, you can get beat up or even killed!  Seriously.  Check this New York Times article out if you don’t believe me.  Before giving his acceptance speech, a Philippino senator celebrated by singing a pop song.  Can you imagine John McCaine saying, before I address you all, I’d just like to perform a rendition of my favorite Lady Gaga song…”?  Music in quiet Padre Burgos blares all through the night, not from stereos, but karaoke machines.  So naturally, to get the cultural experience, I felt I should participate.

I asked Didi if he’d like to come with and he ecstatically obliged.  At first, we had the place all to ourselves.  So we got ourselves a litre of Red Horse lager and he started off with I Started a Joke, by the Beatles.  I followed with Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond.  Now karaoke may be a national pastime for Philipinos and many Asians, but listening to Asians sing karaoke is a national pastime of Americans.  It was like free entertainment.  Our melodic banter continued into the wee hours of the morning, with more people flowing into the bar.  I like to think it was because of our awesome vocals.

The next morning, Didi and me looked and felt a little worse for wear.  I wondered if the Filipinos had a magic cure for a hangover, but as I sat down to eat, I confronted the exact opposite.  Not only was this not going to help my throbbing head, it may also cause last nights dinner to come back for a visit.  Didi’s wife had decided to serve us rice and…squid.  Now, squid isn’t too bad, but it was about the last thing I wanted to see at the time.  But it could have been worse.  In Maasin, the previous night, I had eaten the Filipino delicacy, belut, with a local.  Belut is 17-day-old duck egg.  You eat everything.  Feathers, beak and all.  Gross.

We made it through breakfast, requiring amazing feats of physical resilience.  Naturally we needed rest so Didi popped in a DVD and we took our places in the living room.  Here, I was introduced to the greatest pound-for-pound fighter in the world, hailing from General Santos, the pride of the Philippines, Manny “Pac-Man” Paaaaaaacquiao!  Until then, I had never paid close attention to a boxing match.  I never noticed any strategy.  I never knew why one fighter was better than another.  I didn’t know what a ‘southpaw’ was.  I knew a lot of names and reputations and that most people think Ali would have beaten Tyson.  I was missing out!

Manny Pacquiao is just brilliant to watch.  He’s so fast.  So fast.  Throwing combinations of seven punches at a time.  Hardly ever suffering a punishing blow.  These are just a couple reasons he has won seven world titles in seven weight divisions.  Even the layperson can see his strategy and talent.  We watched about twenty five fights and highlights of fights that afternoon.  The only thing that was unpleasant about this, was that we had to sit through an equal amount of national anthems from the Philippines, the USA and Mexico.  I felt so bad for Michael Buffer, the famous ring announcer known for his “Ladies and Gentlemen, llllllllleeeet’s get ready to ruuuuuumblllllllle!”.  Why did I feel bad?  Because despite these being top-bill fights, the singers were absolutely and utterly horrendous.  I mean I have never seen a string of such atrocious renditions of the Star-Spangled Banner.  Some of the singers even sang at more than one event!  It was amusing however, to watch advertisements for Philippine Airlines run across the screen during the Filipino anthem.  I also enjoyed the commercials for Liver Aid.  That must be the worst tasting sports drink ever made!  But it had to be better than belut.

Bohol, Philippines

I landed in Cebu airport late in the evening and found myself a place to sleep. A nice local family saw that I was a very white, very lost foreigner and steered me away from the scammers, to catch a cab with them. I don’t have anything to note about Cebu other than the fact that the airport is actually on an island called Mactan, just across the water from the city. Mactan Island is where Ferdinand Magellan met his demise at the hands of King Lapu Lapu, who was honored by having his name given to both a street and a fish. “To bad he wasn’t killed earlier,” my Aunt Pat would later say.

The island of Bohol was my first destination. The ferry took about four hours, which was plenty of time to watch the dolphins play alongside the boat, enjoy a San Miguel brew and chat up an old-timer named Poreano. It was the first conversation I had with a Filipino and the first time a Filipino said, “You will remember me, yes?” Every person with whom I held a conversation after that said the exact same thing when I left.

Bohol was great. It’s a relatively quiet island and a bit under the radar with the tourists, which was nice. I stayed at a joint in the jungle called Nuts Huts outside the town of Loboc. The Dutch owners were fun to talk to and the guests were cool as well. It takes a certain type of person to stay at a place accessible by an endless staircase built at an 80 degree angle. The kitchen is located halfway down the steps and the lodges are at the bottom. This meant that climbing up the steps to dinner made me feel like I was going to vomit up lunch.

It was well worth the exertion. The lodge sits just back from the Loboc River. Flowing like molasses, you can swim up the green river to the pools and mini-falls and float slowly back down amidst the jungle palms. You just have to be wary of the barges that come up river carrying tourists on sightseeing/eating tours. During the day, you can catch an iguana scurrying about or pet one of the grass-cutting goats. At night, the dinner quarters become a hot spot for fire flies, giant moths, giant fruit bats and large bright blue geckos with yellow spots.

A couple local attractions that I enjoyed were a hike to the bat caves overlooking Loboc and the river. Once in the cave, our guide turned off his flashlight and you could literally feel the bats whooshing by your head. Very cool. My favorite site on Bohol however, was the tarsier sanctuary. Once thought to be the smallest primates in the world, these little monkeys look like something out of Harry Potter. They can fit in the palm of your hand and have huge yellow eyes. Now endangered, the numbers of tarsiers is currently on the rise, I was told. Rain cancelled my visit to the Chocolate Hills—a famous geographical phenomenon in Bohol where the land is shaped like multiple Hershey’s Kisses (from whence they get their name)—so I was off to my next and—as I would soon find out—last destination in the Philippines, Leyte.

A quick note on Singapore

I was told by a hostel attendant that the bus ride to Singapore would take no more than nine hours. In driving hours, he was right. But he failed to account for the number of stops we would make to pick up more passengers and the amount of time it would take to go through customs. So the trip ended up taking thirteen hours. This left me with an hour to jog to the nearest ATM on the complete other side of the bus station only to find out it didn’t work, run to the next ATM, which stole the card of the guy in front of me, sprint to the next ATM, withdraw cash, wait in line to catch a taxi, take said taxi and pay an over-priced fare to go a half hour out of the city to the airport and check in fifteen minutes before my ticket was to be cancelled all while hauling around 45lbs of baggage in 85 degree heat and 90% humidity! Then I got out my camera to take a look at my pictures from Penang and I thought to myself, “Well, at least I don’t have a trident through my face.”

In forty-five minutes I was on my way to Cebu, Philippines. Little did I know that barely missing a flight wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.