Days 31 - 54: Myanmar (Burma)
As Al would say, we "got a wild hair" and decided to jump ship - leave the more beaten tourist path of Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia - and head to Myanmar (formerly Burma). And what a glorious decision, as Myanmar has no doubt changed our lives. At its core,
Myanmar displays the extremes of humanity: on the one hand, our strongest impression of the country was that it is populated by the absolute most gentle, sweetest people on earth. Wherever we walked, we were greeted with huge smiles, hellos, impromptu conversations about Myanmar or America, offers to see a monastery, children holding our hands . . . people genuinely happy to meet us and show us their country. Thus, a new friend at incredible Shwedagon Pagoda (the golden temple pictured below) intercepts us to discuss the Buddhist importance of the day of week we were each born on (making me a "guinea pig" and Al a "dragon"; yes, she pointed out the "who wears the pants" factor on that comparison).
Amongst the temples of Bagan, a teenage boy proudly escorts us through the tunnels of an underground monastery, as his monk friends widely smile as they wash out their burgundy robes. Later, sitting amongst hundreds of brightly headwrapped Pa-O tribespeople in their hilltop temple, offering us tea and narcotics, we brought the village chief to near tears because we were not able to accept his offer of pork curry breakfast. Or when a hotel employee chases down our horse-drawn carriage for 3 miles on his bicycle, in the pre-dawn darkness, as we are about to set off by river boat so that he can give us a small zip pouch we left behind in our room (plus GINORMOUS smile - how does he DO that at 4 a.m.?!) . . . and then, would not accept any tip (amazing, considering he is living on perhaps $300 a YEAR!) So, the people of Myanmar blew our minds; given the repression they live under (more on this below), they exude openness, charity, warmth, which stems from their deep Buddhist faith and spirituality, on display in every town and village, where even the poor shopkeer will always come outside to fill the bowl of the ambling monk looking for his daily alms of rice . . . we felt this spirit everywhere, and saw a helluvalot of monks, thus inspiring a new word: MONKALICIOUS, occassionally, MONKALICIOUSNESS. Yes, after just 8 weeks on the road, our list of strange inside jokes is getting pretty long.
And then, in stark contrast and making the country's monkaliciousness even more striking, was our more indirect contact with the brutal, selfish, repressive military regime that bears down on the people of Myanmar everyday. Of course, our exposure was limited because foreigners can only travel to about 20% of the country, and our movements were being constantly tracked by the government. Furthermore, undercover spies are (supposedly) common, listening for illicit conversations, which could end in arrest (for the locals, not us). We heard of the house arrest of their duly-elected leader, and Nobel Peace prize winner, A
ung San Suu Kyi, but of course, were forbidden from discussing or visiting her location; of universities shut down for years following peaceful protests-turned-bloody clashes, leaving thousands of students dead; of towns completely uprooted and displaced, with no compensation, so that military officers could set up their gated communities; we saw the displacement of thousands by the worst flooding in 40 years (which we luckily did not get caught in), and yet the complete absence of government support to ease the suffering of those who lost their homes and perhaps loved ones; we saw illegal video footage taken by a Spanish tourist documenting dozens of village people (including many children) forced into labor to move thousands of pounds of mud, rocks and water that had flooded a roadway, under the watchful eye of military officers; evidence of information control, in that news of the floods was repressed, so that locals could not know whether their lo
ved ones were hit; significant internet censorship; propoganda papers; and on and on and on. Perhaps most sobering was the conversations with our trekking guide who could speak freely out in the rural mountains: when discussing the political situation, his tone was one of sadness, disappointment, and even shame (perhaps a sense that all Burmese were to blame for not fighting harder against the current status quo . . . but, how can they fight without more support from the outside world?, I wonder) . . . . he loved his country yet hated his government . . . and it was apparent that this juxtaposition unsettled his individual core . . . forty years old yet soul-searching like a teenager (but also rescued by his Buddhist beliefs, which we discussed over many glasses of rum). Needless to say, this display of social and emotional extremes changed our own perspectives on what it means to live in America, to have the freedom to travel the world, write a blog, etc. . . . now, we wonder, what more can we do to help the people of Myanmar? And why does the international community not do more?
Needless to say, our eyes widened as we moved through the country. Our Burmese journey began in the capital, Yangon, a city that LIVES on the sidewalk - eats, drinks, sells, watches Manchester United football, honks, yells, sings - beneath the shadow of decrepit colonial buildings and narrow Parisian-like streets leftover from the previous era of British control. Simply the most and intriguing bustling street life we have ever seen. After a couple of days in Yangon, we hopped on a night bus for the 12-hour journey to Bagan, a town with "more temples than tourists," so they say. Little did we know that this ride would be much more "eventful" tahn we expected . . .first, around midnight, (just as we had managed to fall asleep, despite the very loud and spirited
Burmese karaoke videos that blasted through the night) a bus broke down on the side of the road--a road too narrow for us to pass--so, to avoid suffocating on the hot bus, we all filed out and sat on the side of the road for two hours in darkness. Relieved when we started rolling again, we managed to fall asleep again, only to be woken up in the wee hours of the early morning because, this time, OUR bus had broken down. Once again, we all filed out, and sat on the side of the road, to wait while one of our fellow travelers took off to the nearest town to get the spare part we needed. Seven, yes, seven hours later, he arrived. The bus was fixed, and we made it a whopping 10 miles before breaking down again. We all realized that this bus ain't moving (and we were so close--just four hours away!). The driver flagged down a huge pickup (well, it looked more like a dump truck), and we all piled in the back and almost made it to our destination--now we were just an hour and one more short bus-ride away. And, so, 34 hours (just 300 miles!) and a bus-load of new-found Burmese friends later, we arrived in Bagan.
A sidenote to the bus ride: cleanliness, health and health care is abysmal in Myanmar; a situation exacerbated by their love of narcotic betelnut chew, which they constantly spit, forming dark red pools and stains absolutely EVERYWHERE (including most people's teeth). . . a health situation made worse by their love of the snot rocket, YES, EVEN ON A PUBLIC BUS - so that we were riding in a serious Burmese germ-infested vessel which led to - HUGE BUMMER - 5 days of Jacob bed-ridden with a high, high fever (peaking frequently at 103-104). I think the photo says it all. Al was a true sport, monitoring my progress and bringing me samosas and pizza in bed. Just as the tiny room and bamboo wall covering became unbearable - not to mention our concern about my health - the fever broke, and I was back in the saddle. On a positive note, the days without bathing allowed me to experiment a bit with facial hair growth, and I can say that, now 3 weeks later, I still have the fledgling soul patch that took root in that hot, sickly period in Bagan.
Bagan is like nothing we have ever seen before. A landscape of thousands of temples, sprawled out across rolling green fields down towards the banks of the mighty Ayeyarwaddy River. It is Myanmar's mecca, and yet almost moon-like as we stared out at sunset from the top tier of an empty red brick temple and gazed across a landscape of thousands of temple spires, most of which were empty as well.
But just when we felt alone and things unreal, a lone rice farmer down below - wheeling in the day's load by ox cart - reminded us that this is no "otherworld"; this is where they live. Just incredible.
Traveling by slow river boat to Mandalay, the seat of Myanmar's "ancient cities," and the home of more than half of the country`s monks, continued to amaze us. But soon it became apparent that this is just the way things are: shifting rice fields, ox carts, massive sunsets, golden or white pagoda temples perched alone on hilltops, monks walking quietly on ancient teak bridges . . . and yet, what was most incredible at times was what was LACKING: no cell phones, much fewer cars (but plenty of horse carts), no outdoor ads, darker streets at night . . . like we had traveled back in time (with a few modern nicetites here and there, of course).
Again, a contrast: despite our awe, things felt more real. Soccer with kids in a temple? OF COURSE this makes sense! Shooting the shit with a monk about Stephen King books (he, not I, is a huge fan) on the 600-year-old, 2-km-long, all-teak U Bein foot bridge? YES!
Is that a "truck" or a MicroMachine (prompting Al to sing "fat guy in a little truck" constantly)? Who cares?! It's Myanmar and WE LOVE IT!!
And yet, things had still not peaked. We found even deeper admiration up high in Myanmar's mountains. From the mountain town of Kalaw, we decided to hike the 50 kilometers to Inle Lake, our next destination in Myanmar (and no, the decision to hike was not based on the fact that it was likely to be as fast as a bus ride). Our guide, Ko Shwe, was an experienced hiker, and donned in bright purple sweatpants, he set off with us in tow. We passed bright yellow
fields of sesame flowers, tea plantations, and the occassional hilltop monastery.
After lunch at a Nepalese hill top restaurant (in the middle of absolutely nowhere!!!), we ran into a torrential downpour, and arrived at the village where we were to stay the night pretty damp and definitely muddy. Our hosts for the night were a family of four (mother and father about our age, and two incredibly cute daughters who were 4 and 5),who lived in a two-room thatched roof hut. The girls were quite proud to have visitors staying in THEIR house, and seemed to enjoy leading us around the village by hand in front of all of their friends (the older girl seemed to be quite keen on Jacob, the little tart!). As we played soccer with some teenagers, our cook (unbeknownst to us, the trek we had arranged came with not only a guide, but a cook as well!!) worked his magic over an openflame INSIDE the hut we were sleeping in that night. We feasted that night on all sorts of yummy Burmese dishes and tried Myanmar whiskey at our guide's request (twist our arms!). Just before bed the two little girls gave me a "traditional" leg massage, which really consisted of more poking and prodding than massaging. Laughing at their poor attempt to take away the day's hiking pains, Ko Shwe said that they were definitely still "learning" the techniques from their mother. After sleeping remarkably soundly on the floor of the hut, we woke the next morning to discover that the mother of my two massueses had left at one a.m. to hike the five hours to the nearest town to sell flowers in the market, as she did every week, and would hike back that night.
During Day 2 of the hike, we ran into a man who invited us to join him on his way to a nearby monastery for a celebration that day.
Not ones to miss out on a party, we were definitely up for going a bit out of our way to check it out. So we joined our new friend and a long line of monks--all heading to the monastery. Everyone gathered--women, wearing their traditional black clothes, with bright orange wraps on their heads, while men wore bright greens and yellows on their heads--together on the floor of the monastery, drinking tea, eating local snacks, and giving offerings to the monks of the monastery.
We finished the hike with a boat ride on Inle Lake, and ended at the Venice of Myanmar--a village built on stilts completely over the water. Getting sucked into a bar that advertised mojitos
(I mean, who'd have thought you could get a mojito in Myanmar, much less a stilt village on a remote lake?), we ran into a couple from Amersterdam that we had met on the hike, so we had more than one of the surprisingly good mojitos. Jamela and Harold were heading to a nearby town the next night, where a full moon balloon festival was being held and invited us to join them. We had heard that during the festival, each village in the area launches a hot air balloon that they had spent SIX months and thousands of dollars (an incredible sum for this country!) making and decorating--one village to be chosen as the winner for the best balloon.
So the next night (after yet another round of mojitos), we all piled into a car (the 4 of us, plus their driver, plus the driver's friend), and set off for the festival. On the way, however, we ran into a torrential downpour--which was made worse by the fact that the windshield wipers stopped working, and the road conditions were abominable. After waiting out the storm in a cafe/bar in a random roadside industrial town (by the attention we got, it was clear that we were the only tourists who had ever set foot in that place), we made it to the festival.
People from all over the country had traveled to this town for the festival--it was packed. The streets were lined with vendors selling everything from purple gelatinous goo (some sort of dessert) to baseball hats to fried bugs. We made our way to where the balloons were being
launched. When a village was to set off their balloon, they paraded through the crowd carrying a large banner and singing and chanting as the balloon was being prepared to launch. One village hung hundreds of small lanterns in different colors off the sides of the balloon (in the pic here!).
Another village decided to have fireworks shoot out of the bottom of it once it got in the air. After all the fireworks were lit, the balloon was supposed to begin ascending--only this village didnt get the physics quite right. The fireworks were apparently too heavy for the balloon to float, so it just hovered a few feet above the ground. And that's when the fireworks starts shooting at the crowd. At first people were kind of cheering and laughing, but we knew we were in trouble when we saw the Burmese man behind us crouching in a bunker with a look of utter terror in his eyes. As we were turning to run or crouch or do whatever it took to not get hit, a firework nailed Jacob in the chest. Luckily, it bounced right off of him, no harm done. I, however, fared a little worse, as a firework shot right into my neck, where I didnt have a layer to protect my skin. With my neck a little singed (dont worry Mom and Dad, its only a nickle-sized burn--and is healing quite nicely), we decided that maybe we should head on back to "Venice." A little bit of water was sounding quite good right then.
It was a night-time paratrooper mission that we were surprisingly prepared for: Loi Kraton in Chiang Mai, Thailand . . . someone HAD to do it. Mission accepted. Pass the 22 oz. Singha, por favor. Quite unbeknownst to us, and even more shocking as we were coming from the Buddhist timewarp of Myanmar, we dropped into a week-long riverside party so riotous that it looks, feels, smells, and definitely sounds more like a warzone. This is Thailand's biggest celebration (perhaps tied with April's water festival, so we heard, where absolutely everyone gets shot with water guns, 24/7, naked children to full business attire, all targets are clean), and Chiang Mai is the Times Square for it, minus the cops, laws, and fear of charred flesh. At its core, 
Loi Kraton is a festival of floating lanterns to celebrate the end of the monsoon season, culminating in a momentous full-moon festival. For purists, this involves literally THOUSANDS of 3-foot tall, 1-foot diameter paper condom-shaped lanterns, with a burning flame at its base. The lantern captures the rising heat of the flame and MAGIC is created, as the entire city participates in a collective doubling of the night sky's star count. If you can imagine, standing on the foot bridge of the Ping River, looking at the city street and skyline - ablaze with fireworks, apartment parties, and sheer street madness - and then, slowly shift your eyes up towards the moon, which is completely full, and surrounded by hundreds, perhaps thousands, of glowing orange paper lanterns floating slowly into the atmosphere. Absolutely incredible. Chaos below, floating nirvana above. Plus, the river turns to light as the purest and oldest of traditions is carried forward, the floating of the Kraton lanterns, which are 8-12-inch, round candle lanterns, made from banana tree trunk, leaf, various orange and purple flowers, incense and candles. Following the tradition, Al and I made some ourselves, made our way down to the Ping, and set our lanterns out to sail after making a wish, as is also the tradition. 
fter 3 days, we got (sort of) used to the explosion noises, although we gained a new fear for the quite agitated, sometimes snarling street dog population: we all know that deserted, mangy street dogs do not mix well with a week of loud explosion noise. No worries. Beer made us brave. Amongst the Thai teenagers, we saw the most ridiculous acts of irresponsibility: street fires into which children threw explosives; explosive-rigged coconuts tossed into major traffic intersections by skinny Thai boys on motor scooters, zipping away just before smoke and noise shattered normal traffic flow; a girl swinging a bottle rocket like a lasso, but not letting go in time, exploding it INTO HER OWN FACE (WHAT!?!!??!); floating lanterns that dripped flaming fuel down to whatever was below. 
t was a good ol' California-Virginia-Georgia-Quebec-Thai alliance, and we all got just a little crazy on the Ping River: shooting fireworks off the apartment balcony, Al eating crunchy worms offered by Johann's teenage Thai students, Johann's landlord absolutely losing it and kicking everone out of the place (which was really undeserved. seriously.) . . . and, most strange, a little shocking, and VERY claustrophobic: 10 of us maxing out the weight limit in the apartment tower elevator (and this is an elevator sized for the Thai, 5-feet by 5-feet square), so that we were all absolutely packed in for about 20 minutes . . . some breathing shallower and shallower, some reacting with rowdy drunken jokes, some uncontrollable hysteric laughing, some plain old FREAKING OUT . . . seriously, getting stuck in a Thai elevator with 10 drunkards is a new one on us. I would not recommend it, unless, of course, everyone in there behaves like our friend Ben (he had the rowdy drunk joke reaction, which was my MO as well, except that I had a guy losing it next to me, demanding that we all SHUT UP, particularly me). 
barbequed squid for $.10 (Al's favorite, no doubt); fresh coconut milk (one coconut please, just add straw); eggplant minced pork curry; squares of fried spring onions (sounds unexciting but was one of the favorites); spicy octopus salad; whole grilled fish wrapped in banana leaf; and mangoes in sweet sticky rice (Jacob's favorite). We finished off our time in Chaing Mai sharing a meal, of course, with our new found friends at a restaurant/bar with a Thai band whose lead singer crooned Stevie Nicks and Beatle ditties while we once again plowed through some amazing food.
