Kalaw Cross Country

This is Mr Robin. As we were about to find out, he was going to be our guide for the much-advertised trek from Kalaw to Inle Lake (Inle means Lake Little so Inle Lake would translate into Lake Little Lake, if you fancy exact academic names).

We were going to spend three days and two nights roaming across rolling hills and valleys and eventually get to Inle, some 50 km away. Mr Robin, our Sikh host in Kalaw said it would be a breeze eyeing my co-hikers, the three German teachers who signed up for the trek. He said his 20-something years of experience had taught him that German people are strong and fit and will not have any problems along the way. So were Polish people but they were too bad-tempered. Mr Robin never acknowledged the fact that I was to come along (and, hopefully keep up the pace). He didn’t have very much experience with Romanians and, most of the times, he was convinced that I come from Budapest or, sometimes, Bulgaria… surely it was something beginning with a B.

He did have strong political opinions, both about Myanmar and about the world in general: the Russian threat would prove to be an enemy to be reckoned with and soon it would overwhelm Europe like a furious parasite. His own country was something special, he said. I would never know what Myanmar was all about because most of the things the Lonely Planet was telling me were the exact opposite of what was really going on. No, it was not better that the country had opened up and no, tourism did not play a major role in the development of the country and no, I wasn’t right, I simply didn’t know what I was talking about.

All this he told me while waiting for the Germans to get ready. I still didn’t know he was going to be our guide so I felt confident that, once we leave this depressing person behind, the trek would turn out great. And when we figured that we would be guided by the 53 year-old Sikh, little buds of doubt bloomed into all our minds.

By the time we left the city, walking towards the freshly cut forest, Mr Robin had already explained the better part of Myanmar’s history and felt that his job was done for the moment. Accordingly, he bolted in front at the speed of a frightened deer, leaving us to wonder where all his energy came from. This little incident marked our whole trip: all of us lingered and lagged behind, feeling speed-challenged compared to Mr Robin. And in the rare moments he waited for us, he would explain a new and wonderful fact about the surrounding world, chuckling lightly at what he said: ‘There are 200 different species of banana in Myanmar. Most of them live in the area where tourists are not allowed…’

Most of the first day’s trekking was done on (or really close to) the railway tracks to Kalaw. We didn’t even realise that, after we had lunch at a small train station, we doubled back almost retracing our steps to the medicine man’s village, where Mr Robin had a wonderful time drinking tea and eating sweets offered by our host, while chatting with the old man about daily affairs. Did I say ‘medicine man’? Well, yes, that’s what he was. Mr Robin told us to ask any questions we might have but, as he started another politics discussion with us, the medicine grandpa fell asleep and nobody had the heart to wake him up.

Mr Robin’s knowledge about plants from Myanmar was, indeed, astounding: he would point out to something and explain its various medicinal uses with the confidence of a medicine man. ‘There are 50 ways to use this plant in Myanmar but most people have forgotten 40…’ If I had various types of diarrhoea or endless skin diseases, Mr Robin would surely have found at least 15 different types of plants to help me with my sickness. In fact, he was so interested in nature’s healing powers, that he became somewhat of a walking (running would be more accurate) botanical encyclopaedia of Myanmar. But, as he raced to our first accommodation along the way, he stopped caring about our botanical education. He had new and important discussions with our hosts as his last trek had been over one month before, so he had to catch up on the latest tribes’ news. That’s right, we stayed at a hills-people’s house, namely the Pa-O tribe, who offered each of us a nice blanket on the floor and a great outdoors shower without a door. But our cook (yes, we had one) came up with a wonderful dinner and we were quite satisfied. The evening ended with us 4 playing cards and me losing spectacularly at German card games.

The second day went pretty much along the same lines but the medicine man was substituted by a long well-deserved siesta after lunch. The only possible explanation is that we were so fast that, if we hadn’t taken an extra break, we would have arrived too early at our second homestay.

That night we tended to our newly-emerged blisters which would shame us more the next day, when Mr Robin frequently disappeared out of our sight. Fortunately, two of the four trekkers were up to the guide’s challenge, so that left me and the third German to mimic a hunt through Myanmar bush land for an unmistakable Mr Robin:

This is how I shall always remember Mr Robin

At noon we finally arrived at the lake, had lunch and navigated through stunning floating vegetable gardens and the mandatory jewellery-on-the-water-front store. Mr Robin had already left us with a ‘We will always try to remember you’, so typical for his personality that all of us hooted and watched him run away at the same speed he always employed, looking like he was on a mission to save Myanmar.

Bonus: here's some different ways to travel on Inle. Which would you choose?

Burmese Birthday

Birthdays: they can be good or bad. Or both. But when they coincide with a national festival, they tend to be, well, let’s say special.

The Burmese New Year is celebrated sometime in April (depending on the phases of the moon) and is the longest national holiday in the country. Although the New Year is on the 17^th, and the Water Festival lasts for 3 days before New Year’s Day, the official holiday starts on the 11^th of April and ends on the 21^st, leaving poor tourists who didn’t plan ahead stranded in various parts of the country: most busses stop working, are fully booked or are extremely expensive, some restaurants close their doors for the whole period, and common people go on holiday to the most touristic places, booking hotels in advance. I tell you, it’s hard to be a tourist on New Year’s in Myanmar!

But if you celebrate a somewhat special birthday during a Water Festival, things can’t go wrong (or dry). Let me explain: it’s called the ‘Water Festival’, because, as it’s mid-hot season and the rainy season is months away, Burmese people try to ‘invite’ water into their lives by splashing everybody with... water. Traditionally, it’s done by pouring a little water from a small bowl on the back of a person but who can stop the young generation? They have buckets, water guns and hoses begging to be used so that you’d think you’re in the middle of a biblical flood. Every person walking to and from anywhere will, at some point, find their way into a tidal wave of pouring, lukewarm water and will not escape dry. Tourists especially, who have to carry their passports, cameras and maps with them almost always will find that this tradition can be quite irritating, most of all when they discover that their precious belongings are soaking wet and their gadgets don’t work anymore.

I knew the drill: I was armed with plastic bags in and outside my own bag so that at least some of my stuff would remain dry. I also experienced with some futuristic movements whenever I saw people equipped with any sort of water containers and tried to hold my bag away from any incoming water, thus looking like a monkey trying to do a ballet while walking on fire. It almost worked. Unlike other people I met, my stuff was mostly dry, except for the maps and cigarettes (other people’s experiences tell me that a camera and/or a mobile phone will dry in about a day). Convenient as ever, the bulk of this game happened sometime during and after sunset. And what does one do at sunset in Bagan? One watches the sun set over the 2500 or so temples propped on some higher temple far away from the waterless hotel room which means absolution. And only after the sun has set and the pictures have been taken can one turn back to the hotel. And while doing so, one can’t possibly avoid all the Burmese gathered around a barrel full of water and a hose. Repeatedly. So, while returning from the temples on the electric bicycle I rented for the day, I tried to:

• get the bag out of harm’s way with one hand while clutching the bike with the other hand (astronaut-monkey move);
• not flinch too much and close my eyes for too long while water was thrown at me and I was driving;
• keep the electric bicycle still working and not fall down.

So, after I successfully (though somewhat moist) returned the bike and returned to the hotel, I thought I should take the bull by its horns and go take some pictures. But then I thought that’s not the right way to celebrate a birthday or a national holiday so I did what any normal person would have done: I joined the crowds. I borrowed a bowl from the hotel, found a neatly arranged group of water barrels with satisfactory refill possibilities and started water-bombing everything in sight. Incidentally, the place I chose was set up by my hotel’s owner so, beside the water and the beers offered by said owner, we also had loud, loud, LOUD music to dance if we ever felt boredom approaching. We didn’t although everybody danced eventually. I also didn’t feel any dryness approaching for a long time.

Why I Love Yoga

I love yoga. I love yoga more, now that I don’t practice it a lot. I love it so much because of all the contortionist moves I have to make to get to sit on one of those nasty bus benches. At least I got a seat on the Pyay – Pakokku bus, the last one available but one of the best in the house: behind the bus driver in a bus designed for left-sided driving in a right-sided driving country (apparently, the Burmese, in a violent attack of asserting their independence switched from left-sided driving to right-sided driving practically overnight; what they forgot was to change their whole fleet of right-sided driving vehicles, which makes everything a whole lot more interesting).

To get such a bus from point A to point B on tiny, narrow, potholed little roads is an art, which requires at least 3 people: the driver per se, who is quite important but not as important as the left-view-mirror-and-overtaking man, who stands propped on the bus door’s step (left side) and shouts at other traffic participants (mostly bicycles and motorcycles) to get out of the way and tells the driver when it’s safe to overhaul big trucks (because the driver can’t see); and the man in charge of minor issues like, for instance, passengers. Some get down but most of them get on and it’s always a surprise that there still is space for them inside the bus. This third man is in charge of money and seating people and his job mostly involves shouting at passengers inside to make space for the newcomers. There are always newcomers.

So you’ve got people seated neatly on seats on either side of the bus with their bags under the seats or in their laps, tons of bags and packages on the aisle and another bunch of people on top of the things on the aisle. Imagine all this on wheels. Now imagine all this on wheels in sharp turns. And now imagine all this on wheels, in sharp turns with potholes and incoming traffic on a road that barely fits a bus and a car next to each other. Just another normal day in Burma. There are left-sided cars and right-sided cars and it’s fun to get at a bus station and laugh at the people who are not sure on which side of the bus are they supposed to get up (those ‘people’ would be me most of the times). Still, I’m not sure which lane is the fast lane: in cities it seems that the fast lane is the one on the right side, closest to the sidewalk and the slower motorcycles drive almost in the middle of the road. Outside cities the story is the other way around. Thankfully, there is not so much traffic in this country. I don’t think there are many rules either.

Back on the bus, I was seating quite uncomfortably next to a sullen Burmese woman with heavy eyelids with my knees wedged sharply in the board that divided the seating space (created for gnomes) and the driver’s area (a lounge compared to my space). She was standing next to the window, the perpetually open window (as was the door and all the other windows) because air needs to be conditioned somehow and, lacking air-con, this would have to do. Next to me on the aisle was what appeared to be sacks of something covered with a big canvas. Before we left Pyay we stayed in the parking lot bored and sweating on the bus while a man advertised (as he would later explain to me especially) some kind of medicinal good-for-everything powder-in-a-can, which people actually bought so we could go our way. I hadn’t expected the potholes and neither were my knees, which suffered greatly throughout the journey; oh, yeah, and it had been hinted to me that the journey would last about 11 hours. But I only had to contort for about 8 hours, as the Burmese woman stopped in some city and I took her place, which was not even slightly better. Still, the fact that at least to my right I had a solid non-breathing surface made the trip a lot better.

And now to the bus people, the trio I mentioned earlier, immensely valuable to the bus ride. The bus drivers: two of the three, interchangeable by no apparent pattern, betel-chewing, loud-speaking, shiny-brown Burmese, who had fun at the expanse of the entire bus by driving faster than the road would have allowed it, honking for no apparent reason, and turning on the numerous sparkling Christmas-like lights in the bus, just to keep you awake. And the third man, keeping up with the first two, sometimes jumping out of the rolling bus to buy new betel for him and the drivers, while the bus eventually stopped and waited filled with silent prayers that we would soon be on our way, so that at least there’s some breeze blowing – my silent prayers, of course.

We stopped for dinner. Everyone got off the bus and, along with the passengers from two or three other busses, shuffled hurriedly to the toilets and the restaurant. Every meal was brought incredibly fast and similarly finished: 20 minutes later we were back on the bus, bouncing towards our destination. But at the next stop some 3 hours later, the bus drivers discovered me. They were amazed by the fact that I smoke and therefore I had the honour to have a seat at the bus drivers’ table, where they got free coffee, tea, cigarettes and betel from the owners of the respective place and were delighted to share it with me. I sat with them, unable to communicate one bit, watching them as they stole glances at me while obviously commenting on some of my features. They laughed a lot. I didn’t.

But back on the bus, the third man (who took the seat next to mine once the Burmese lady was gone) offered me his chilled, brand new bottle of water with a straight face that said more something like ‘you need it’ than ‘it’s my pleasure to offer you this gift as a token of our nations’ friendship.’ Still, cold water seemed like a gift from heaven.

Once we got to Pakokku all three bus people were very careful to give me my backpack and ask me where I would go and what I would do. Once they got the idea more through sign language than actual speaking, they looked for a motorcycle taxi to take me at the guesthouse. But, as luck would have it, this one knew enough English to tell me that that particular guesthouse was inexistent in Pakokku and that I should better go to another one – he would take me. ‘But,’ I said, ‘it’s here, look! That’s the street name…’ And, sure enough, the bus people convinced him to stop it with the commission-hunting and take me to my guesthouse.

This only means that my waking up the whole guesthouse was only possible because of the nice bus people. And because of yoga. 

Burmese Dwellers

So we’re one week in Burma and what is there to say? Well, a lot, actually, but it’s hard to get everything neat and settled. I do have some highlights or at least a couple of eyebrow-raising facts about Burmese dwellers.

For one, I can honestly say from personal experience that Burmese crows can tell foreigners from locals and that’s not only smart but also very annoying. There might also be something called ‘being in the wrong place at the wrong time’ or, better yet, ‘being the only person in the wrong place at the wrong time’, which is to say that maybe crows don’t really have anything against foreigners. But there are a lot of locally bred crows. And, as with any respectable tourist, I had to see this Yangon (Rangoon) lake, where apart from the 6 o’clock mosquitoes, there is the 6 o’clock crow invasion into the trees around the lake. I was strolling peacefully, looking for a good place to sit down in the grass and admire the sunset but the crows were having none of it. They stalked me, droning and flapping above me and, for the sake of my clothes and my happiness I surrendered and sheepishly went looking for a treeless spot.

But really, the ones that do have a chronic dislike for foreigners are the dogs, not all, mind you, but some so the best thing to do (which I started doing right after a dog chose to yap at me and chase me away from a Buddhist monastery no less) is to avoid eye contact or, for that matter, any other type of close contact with any dogs.

I left Yangon (Rangoon) to go to Pyay, a small town on the Ayeyarwady River (tongue-twister, right?) all the while reading George Orwell’s Burmese Days. And apart from the main character’s name (Flory), what struck me was the first description from the first chapter: the enormously huge persona of the soon-to-be villain of the book, an old Burmese guy who had trouble getting up from a chair because of his, ahem, spherical form. And sure enough, as I arrived at the guesthouse, an enormously huge Burmese guy greeted me and showed me to my room on the top floor of his guesthouse, a place he reached panting and sweating and only once throughout my entire stay. And when I stepped out in search for something to eat, he stopped me and showed me what he had to offer: services as motorcycle and tour guide to the pagodas in town; services as motorcycle and tour guide to the pagodas outside of town; motorcycle rental (which is not yet done in Myanmar so it might have been a little on the close-encounter-with-the-police-and-not-liking-it side); bicycle rental; bus and minibus tickets to wherever, etc. That’s how he became the villain of my day, as he wouldn’t stop advertising every service known to man and I was really starving. The next day though, he became my personal hero, for I asked him where I could find Indian food and, possibly because it was easier than explaining, he jumped on his motorcycle (that’s an overstatement) beckoning me to get on and he promptly gave me the grand tour of the three Indian restaurants in the city.

I also had another benefactor on my way to Pyay: an elderly Burmese chap, teacher of some sort (he said English teacher but I still have trouble believing it), who sat next to me on the bus, and bought me a can of Coke (which I had to drink, for it would have been rude to refuse) and paid for our trip from the bus station to his house and my guesthouse respectively. A $2 ride which he paid all by himself and didn’t even listen to my pleas of pitching in…

I arrived in Pakokku and went straight to the guesthouse recommended by the Lonely Planet (which, only just this time, did not disappoint me). But it was 5 o’clock in the morning and I was quite sure that everyone was still asleep at the guesthouse. When I tried to explain this to the motorcycle driver that brought me from the bus station, he would not listen and started honking, so he’d be sure I wouldn’t be left stranded in the alley. Eventually, I shooed him away and decided to wait for an hour or so until somebody would get up. But my plan was terminated as the next door neighbour saw that I was waiting and came running to my help. In spite of all my objections he started yelling through the front door and in a minute everybody was up. This is how I startled a wonderful old lady (the best English speaking Burmese I’ve met so far), who keeps her guesthouse for more than 30 years now and whose whole-hearted and calm manners charmed me like they charmed the Lonely Planet fellows. Needless to say I don’t think I very much charmed her…

Before ending I just want to put things in perspective with the thing I have to deal with every day: I got at a Tea and Cold place:

‘Coffee please’. That’s how I usually do it.

And the inevitable answer: ‘One?’

‘Water please.’ That’s another thing I ask for.

‘One?’

‘Beer please.’ It’s one of the things I also order, albeit not at the Tea and Cold places.

‘One?’

…

Well, Burmese people, you are more insightful than I thought but my other personalities don’t wish to join me for drinks.

I Have Been Kicked Out

Yup, I have. Meaning that they really wanted me out of Yangon (Rangoon) – one should always write both names, just in case somebody is not confused enough.

When I checked in at the guesthouse in Yangon (Rangoon), I was indeed very happy to have found such an affordable bed in a dormitory, although I was definitely not prepared to deal with the dormitory type of people: loud and disrespectful. And also young. Very young. Yes, I’ve reached a point in life when people around me start looking way too young. Either that or I look ridiculously old compared to them…

Anyway, I had a great time in Yangon (Rangoon): I visited pagodas where the entrance would cost a local person an arm, a leg and his firstborn, the only thing being that they don’t have to pay at all; I walked around the streets during an incredible heat, the type that makes you wish you were born without sweat glands so that you don’t make a fool of yourself when you stop and, all of a sudden, a small lake appears right at your feet and you try not to look as embarrassed as you feel; I talked to Burmese people, who, if they can or cannot speak English, they’ll try communicating with you no matter what (first question: ‘Which country you from?’ – see, they’re a higher class compared to the Thai ‘Whe you flom?’ Second question: ‘What is your religion?’ – just so you know they care about your spiritual growth). To draw the line: two days well spent. But as soon as I got back to the guesthouse, I would inevitably be greeted with the same questions: ‘You don’t go?’ or ‘When you leave?’ or ‘You stay one more day? Yeah? Really? Oh, shucks…’

What does this mean? I thought to myself several times. Why do they want me gone? Do I dislike them so much? Damned if I know. So when I finally told them I was leaving, they were actually happy, although I think they were happier for them as they were for me.

And the lady with the tickets? Ah, well, she’s on the same page. I tell her I want a bus ticket on the 10^th or even 11^th and she says no. Impossible. Last available ticket: ‘day number 9.’ Crap!

Let’s get one thing straight: the people from the guesthouse were the only, err, how should I put this… irritating people around. (Them and the ticket lady, who was really nice. Only she also wanted me out of the city.) The others were (and are still) exceptionally nice and I dread the moment when I’ll be too tired to smile or talk to them. Hell, I actually spent 45 minutes talking to this guy (he shall have a whole post… or maybe just a paragraph) while standing close to some Buddha statue’s feet… standing! We didn’t sit down, we just chatted away in the temple, me hopelessly waiting to take a picture of the Buddha’s feet while there was still some light outside (didn’t happen), he seriously explaining his life story and inviting me to see his monastery… definitely a paragraph if not two!

Definitely didn't happen!

And the other guy, who accosted me while I was writing emails on the cell phone in the greatest pagoda in Myanmar (Wi-Fi generously donated by I-Cannot-Remember-The-GSM-Company-Name) and, when I answered his how-old-are-you question, he said ‘Oh, you small. Very small.’ How can you compete with that? Huh, how can you, Okinawa 2 Guesthouse people? Yeah, I’m not gonna miss you either.

Too Much Time

Yup, too much time to think things over and to be able to get to the level of paranoia one can only envy…

Because I get to Bangkok International Airport and everyone scrambles out of the plane, changing shape from contorted lemurs to actual human beings (well, the Russians – of which there are so many – stay basically the same). And I think to myself ‘man, I should get my luggage, if, that is, it arrived’. But no, they point me to the ‘Visa on Arrival’ counter. And as I slalom through the specially erected corridor of tape, I see that before me there stands a great sea of young Indians or Pakistani, all waiting to get their visas on arrival.

I get out my passport, a picture and while waiting I fill in an application form. And that’s three things out of 7 on the list. Because I now see that there are 7 steps to follow and another two are ‘patiently wait in line’ and ‘give documents to officer’. But there’s one step which gives me the willies: ‘attach flight ticket out of Thailand’. Hmm, this one I don’t have. And so I wait. And while waiting (a lot!) I increasingly think about that damned ticket. What if they don’t give me the visa because I have no ticket out of the country? What if they make me go back? Back to where? How will I get my luggage that made it safe and sound inside Thailand…?

Tough 20 minutes, I tell you. And then I get in front of the officer, who, at an obvious advanced age, with trembling hands but mesmerising smile, takes the papers I have and starts leafing through them.

‘Yes’, he says. ‘Whele is ticke?’

‘What ticket?’ I ask, looking as docile as a new-born lamb.

‘Ticke flom Bangkok to Lomania.’

‘Well, no have ticke. I no go Lomania. I go Burma. I only come Bangkok for Burma visa.’

‘Need ticke. No possible Bangkok withou ticke…’

And so it goes on for at least 10 minutes throughout which he simply smiles his hypnotising smile and I go through a myriad of emotions from pleading to flirting to looking desperate. And then, just like he only wanted to fool around with my mental sanity, he smiles elfishly and scribbles something on my application and then tells me to wait at the next counter. So, together with the 60 or so Indians, I wait. And again have more than enough time to think about what that little written blob from my application actually means and how will the next officer react when he sees me and what if he asks me again about my outgoing ticket…? Suffice is to say that not even the Chinese drop could be as much of a torture for me as that was.

Of course, after the next 30-40 minutes or so I get to the next counter, where a nice young Thai lady warmly welcomes me in Thailand.

After I thought all the mental games are over, I have to go to the Myanmar Embassy to go through almost the same process. But. 

First of all, I arrive quite late and there’s literally a heap of people who are waiting for exactly the same thing but who've already filled in their applications. Secondly, I’m not really sure what I have to do. Apparently, I have to have my passport ready, two photos and a filled-in application form for the visa. But the form drives me nuts. And then the paranoia kicks in. Colour of hair, colour of eyes, height, skin complexion… But only after this does the real fun start. Religion? Wow, what should I say? Should I be completely honest and tell them I’m orthodox? They might look at me funny and maybe they’ll refuse my application. Maybe there are not so many Christian orthodox people applying… damn! I’ll only be Christian. As I turn the application form around, I remain agog about the following questions: current job title; describe your attributions; previous job title; describe your attributions. I’ve heard that jobs like journalist and writer are not very well seen but I think I can impress them if I write something along the lines of PR Officer. But as I fill in the job description, I realize it’s not that far from the attributions of, say, a journalist. But my time is running out and I can’t get another form. So I give my documents at some counter, they again scribble something on them and give them back to me along with a number. When my number will be called, I will be able to give the documents (and money) for a visa. And I wait. And I see people that have been turned around and didn’t get to leave their documents, which to me it means that they have been refused.

Long story short, I have two hours to sweat blood and think about what the refusal for the visa looks like. Do they write in big red letters on your passport ‘NO VISA!’ or can you try again in a couple of days? Do they shout at you and show you off at the other people, saying ‘See? This is what you’re not supposed to do…’? When I finally get to the counter, the nice lady asks me when I want to get my visa and I say 3 days later. ‘Then please give me 810 baht.’ And that’s it. My hands still trembling, I look at her and don’t even realize that she slips me a piece of paper that could be a receipt and waves me off. I only see what’s written on the paper when I get back home:

Lovely, isn’t it? Romania is giving them 810 baht and nothing more. Damn this waiting time and damn their mind games!!!

It's Aliiive!

Yeah well, just like Frankenstein's monster (although, as i recall, Frankenstein had no internet... or blog), it's alive and i'm back. To stress you with my wrong-doings which might even do some right once in a while.

Right now i'm in Bangkok waiting for my Myanmar visa and i'm staying at this old guesthouse close to Kao San Road, the main tourist area in Bangkok (for anyone who's interested it's the Original Central Guesthouse, 61st Tanao Road, really close to the New Central Guesthouse). And i can't resist not showing everyone what my hosts are doing. So please watch (and conceivably like) this video they've created with their cats. Just a heads-up: there's not just one such video. If you check out the uploader's profile, you'll find some more...

Enjoy!