Mothers

Everyone knows how mothers are: they want to take the best care of you, they want to nurture you and pamper you, they want to know your every move and they’re always worried about your safety.

I am the victim of a huge network of an extended family of such mothers all over North-East India: ever since my union with Glonț, the bikers and Enfield owners around here are twisting and turning, making sure nothing bad can happen to either of us. These tough Bullet riders with their honed knives and leather boots turn to tender loving swans when they have to take care of me and of Glonț.

If I ride with them, they are attending to my physical health (‘Have you had your breakfast/lunch/dinner?’) so much more than I would actually require, but I’ve literally heard it said that I need lots of food to have the strength to be able to ride Glonț. They are overlooking my manoeuvring technique, giving me subtle advice on how to put the bike on the main stand (can’t do it for my life), how to kick-start the bike (out of the hundred-something tries I’ve had doing this, I did finally manage to start it once or twice), when to start the bike so that it has enough time to warm up, when and how much fuel I should get, what spare parts I should always carry with me and where to get those from… Of course, most of my mothers tend to these issues themselves not letting me exert myself too much and they help me out whenever they think I might not be able to do something, like tying the bags on my bike or tightening a loose screw on Glonț.

The mothers also lovingly tend to the maintenance of Glonț, accompanying me to the nearest available mechanic although, unfortunately, the mothers can’t agree on the best mechanic around. This is how Glonț and I ended up going to several mechanics just in Shillong, each with his own idea and method of fixing the bike (more on this in a future post).

If I want to leave the nest, the mothers join forces and contact other mothers from along my route, so that these new mothers can take responsibility over me, greet me and accompany me wherever I want to go. The new mothers will then assume the duties of caring for my health, for Glonț’s wellbeing and all the other motherly obligations until again I leave the nest for another destination. Other mothers are informed and the circle closes once more…

My own responsibility is considerably reduced through this ingenious method. Mothers, guardians, chaperons or simply just friends always have the solution and I only have to tag along. This is why I don’t have even the slightest clue of the route I should take or even the name of the cities where we stop at night. And if anyone tells me not to worry – because, for some reason, my mothers always think that I do – I don’t have any concerns whatsoever about almost anything.

There is only one drawback to all this and that’s the fact that I need to check in all the time. It started with just one of the mothers but, as time passed and my mother supply got considerably bigger, by now I have to inform at least 10 different people of my whereabouts and my intentions. I get text messages every day which inquire again and again what, where, when, with whom… So now, whenever I stop on the road and switch on my phone, I’m bombarded with messages and calls and there’s not much else I have time for than to clarify every detail of my trip.

And if that wasn’t enough, this mother-network works in such a way that, by the time we get to a place, Glonț and I are perpetually anticipated; and after we leave a place, some mother from a different part of the North-Eastern states will have already known everything about our stay (I’ve heard it say that, because I was riding for about 300km in Assam, all the police force was informed not to even think about flagging me down).

If we tried to be alone, ride solo or stay for a while without motherly contact, the mothers would probably get consecutive heart attacks and would turn the whole of North-East upside-down just to find us (and they would probably succeed in doing so).

Bottom line is this: being a mother is hard; but it’s not easy being these mothers’ kid either.

Survival Of The Most Adaptable

Meet Andy. 

He is one of the many that passed through Cherrapunjee during the last month. But his is a memorable story because it might just be one of a kind. Also, it’s a good lesson in how not to spend a month in Cherrapunjee.

At first, he was just an illustrious anonym among others, and on the third day here he went to Nongriat, the jungle village 10 kilometers away that houses the famed double-decker living root bridge. Nothing out of the ordinary just yet; on his return to By The Way guesthouse his person still did nothing to impress us and his leaving to Shillong was met with fond waves and words of safe journey.

And this is where things take a different turn: a phone call from Andy informed Heprit that he would be coming back on account of the fact that he couldn’t find his credit card any more. So, when he arrived back here again, we learned that Andy might have left his credit card somewhere around the swimming ponds in Nongriat. The next day he readily got his things and literally ran the almost 3000 steps down back to Nongriat in search for his precious credit card… which he didn’t find.

Low on cash and on morale, Andy became our new long-termer, being forced to wait for some money to be transferred to him here. Andy is half Khasi and half Sikkimese, living under the watchful eye of his aunt in Singapore, where he studies economy.

At first All-knowing Andy was conceited and overly informed about any subject known to man (well, of course, as long as he had his Google and Wikipedia around…), drawing conclusions from his 23 year-long life experience that would make even ants cringe in terror and frustration, but as soon as his money contracted to the size of a chewing gum, he became meek and compliant. The one piece of information I did get from him was that international transfers between Indians would take a very long time, as the government insists on checking each and every detail concerning the transferee. So Heprit found a guy who owned an account with zero balance so that Andy could use it for the transfer, in the hopes that it would take less time to send the money into an account than through Western Union or the like.

After four days of Humble Andy, 700 rupees were transferred to the account and Entrepreneurial Andy’s investments were a chinlone ball and two metallic chains sporting colossal Christian crosses. Heprit received one. Two more days and the following 800 rupees were spent on a ride to Shillong and back, and a haircut. The subsequent day with its striking 100 rupees was deemed a pitiable day.

Our Adopted Andy – by now we had taken upon ourselves to keep Andy alive and somewhat fed, as Heprit was providing a daily allowance and I supplied the cigarettes – was dejected and bored, bombing me with motivational cards on WhatsApp and mostly thinking about food. He had nowhere to go, except for the regular trips to the ATM machine, amounting to 5 times a day, or the tea stalls where we took him daily to keep him hydrated. Desperation and impatience grew in him like weeds in a carefully cultivated crop. And, after we extinguished all other strategies of keeping Andy busy (like having him make the beds, clean the rooms and tend to the guests, as well as other small errands), we finally sent Dutiful Andy to earn his living. Heprit’s electrician friend took the inexperienced Andy with him to work one day. As luck would have it, that day was pretty dreary, rainy and foggy and Linesman Andy had to watch how skillfully and fast the electrician would climb the 10 meter high electricity poles and fix whatever lines were damaged. Photographer Andy soon gave me a detailed photo-account of how things were going. Coming back damp and dirty, Industrial Andy brought home the astonishing sum of 100 rupees.

A week later Serendipitous Andy gave me the good news: ‘Merry Christmas! Money came!!!’, enough for his ride to Guwahati and the subsequent flight to Calcutta and, last but not least, the flight back to Singapore. Careful as he became, he gave all his money to his new custodian – Heprit – and worked out the exact sum he would have to give to Heprit. And then he proceeded to plan a picnic with all of us together and a fun day for all of us in Shillong.

Picnic day was a rainy one so we had to move the picnic inside, where Andy, with his new-found omniscient voice delighted us with visions of kebabs and barbeques, and treated us with pork and beers. The next day was our day in the big city. But by that time, Budget Andy realized that money will not suffice for all expenses. So we ended up parenting again and, certainly, paying for the whole trip. To top it all off, he finally grasped the value of his money and figured that it will not be enough for his 20-something day accommodation and all the other expenses on flight tickets.

On an early Monday morning I woke up startled from the knocks on the door. Andy was leaving the nest and wanted company. We accompanied him to the jeep stand where he booked two seats – one for himself and one for his luggage. And with promises of gifts, presents and contributions to this new adoptive family, he left waving a sad goodbye.

I will not lie: I will miss the little shmuck. But we are now entirely prepared for the new waiting period that’s ahead of Heprit: the transfer from Andy for the lodging and allowance; nevertheless, we already know it will take more than three weeks.

Cherrapunjee Summer

Lying peacefully in bed, reading a book, and enjoying the peaceful summer night I was startled by some disturbance outside. Decibels got higher as some people started shouting at each other right beneath my window. It wasn’t English; that I knew for sure. But it wasn’t the familiar singsong of the Khasis either, that dialect which although I don’t understand, by now I can at least identify.

By this time the aggravation was almost getting out of hand so I did what any normal local would do: I lit up a cigarette and went outside only to find 4 Indians having an intense argument in what I can only suppose was Hindi.

I got at the scene just in time to see a pissed-off Heprit woken from a good night’s rest stomping bare-chested at high speed in his flip-flops towards the Indians. A quick exchange of loud words ensued and, in a fit of silent wrath, Heprit careened to his house and back again, handing the Indians their money they paid for the room and chasing them away with a definitive attitude. The only word I understood was ‘pulice’, which was enough to paint an entire picture even for the ignorant foreigner that I am: the four drunken Indians, drivers for wealthy businessmen who came to enjoy the holiday with some good quality whiskey, had also been drinking heavily during the evening and got into a dispute, as any drunkards would normally do. But their choice of place to mediate their disagreement was very ill-advised (it appears that some 10-15 years ago the locals would have dealt with this type of problem in a different way, mostly through some well-aimed correctional approaches – read ‘punches’ – to the face; so they should offer praise that it’s not 15 years earlier).

After being harshly shooed, the 4 of them hopped onto their seats in one of their bosses’ car and drove confoundedly away in search of another guesthouse. And just after they drifted drunkenly away, a weary shadow appeared on the stage. A fifth driver slowly made his way towards the hostel, seemingly confused and dumbfounded. He appeared not to be aware of what had happened in spite of the cranked-up volume of the previous dialog and was unsure what to do. Because of the other four, he had also been thrown out and his car was probably parked at his employer’s hotel. We witnessed his cell phone conversation intently (me totally amused by the situation, Heprit still venting his pent-up anger), where he exposed the others and waited for instructions. By this time the others were on their second round through town and again stopped in front of the hostel, sloshing excuses into their phones, defending themselves in front of their bosses, slightly bending the truth. Not only did we hear what they were saying into their cell phones, because they kept their initial intensity of speech; but we also could hear the lady on the other end of the conversation. The part that Heprit translated for me was how they explained that they – the drivers – were still safe and sound (and out of trouble) in the dorm room with nothing to worry about. Little did they know in their warm hazes of alcohol that the fifth driver had already reported all the facts to the bosses.

They left again, music pounding wildly into their speakers, shouting at each other exactly like they did before. The last driver eventually gave up waiting around and sluggishly left towards the posh hotel where his bosses stayed.

Sitting on my top floor bench outside my room, smoking yet another cigarette to calm Heprit down, my only regret in this dramedy was that I didn’t get to hear the end of it.

‘This is how we spend summer in Cherrapunjee’, Heprit said. ‘Sitting outside at night, smoking a cigarette, watching the fog setting lower… and when everything seems so peaceful, you have Indians getting drunk’.

What could be more entertaining?!

Faith in Greek Tourism Restored

Is there really a difference between travellers and tourists? Yes, of course! Right now I’m touristing Greece along with a very special person and I’m savouring every moment of it. And even if you think 'touristing' is not a word, I'm still going to use it. Yes, it’s definitely touristing; with hotel rooms where you can sleep in with no fear of the ceiling falling apart or the rats falling upon you at any minute. You can really fall back on hot showers and travel-sized soap and shampoo bottles. The only anxiety is for some major Ancient Greek monument to fall through the cracks.

Everything falls into touristy place: internet hotel reservations, good meals, nice rental car (with effective braking system no less), GPS and proper maps. No more ‘hellowhereyoufroms’ smiles or potent haggling abilities needed. It’s touristing! It’s easy.

Even when I tried to do it the hard way, getting to a remote little touristy town in the South-eastern part of the Peloponnesian peninsula without a hotel reservation and trying to find some cheap accommodation on the spot, things turned out differently than I expected.

This is Tourist Country and, against all my expectation, everything seemed booked out. So, when we asked at a small guest house whether they had a room available, the lady there with her minute English knowledge told us – with the help of some particularly effective aerobics moves – that her place was full, but she somehow explained that she would check other places on the internet. Not only did she come up with some alternatives (booking.com really comes in handy at times like these), but she gave us a map and encircled the affordable places on it, and gave us her blessing to go look for the best deal. Which we eventually found.

Dear kind, friendly and helpful guest house owner/manager from the guest house in Nafplio which I don’t remember the name of: this is me thanking you in the name of all travellers (and some of the tourists) for your wonderful and astounding gesture (and I don’t mean your funky calisthenics)! Flowers and/or candy coming soon… Touristing is easy!

Does It Pay to Be German?

Since it’s a lot harder to come face to face with the puzzled confusion of local people when I answer the ‘what country?’ question, I adopted Germany as my native country: Nepali know Budesliga, Indians know ‘wie geht’s?’ and Sri Lankan know Volkswagen, which makes everybody happy, as opposed to the worried countenances people get when faced with the real answer. I think it’s always easier (for me and for my conversational partner) to choose this win-win situation because they beam with the pleasure of knowing something about my Heimat, and I can smoothly avoid the ‘which country is near? Hmm? Ukraine? Ahh, Russia! You speak Russian? No? [disappointed face]’ line of questioning.

But on the other hand, my being German converts people’s faces from happy-to-meet-you to borderline exuberant, as, in their eyes, I suddenly turn from smiling foreign tourist to a walking dollar sign (better yet, euro sign), ensuring my interlocutor good impending fortune somewhere down the line.

It’s never entirely clear when this strategy is best employed. But in Jaffna this answer ensured several conversations with German-speaking Sri Lankans, conversations that left me flabbergasted no matter the language. Who would expect such German fluency from the inhabitants of a small island in the Indian Ocean? So, on more than one occasion my white lie almost came back to bite me in the arse, only I was faster: if they have worked in Hamburg, I came from the Austrian border; if they moved to Switzerland, I came from Berlin and so on, so that my somewhat shady German accent would not give away my true secret identity.

But on one occasion, the Bundesrepublik Deutschland came to my aid in the least expected way: I set out to buy a men’s sarong for my imaginary brother because of the pretty batik patterns I had seen on some of these male skirts flapping around the Sri Lankan male shins, and because it’s always nicer to buy stuff for other people than for yourself (or at least that’s what you are supposed to say to the sellers in order to impress them). All around the Jaffna bazaar the prices ranged from exorbitant to outrageous (that is, if you consider $5 a bit costly for a 2m long piece of fabric turned into a comfy cylinder) and the traders didn’t even think about budging or haggling. They even seemed on the verge of bursting out in a fit of an infectious laughter at the mere thought of settling for a lower price and I got sniggered at from shop doors in front of which I passed twice. Feeling like not getting the great deal I was hoping for, I just walked around aimlessly, letting the alluring invitations to buy saris and skirts with flower patterns bigger than my head pour over me like a jar of spilled honey, contemplating my ever diminishing chances. And, as I responded to another ‘hellowhereyoufrom’ with my mechanical ‘helloGermany’ answer, again I got spoken to in German.

A middle-aged fellow with a sad receding hairline but grinning like there’s no tomorrow fancied a good German speaking practice session and tackled the situation not with the usual ‘aaa, Volkswagen’ but with an effortless conversation about the German football team and the FIFA World Cup and lured me into the normal conversation that comes after the first introductory lines: you came alone? are you married? what is your work? I like your hairstyle…

‘You know, I live in Switzerland' he said. 'My family is still there but I’m on holiday and help my brother with the shop… Come in, look around. Want to buy a sari?’

‘Well, actually I’m looking for a sarong for my brother…’

With a palpable feeling of pride and self-importance, he felt that it was his duty to translate all my German words to his brother and their helper and all the other curious spectators, who by this time started their own parallel conversations with me along the exact same lines, only this time the dialog was in English. I felt like being transposed in a second superimposed universe, the latter being the English dubbed version of the first German one, both having a strange storyteller laid over. And the only main difference between the two was the price of the sarong: the English universe offered me the sarong for 450 rupees, while the first one clearly stated (as I repeatedly checked) that the sarong was dreihundertfünfzig, 350. By this time I was already so confused as to which conversation to square up to in which language that I decided I would entirely ignore the English one and concentrate on the one that promised the better deal. And by this time, the Swiss Sri Lankan and his brother also figured out that they were rear-ending each other and decided to reunite their universes. To make up for the bad business decision of his Swiss brother, the shopkeeper ceremoniously presented his best merchandise: a lovely pair of plastic training trousers, in case the sarong proved too airy and the wearer would prefer a better shielded option. I dismissed the trousers, reverently accepted the sarong and the receipt nicely wrapped in a FIFA World Cup plastic bag, and victoriously, Germanly exited with a ‘Tschüss papa!’

So, does it pay to be German? Sometimes, it pays less.

Drama At The NMCH

I was roving on the monastery tourist route in Sikkim state and felt happy to return to Gangtok for the evening, where I was looking forward to a nice chat with the wonderful staff at the New Modern Central Hotel, the last place on Earth where I thought I would meet the spawns of an ex-kingdom small as a tiny splinter in India’s finger, and of the promoters of equal rights between sexes. By 5PM I was back on Tibet Road where Sang – the lady owner of the hotel, some tourists and some cops were having a pretty intense conversation just outside the hotel doors. I decided to wait until all the commotion was over and hid in a conveniently placed store from where I could scrutinize the whole scene. But, as I tried hard to refine my hearing and my intuitive senses, they all disappeared together down Tibet Road, so all my attempts at private detectiving were abruptly terminated. So i waited at reception until Sang came back literally purple in the cheeks, panting and huffing. She sat down and proceeded to tell me what had happened (try to imagine this entire dialog taking place in an all but level tone of voice):

'So these 3 backpackers come, like, they ask for a room and I show them one and they, like, say they think about it and come back down and, like, they’re not really happy, so I send the boy upstairs to clean the room, right? And the boy comes back and takes them to see the room again, right? And they, like, ask for some clean sheets, you know? And I haven’t checked the rooms, ‘cause I don’t check them every day, you know? This is why I have a manager, like, you know? And I tell them I will personally change the sheets if they are not clean enough, right? So they go up the third time, right? And the boy walks up 4 flights of stairs and cleans the room and shows them everything, you know? And then come back and they say okay, they'll take the room. And, like, they sit here, smoking and filling in the forms and I tell them, you know, they need to get copy of the passport, the visa, the permit, you know? For one hour they sit here, right? And then they fill in everything and go upstairs, you know? And an hour later they come down and drop the key in front of me and they say they don't want to say. And I'm shocked, you know? Because I didn't know what happened, but okay, if they want to check out, fine. But I tell them that because they checked in already, they have to pay a little cancellation fee, you know, like 50-50-50 each. And even the room I gave them was really cheap, you know, like 500 a night. And the boy has to go up three times and clean the room and everything so that they are happy, right? So this fucking German – just one of them, right; the girl seemed already like she wanted to deal with everything nicely, right? This guy throws 20 rupees in my face, you know? So that's when I exploded, right? And, like, I started shouting, well not really shouting but I got very, very mad, and I told him to take his fucking 20 rupees and don't throw them like that. What, does he think we're animals or what? I also travelled, I've been to Bruxelles for 6 months and where does he think he is? In Europe hotels would charge all the money for something like that, you know? And this German guy tells me to show him on the internet the law that says they have to pay. But what does he think? I don't have internet on my phone and c'mon, 50 rupees each is not that much... So they want to go away so I tell them to wait and I'll call the pulice, like. And the pulicemen come and I explain everything and they think I'm crazy, right? You know, everybody in the city knows who I am. You know, this hotel was a wedding present from my parents, you know? And my husband is very well known in the city… You walked around MG Marg, right?’

…

‘Did you see that gate with the dragons? Well, like, that was made by my father-in-law, right? He’s an artist, you know? Like my husband. And he did all the sculptures of dragons; anywhere you look for dragons in Gangtok, like, all were done by my father-in-law, you know? They call him Dragon Baba, you know? So these-these-these stupid tourists, you know? For 50 rupees I get this much trouble?! But it's not for the money, it's for the ethics, you know? What do they think? That because I live in India I'm stupid? But the pulice, you know? They're always on the side of the tourists so that we here in Sikkim state will make a good impression on the travellers, right? And they think I’m crazy, right? This crazy lady makes so much fuss for nothing… You know? But the old puliceman, you know, he understood what I said and told these travellers that they should pay something and just leave it like this, you know? At least for the boy’s effort for going up and down so many times and cleaning the room, right? But he left and the other one was on the backpackers’ side, like, he thinks I shouldn’t make, you know, so much blah-blah out of this, you know? And he told us to go to the pulice station but that German idiot, you know? He didn’t want to go… and he tells me to show him on my phone on the internet where the law says. I mean, you know, it’s common sense, right?'

...

‘Sometimes I think I should sell this place. You know, this is the last place in Tibet Road where backpackers can come. It’s the only cheap place left in the middle of the city. All the other hotels renovated and now they have TVs in every room, right? And their prices start at 2000 rupees, you know? Well, I really want to see those guys find something as cheap as this and believe me that I hope they have a terrible night tonight! Because they shouldn’t treat us like this. What do they think that we’re like cattle or something? But then we got to the pulice station and the German guy lied, you understand? He lied to the pulice, telling them that they didn’t check in, right? What does he think all those forms are for? I don’t do them to keep them, you know? I have to send them to the Tourism Office because we also have to pay taxes, right? Fucking tourists!’

And on she went. All my signs of alliance and coalition were acknowledged but could not calm her down. I offered a cigarette. She sent for some coffee. She talked some more and then retold the story on the phone… about 3 times. And only after a long unwinding time, thanks to some coffee, some beer, a joint and a couple of cigarettes did I have the courage to approach her again:

‘So, now that you feel better, what do you say, can I check in again?’

‘Hah, you know what? I’m in a good mood now so I’ll give you a better room…’

She called ‘the boy’ – a very sweet lad, who could win any contest involving dancing and/or re-inhaling the smoke rings he just blew out – and briefly instructed him to take me upstairs. My previous room had been 302 but now I went higher up in the hotel room hierarchy (and the hotel’s floors) and got to 505, a large room with a nice view towards the main road and some unique paintings:

 

Incidentally, this was also the room zee Germans had checked in and subsequently rejected.

Bardia National Park

He awoke from his rather short sleep and looked up. The fan was still working, which meant about another hour of electricity before the buzzing of the generators started invading Thakurdwara. It was 5:30 and he had to prepare for yet another day in the jungle. Tigers, he thought, they all wanted to see the tigers. And all had been fortunate enough to see them every day for the past month. He’d taken tourists into the jungle for 31 days straight and all came back satisfied.

Pardip was young but he was good at his job. He knew it. He’d been tramping around Bardia National Park for as long as he could remember and he could find his way anywhere with his eyes closed. Becoming a guide was only the rational thing to do. His mother had been so proud when he first told her he passed the exam; and he’d learned English too; and Hindi. If only he could have time to visit her more often…

He got up and nudged Krishna, who was sleeping next to him. They had shared the bed since the fire devoured his little bungalow. It had been two weeks before and, when he came back from the jungle, the lodge was filled with army people and villagers, watching helplessly how the flames consumed most of his belongings: the books, the binoculars and all the lodge’s documents were now ashes and dust. The Boss hadn’t been happy. The old copper wires and the heat had been too much for the mud-thatched little hut. But his guitar was still in one piece and most of his clothes. Ah, the clothes… he’d have to wash them as soon as possible but he never really had the time. Krishna had offered to wash them for him but Krishna was also busy in the kitchen.

He’d have to get up and see to the breakfast for the tourist. The cook might have forgotten about it and it was almost time to wake the tourist up. Then they’d head for the jungle.

…

The jungle: the sounds of countless birds, the familiar smell of leaves and elephant dung combined, the lush green trees, and the deer. He hoped to see his lucky deer that morning. It meant that they’d also see the tigers. But the deer were not in their usual spot. He didn’t worry much. He knew the rhino would probably be at its usual waterhole and that’d be a good start for the day. And, sure enough, he was there. It had only been an hour and the tourist was sweaty and slightly panting. And so was his new assistant. The Boss made him take the new guy and he was already complaining. He had to explain everything to him twice and he still couldn’t tell the birds apart by their chirrups, but his English was improving, which meant that soon enough Pardip wouldn’t have to translate everything to him.

He tried to get closer to the rhino but the rhino was quicker and disappeared into the forest. So they headed for the Supermarket: the best wildlife spotting place in the whole National Park, where any tourist, young or old, could get to without getting a heat stroke on the way. Spotted deer ran in front of them and monkeys jumped spitefully from tree to tree. But not his lucky deer. At the Supermarket others were already waiting but no tigers had crossed the river yet. They could wait for an hour or so and then move on.

It was easier than the day before: this tourist didn’t complain like the Israeli couple from the days before. They had been quite adamant about his language. He still wasn’t polite enough. He’d tried to be more tactful and delicate, and they hadn’t appreciated it. But they had sent him that great video with the tiger crossing the river, so all his efforts had paid off.

The tourist agreed to go all the way to the python’s lair and that meant walking through the thorny bushes and the arid riverbeds where those horribly loud treepies seemed to ridicule each human movement. Of course, the tourist had trouble with crossing the river: always getting the shoes off and back on, right under the sizzling sun. But Pardip was patient and he’d learned long ago that tourists wouldn’t be able to cross the river faster, even if he gave them his bamboo stick, even with all the rocks carefully placed so that every step would be easy. The sun was burning hotter now and all clothes were sticking to the skin like glue. But the big river was soon staring them in the face, its waters an invitingly grey sight. The water wasn’t big, just enough to cover a laid down body, but the cooling effect was all Pardip wished for. He’d surely keep a watch out for any wild animals but this part of the river was too exposed for any big animals. They were safe.

Pardip crossed the river in no time but the tourist took a long time negotiating the slippery rocks underfoot. On the other side, he walked barefooted to the trees by the riverbank and carefully crouched in front of the small lair. Yes, the python was inside, like always, and the tourist was gasping with surprise at the sight of a couple of coils buried in the dirt. Pardip had never had the courage to touch it; he’d always been afraid of snakes and he cheerfully admitted that, but he’d always hoped to find a strong, spirited tourist who could get the python out. Still, when beckoned to touch it, Pardip’s skin would prickle with disgust and anguish.

It’s always about the photos, he thought when the tourist flashed the camera deep into the burrow. All tourists snap shots to prove they’ve been places. And some get such nice photographs… The Indian photographer he’d guided through the park just some weeks before didn’t want to send him the pictures. They had been really good, Pardip was sure, but he also knew that to see them was to buy them.

He took the tourist back the same way he came and was as patient as before with all the tourist’s stops at the river crossings. He’d tried to help but the tourist was exactly like any other: stubborn, obstinate, self-absorbed, everything that was deemed abnormal in Pardip’s culture. He stopped for lunch under the protective shade of the big fig trees. He’d got a nice lunch today: vegetable rice and potato curry, a good nutritious meal. The cook had taken a liking to him and always had something put aside for him, especially if any tourists ordered meat and he had enough left over. He also suspected Krishna’s influence on the cook but he’d always made sure he’d show all of them the proper respect and regularly bought them whiskey and cigarettes. But only when the Boss wasn’t around; the Boss was a chain smoker but he didn’t approve of the boys’ smoking. They always had to hide for a quick puff from a cigarette that passed from hand to hand and was finished in seconds.

When lunch was done, Pardip showed the tourist back to the Supermarket and hoped against hope that a tiger would appear. They spent there some hours, the tourist reading and, eventually, falling asleep, and him talking away the minutes until they eventually made their way back to the lodge. But his day was far from over.

He went straight to the Boss and gave a complete update: the rhino, the deer, the python… no tigers. But the tourist seemed happy. Sure, tourists always seem happy, and never seemed to worry about tomorrow. Ah, tomorrow: it could be his day off. But right after the short shower, Krishna came in and told him about the Nepali people who’d come that day and wanted a jeep Safari the next one. There would be no day off again.

And then there was the tourist’s dinner and the evening’s preparations. The Boss always made him do it, even when he told guests he was a sort of manager; he’d still have to bring salt and pepper to the tables and fix all unpredictable problems. He was still the handy man. But today was easy: there was just this one tourist and the Nepalese people, whom were taken care of by the Boss. The Boss always discussed with the rich Nepali, and these were young doctors from Kathmandu, so he wasn’t needed.

His friends had invited him out for beers and, after everything was dealt with at the lodge, he went to the bar. Of course he’d have his cell phone close by, in case anything was needed of him. The night was quiet and dark, fireflies hovering around everywhere, competing with the myriad of stars in the sky. But then, the tourist came. He’d thought that the tourist would go straight to sleep, like most of them do after a whole day of walking in the jungle. But this tourist had something else in mind and, after some beers and some shared cigarettes, the tourist asked him if he’d be available the next day; it seemed that the tourist had changed his mind and wasn’t leaving Bardia yet. It suited Pardip just fine: he’d go with the tourist and the Boss would guide the Nepalese doctors. It meant a little more business, even now, when fewer tourists were showing up so far from the classic Kathmandu – Pokhara route. He’d just have to make some phone calls and explain matters to the Boss.

It turned out to be a good day, thought Pardip. He would share another beer and go get some sleep soon. Of course, he would have to get up early again and prepare everything for the next day: breakfast for the tourist, chores for the staff… But maybe he would see his lucky deer tomorrow.

Supertourist

I am proud to announce that I have been promoted to the ‘Supertourist’ status! And, if you were to ask what that is, I’d try to explain through examples of the Supertourist ways, which are above and beyond the normal tourist behaviour (there is no ‘ordinary Supertourist’, as Supertourists are, by definition out of the ordinary).

For instance, if given a train, Supertourist would gladly dangle over its sides while slowly being transported over Myanmar’s longest viaduct, the Gokteik Viaduct. Fortunately (or, maybe not), the train almost crawls over the viaduct because it appears that it creaks and contorts and is approaching its golden years even without the added stress put upon the structure by passing trains. But I’m glad to say no Supertourists found their end at the bottom of the Gokteik Gorges.

For Supertourist there’s nothing that’s not worth exploring. Even if Supertourist has only two short minutes at a train station, he will jump off and have a long look around: the new place might have something worth visiting so that any predetermined plan is completely useless. Hence, one more reason to travel light.

And how would Supertourist choose a guesthouse in any location? Would he use a guide book (like the ill-omened Lonely Planet) or follow the advice of other travellers? It would be a lot easier to have a quick stroll from the train station and look around for any prospective hot spot. Or, if the little flock of workers for a certain Yee Shin Guesthouse in Hsipaw would swarm around and thrust business cards in his face, Supertourist might just consider going there (especially since the 150 m ride is free). Even Supertourist might fall for your normal guesthouse owner/worker scheme: they say they have $5 rooms but first they show him the $6 rooms and if somehow Supertourist forgets to ask about the price, he’ll only find out once he checks out (incidentally, this is probably the first guesthouse in Myanmar where money is expected at the end rather than before checking in).

But Supertourist won’t mind. He’ll just make the best out of the remaining hours of daylight, rent a motorbike and drive around, exploring as much as possible. He would find the Shan Prince’s Palace, where a relative of the prince would sit him down and explain in great detail all the trouble the Shan Prince and his family have been through (and it’s quite annoying when you discover that Shan princes aren’t that rare, as there used to be 33 Shan states that required their own personal prince). Most probably, Supertourist will eventually faze out and nod whenever it is required but the majority of royal life details will be lost on him. He will then continue his adventure, finding the good sunset spot and hastily making his way there, only to find that the sun had already set and there’s not a lot to see as night falls rapidly over the valley. Still, there would still be some time to wonder through the little alleys on top of the hill, perched high on his motorbike, trying to copy the local ways by not getting off the motorbike without a serious obstacle in the way: temple gates or temple entries are not to be considered a serious obstacle. And, if questioned, he will invoke the ‘ignorant westerner’ argument, causing pitying or superior looks from locals.

Supertourist will take advantage of a new day from the early hours of the morning and, as soon as possible, he’ll ride around on the rented motorbike carrying a hand-drawn map of the surroundings and trying to find one of two waterfalls in the area, specifically, the one that’s not dried up. And, as success fails to show itself, as the non-English speaking locals will point him in the wrong direction, and as the roads become dirt tracks going steeply up a hill or another, Supertourist will stubbornly press on and will finally sneak a quick look at the secluded waterfall. The bike will be parked as close as possible, pictures will be taken and showers will be enjoyed.

But this will not be enough for Supertourist: he will want to know where the water is coming from, thus he’ll try to ride the bike up the hill, on a dangerously abrupt cattle path and through the crops on top, right up to the little farm suspended on the cliff above the waterfall. Having fulfilled his wish, he will have to descend on the same road with the bike, which will be the cause of some sweating and stress, soon to be forgotten by the approach of the Highway to Mandalay, from where new adventures start.

His aplomb will slightly fade when the bike’s chain will fall off the front sprocket and, being on the side of the highway with a tool-kit as useful as a fork for eating soup, he’ll have to flag down a nice Burmese mechanic who will not only reattach the chain but also tighten it as well. Spirit up again, Supertourist will start looking for a way towards the hot springs so lovingly portrayed at the guesthouse and, after a few failed attempts he’ll finally find a possible, if not probable way to get there. The overflowing river will never be able to dent Supertourist’s spirit: he’ll be up to the challenge and drive through the water as smoothly as a ballerina on a stage and reach a new and interesting sight: a stone quarry, where a dozen men are conveniently taking a break from crushing rocks with bamboo-shafted hammers and curiously eyeing the newcomer. Once he’ll ask about the hot springs, they’ll point to the river and indicate walking through it not far. But if Supertourist doesn’t fully trust walking barefooted through water on slippery rocks, the workers will soon explain that there is another way and will eventually guide Supertourist to the place. If the hot springs are still eluding Supertourist, he’ll accept the new-found spot, walk back through the river, watch how some huge slabs of stone almost come crushing down on his motorbike, and then drive to safety. He’ll soon arrive in the city, where he’ll try to find new hidden treasures.

Supertourist is not infallible though and needs sustenance. So, Supertourist must go out to find a restaurant for his special needs, for instance, a place that allegedly has vegetarian food. Upon ordering, he makes sure that the message is clear but once the food arrives and Supertourist has a bite, he’ll be struck by the distressing fishy taste of the broth where some noodles and veggies float and, being hungry after a full day, will ignore the fish soup and have noodles. As a consequence, Supertourist will be reminded of his fishy encounter the following day…

Supertourist’s day will end late, only to begin early the next morning, when the early Shan market must be visited before the 5.30 AM bus takes him away. Getting up at 4 AM is no problem for Supertourist: he’ll be lively and fresh, sprint around the market, have a nutritious rice breakfast and be ready to go by the time the bus arrives. Only after everything has been seen and done can Supertourist unwind and catch some sleep on the questionably comfortable bus seat. A new adventure awaits just outside the bus.

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?