Unkie Herb

Still in Myanmar, loving it.

 Want to write about the lack of personal freedoms and state controled media distractions, but I should be careful or I won’t be able to access the site here.

More than that, they remind me of conditions at home, only more obvious. I think the only country in the world with a higher fan rate of the English Premiere League than England is Myanmar. I’m serious. The newspaper sellers carry between five and eight different football geared papers, and only one about news. Makes me think about my Leafs and Raptors… Maybe Chomsky was on to something.

At any rate, thanks for the comments. Sorry for not emailing!

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Trying to narrow down the past ten days into a single post won’t be easy, as this country oozes authenticity and isolation.

Anyway, here are a few highlights that came outside the expected tourist sights and itineraries.

1. Wandering past a Christian cemetary and church into a minority tribal village, only to be greeted by the Baptist minister and his son. His people, the Karens, were converted to Christianity by American missionaries around 150 years ago, during British colonial rule. He led us to the home of the retired preacher, who sang us hymns while we drank tea and ate some snacks. This man, perhaps eighty years old, related the story of the Baptism movement in Myanmar, all in perfect English.

Soon, his grandson was reciting the Lord’s prayer and his granddaughter sang us a perfectly accented Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. They were about six and ten, respectively.

Asked to sing something from home (and looking at the panic on Yaniv and Bruno’s faces), I gave them by best attempt at Neil Young’s “Out on the Weekend”. Perhaps not the most appropriate subject matter, but it is a beautiful song. Afterwards we had a lengthy discussion with the three men (the preacher, the retired preacher and his son) about global religion and the state of Christianity in Canada and Europe. Very interesting, although we had to use basic English.

2. Hopping on the overstuffed train, we rolled our eyes at our seating prospects. Luckily, Yaniv and Bruno set off and found the restaurant car, where we could drink beers and play cards. There, a young boy, perhaps 12, studied the Israeli game we were playing, and eventually joined in. Well, damned if he didn’t start winning some hands, to much excitement from us and the local men looking over our shoulders. His father, a heavily tatooed monk, seemed less overjoyed at his son getting wrapped up in competition, yet he seemed pleased that he was practicing English and teaching us the local language as well.

The monk, at one point, took my obnoxious aviators and rocked them for about ten minutes, I’ll try and get the picture posted, because it’s genious.

3. After the train ride, we waited in a tea shop by the side of the road for the bus to the next town. The bus came, and went, jammed to the rafters. So, well after dark, a pick up truck pulled up. This miracle of Asian transportation is a standard, albeit twenty year old, pick up that has benches installed in the bed. Overtop is a metal roof with a single steel bar around the edge, raised six inches to keep cargo and passengers secure. Against this bar my ass rested, my bare feet dangling over the edge. Around me were three big backpacks, two other backpackers, a half dozen big sacks of rice and seven local men. For four hours up mountain roads, getting progressively colder and colder, I sat in this position.

Above me the night sky was a fantastic bowl of stars with no moon, and on the mountsides burned dozens of brush fires, lit by farmers and allowed to burn uncontrolled. This, according to a local businessman, was Burmese style farming. It was a beautiful ride, the snakes of orange fire on the massive hills of blackness, the stars and the cold.

So… a big Gong Xi (congratulations) and a happy Chinese New Year. It isn’t that important here in Burma or in the other Buddhist countries, though they do celebrate the lunar calender. The Buddhist New Year is in April, usually. The biggest thing about being in Burma is avoiding the millions of Chinese tourists who swamp Thailand and other countries for the week. I love the Chinese, mind, its just that millions of tourists scare me.

Take care, thanks for reading, and I promise to get some photos up ASAP, which could mean when I get to Yangon in a week or two.

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The smile cracked my face before the extended landing gear made contact with the tarmac. It was then wiped clean as the plane touched down and immediately lurched to the right, rattling the luggage in the overhead and squeezing a few gasps from my fellow passengers.

What a change. We spent our last Thai night on plastic stools on Khao San Road, literally on the road, drinking plastic buckets full of whiskey and coke. Had a great time with three Irish girls, a Japanese guy (Ichiro!) and his friend, two South Africans, and my dynamic duo of traveling partners (Belgian Bruno and Israeli Yaniv). Around two o’clock we grabbed our bags from behind a guesthouse reception desk and hopped a bright pink “taxi-meter” for the airport.

Bangkok’s new one, Suvarnabhumi, is the largest in Asia and is a massive temple of exposed beams, glass and indirect blue lighting. Wandering the place in the wee hours, we passed a Muslim prayer room in use, and spoke with three Vietnamese and one Malaysian man in the smokers lounge. At the Burger King for a six dollar breakfast (excuse me?), I met two Bhutanese children who ordered cheeseburgers in North American accents. Amazing.

As the plane lowered itself toward Yangon International, details on the grid of green farms began to reveal themselves. Small houses and shacks, crumbling two lane roads, and several gold stupas, like huge bells, stood out amongst the varying greens of the agricultural area.

I was relieved to see tarmac appear beneath us, replacing the wide dirt track that was running under us for several hundred meters. As our pilot tentatively touched down, we slipped sideways, resulting in white knuckles and pounding hearts.

We stepped out of the airport and, along with an older Japanese man, grabbed a taxi for the city center for a dollar each. Our taxi driver was silent, but beside sat a younger man who was eager to practice his English. He gave us some assistance with Burmese (Mingalaba!) and let us know about the different exchange rates. Hilariously, the Myanmar kyat is pronounced “jess.”

“That is right,” our new friend informed us. “K-Y-A-T, jess.”

As for Yangon itself, it is completely different from any other place I have been in my life. More than anything it resembles Phnom Penh, but is much more busy, poor and disorganized. It is also very traditional and slightly time machine-ish, as the cars are universally from the 1970’s or beyond and the buildings all remnants from English colonialism.

The men wear sarong-like skirts, tied at the waist, and the women and children paint their faces with a paste made from powdered tree bark. It acts as both makeup and sunscreen, and is often used in intricate patterns. The people are much less slow and happy than the Thai or Lao, but they will all grin shyly when you break the ice with a smile and a “Mingalaba!” (hello). As well, the presence of much more Indian heritage is obvious in the facial features and darker skin tone, as well as the intermingling of Buddhist temples and mosques.

All at once, I have entered a different world. I am still a little overwhelmed and I expect to be blown away, as this is the most cosmopolitan of Myanmar locales. If everything from here is to become more traditional and segregated, than I am nothing but terribly excited to go everywhere, provided the military is permitting.

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This really is an amazing country, to borrow the tagline from their tourism marketing campaign.

Monks on cell phones, browsing mp3 players in a five story electronics mall. Nepalese and Indian men touting suits and tailored gowns on a crowded street. Swedish brothers running the ultimate combination in tourist attractions: a bar that is also an internet cafe. Best of all, if you want to get a sex change, it’s oh so cheap (I’ve already had two!).

But I’m leaving. I’ll be back, but it’ll be at least a couple of weeks.

To Myanmar, the country formerly known as Burma. I fly tomorrow morning at 7:15, Air Asia, a one hour hop to Yangon (the former capital formerly known as Rangoon). I am going with my Israeli brother and a friend from Laos we ran into on the street here in Bangkok: Bruno from Belgium.

This should be really interesting. Myanmar is about the size of Thailand, but receives less than 2 percent of the tourists. It is almost fully isolated from the outside world. To buy a Coke, I’ll have to spend around seven dollars and watch my back, as it’s only available on the black market. The official exchange rate, provided by the abominable military junta that runs the country, is about 6.4 kyat per US dollar. The market rate, set on the street by hotels and money changers, is more like 1000 kyat for a buck. Hmmm… to the black market we go…

This is the first time I’ve had an ethical debate with myself over entering a country. I’ve done my homework though, and I won’t touch anything remotely “packaged.” I figure I can funnel my money through the local people as much as possible, with some unfortunately necessary government earmarks (i.e. airport tax, visa fees, entrance to historical sites, etc).

At any rate, I’m not exactly sure how easy internet access will be in this strange land. I know that there are no banks, and credit card use is limited to purchasing online (so airline tickets are possible). I’m sure I’ll find net cafes in Yangon and the second city, Mandalay, but otherwise it’ll be hit and miss.

Tonight, though, is reserved for Khao San roadside beers until around midnight, at which point we’ll hop a cab for the new, shiny, largest in Asia airport. There’s no point in dropping another eight dollars on substandard, redonkulously overpriced Bangkok accommodation when there is a bigass new airport with plenty of pass out space waiting just outside of town. Besides, we’d have to wake up at like four am anyway, so screw it.

Cheers. To Burma!

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Watch this video.

Sorry if I come across as a jackass, but hey, it’s me…

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Pai, Chiang Mai, Bangkok, and now Ko Chang. Other than hundreds of foreigners everywhere, Thailand has a lot of variability. From hippied out Pai - with a great live blues scene - to the red light district in Bangkok, to a white sand beach. You got options.

In Pai I met an Israeli hippie who I had met in several places in Laos, and I’ve been rockin with him for the past week or so. We did the stereotypical night bus from Chiang Mai to Bangkok. It was stereotypically uncomfortable. I was sitting behind two stereotypical Dutch guys who just had to lean their seats back as far as they would go. No respect.

Bangkok was insane, as expected. Khao San road is the budget tourist neighbourhood and probably the only place in all of southeast Asia that literally every single traveller makes at least a small stop at. Tourists outnumber locals there at least twenty to one, and the sound of small, wooden frog souveniers (like little instruments, local women in traditional dress play them to entice would-be money spenders) is in Dolby.

Ran into my two friends from Queen’s who I had met in Chiang Mai a couple weeks prior, and I took them to their first red light district experience. There are two main areas for tourist wide-eyed-ness, Patpong and Soi (laneway) Cowboy. Patpong is now more tourist market than meat market, but the older thai (and sometimes western) man trying to pull you in to the “ping pong show” still maintains a not so silent vigil.

Soi Cowboy, named after a Vietnam war vet who set up “shop” in the small alley, is much smaller but much more business - you order by number, pinned to the girl’s bikini. This is where I took my friends, two girls from Canada (Lindsay and Meg) and the aforementioned Israeli guy (Yaniv). It was satisfyingly glitzy, but really sleazy and sort of sad. I don’t know what was more off-putting: the thought of these girls finding themselves in this situation, or the western men who flood the owners and pimps with western cash, despite families back home.

Ko Chang is, again, overtouristed, but there are some really chilled out places away from the main beaches. Yaniv and I have spent the last couple days putting together supplies: mosquito netted hammocks, a machete, sticky rice and noodles, diesel fuel (in a waterbottle), and about forty litres of water. We’re hitchin a ride on a snorkeling tour to a small island off the bigger Ko Chang, where we’ve been assured there is nothing but sand, palm trees and cobras. We think we’ve got enough food, and the snorkel operator has hooked us up with a fishing rod, a small boat and two snorkel/mask combos. We figure between the rod and maybe some bamboo spear fishing (hence the machete) we can snag some reef fish for protein.

Anyway, we leave tomorrow morning (the second) and return the fourth or fifth, depending on food supplies and the cobra situation. We’re gonna disappear for a few days and it should be amazing. We’re ready to build random things (maybe a barbecue) out of bamboo and use to rocks to knock down some coconuts from the palms. See ya.

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