"...try to be a little more Burmese, ok?"

Sawadhee bi mai (Happy New Year!) from Thailand, where Cathy and I are working day and night to answer one of life’s most difficult and pressing questions: Is it possible to ever tire of eating delicious, fresh shrimp? So far, the answer is clearly “no,” but we’ll keep you abreast of further research.

I last wrote from Phi Phi (pronounced pee-pee) Island, Thailand and left off on our travels through the limestone karsts and hongs of Pha Nga Bay that preceded our arrival on Phi Phi. We spent 3 days paddling (and being paddled, sometimes) through caves and up streams in this gorgeous area. As I mentioned last entry, emerging from a cave into the central hollowed out ‘hong’ is a thing of sacred beauty. No sound from outside enters the hong, and huge palm trees spill down the sides of the vertical cliff walls that surround us. Any splash or cough from us is magnified and echoes in the chamber. The hong is usually cooler than outside, since its sheer walls only allow the sun direct access at exactly high noon. The rest of the time one side of the area is in cool shade. We catch glimpses of wafting butterflies, soaring eagles, and crab-eating macaques from inside the karsts. The crab-eating macaque is a fascinating monkey because of its ability to swim (!!) and for its diet of small crabs. Like a raccoon eating a crayfish in a North American stream, the macaque will smash the crab against the rocks to break it’s shell and get at the meat. The cliffsides at water level are also teeming with freshwater oysters, and we are told the macaques make short work of them as well. I’d love to see one of these monkeys in action, but unfortunately, we scare most of them up the cliffs to higher ground and only catch small glimpses of them jumping from tree to tree. We also paddled out of Pha Nga Bay and up a small stream that cuts inland to a jungle area. The appeal is that the stream has cut a gorge out of the surrounding limestone, and it creates a mini Grand Canyon feel. Again, once we got upstream a bit and away from the fishing and tourist boats in the bay itself, all sound was deadened and we drifted along aimlessly, watching the banks for water monitors (of which we saw a few), macaques, butterflies, birds, and crabs. Crabs were easily the most prolific,and I was amazed at the variety of species we saw. Fiddler crabs to green crabs to blue crabs to white crabs to speckled crabs, etc. More than enough crabs to provide good eats for people, monkeys, and birds alike. One crab in particular caught our attention for its peculiar behavior. It was stark white in color, and was the size of your pinky fingernail. We would never have noticed it were it not for its strange form of gesturing. This crab, when you passed by (say, within 5 feet or so) would raise both its front claws in a “touchdown” type gesture. All along the banks, waves of small white crabs lifted both claws and reared up on hind legs as if to say “touchdown!” or, perhaps more appropriately, in the vernacular of the Cowardly Lion in the Wizard of Oz “put ‘em up…put ‘em up…I can take ya…put ‘em up.” The overall effect was hilarious – I felt like we had discovered a new breed of crab, and as we drifted past, it was as if I could hear their little high pitched voices challenging us on: “c’mon ya puny pink human…you wanna piece of me? This is my turf, see. Why don’t you make like a tree and leave??” Cathy and I couldn’t stop laughing at the courageous little fellas. Funny enough, though, their bark was much worse than their bite. As soon as I neared to try to catch one, they scooted off into their holes and cowered in fear, just like the Cowardly Lion! The nerve of those little trash-talkers. Just like the little brother or sister who challenges you to fight and then runs off yelling “you’re a dork!” at the last second… little weasels! I had to give them credit, though, for defending their turf the best they could, and Cathy and I named them the “Thai Trash-Talking Touchdown Crabs.” Look for a Discovery Channel special coming soon!

One side note – during our sea canoe adventure we stayed on a small island named Ko Yao at the Ko Yao Island Resort. We were picked up each morning by boat to head out canoeing. The hotel and the island, though, were great. Inexpensive, relatively untouched, and bright and friendly. I recommend it to anyone looking to spend a few days in Thailand off the beaten tourist tracks of Phuket and Patong Beach. Ko Yao is a great little island, and I got to see a good bit of it while jogging around. There were small rubber tree plantations, and I ran past drying rubber sap and the distinct smell of rubber, even before vulcanization. I also saw amazing Thai gas stations – basically 10-gallon drums of gasoline sitting on the side of the road with strange pumps attached to their tops. The pump itself was hand-cranked and held a gallon or so. A car would pull up (usually one of the small 3-cyclinder tuk-tuks that probably gets 100 miles to a gallon) and the attendant (usually an old man who owned a food shop just next to the “gas station”) would empty the pump contents into the tank. If the car needed more than a gallon (which I never saw), the pump would have to be hand-cranked again to refill it. I’m sure the Thai people thought nothing of this at all , but different versions of modern necessity (like gasoline, as one example) fascinate me. One other interesting thing about Ko Yao, and all of southern Thailand that we saw for that matter – the people are clearly poor, and most live in small shacks raised on stilts to provide safety from tidal floods, yet every house was clean and meticulously kept, at least from the outside. A tin shanty with no electricity or running water might have the most beautifully pruned hedges separating it from the road, or the neighbors yard. It lead me to believe that Thai people take real pride in themselves, their homes, and their work, and I considered that quite an evolved and developed state from I saw in Africa.

A quick note about the Africa trip and the references I make to it in this and other journal entries from SE Asia. I am not intending to refer to it so frequently, and I am not trying to present the African societies and the SE Asian societies versus one another. But unfortunately I think it as human nature to use your last experience as a measuring stick for the current experience. It’s not as if I spend all day thinking back on Uganda and Rwandan street scenes, but when I see something here in mountainous northern Thailand, I of course think back to them and compare the two. It actually makes me wonder what I would have compared SE Asia to if we had come here first. But looking back, what did I compare Africa to? What was my frame of reference then? Nothing, I imagine, which I’m not sure is better or worse. I can make one clear distinction between the two trips (Africa and SE Asia) thus far, however: Africa was clearly a zoological experience. It was about the animals…and the animals were incredible. SE Asia, on the other hand, has been an anthropological experience. It has been about people and cultures, and I am beginning to realize that I clearly prefer that. I am intrigued by a people’s history – how they came to be – what customs they had and what customs prevail – what they built and how they built it – and how they currently weave their former traditions into modern life, if at all. This is not to say I don’t love animals – I love them to death – but one can only stare at an elephant so long, you know? But to see Burmese monks at prayer, or Thai women buying from the floating ‘grocery boat’ that meanders the canals of Bangkok…that I could watch all day. I guess it all boils down to a fascination that people have with one another. I do something this way. I eat like this. How do you do it? I loved Africa, and I am richer for having seen and experienced it. This trip, though, has been full of new and wholly different experiences from Africa – things that I can relate to a bit easier, perhaps – and I am enjoying those aspects tremendously so far.

One additional side note regarding journal entries. Many people have asked how much time I spend on each entry. The disappointing answer is as little time as possible! (Thus the numerous typos and misspellings…) PC and Internet access are always in short demand, and when available there is always a line of people waiting to use it. As a result, my typing is always rushed and my thoughts always disjointed. I rarely, if ever (I think I did it once in Africa), look back over my work. Usually it’s type real fast, post to internet, and get back to the adventure of travel! Sorry if the resulting work is sometimes a mess of words and thoughts, but stream-of-consciousness writing is all I can manage for now. I have started to type in Wordperfect and then paste to the web page, though (rather than the direct form I used to attempt), and Word should help me catch some spelling and typing errors.

From Ko Yao we made a dangerous crossing across rough open waters to Phi Phi Island. We had missed the larger, safer ferryboat, and were left no choice but to brave the open sea in a small speedboat. As we jumped wave after wave, and pitched and rolled with the choppy sea, I found myself reverting to my old ‘airplane in turbulence’ trick: watch the eyes of the stewardesses. If they are going about normal business, no problem, it’s just turbulence. But if you see them look scared? Uh-oh. Hang on. Same thing on this boat. I watched the crew (2 men, one dubbed the “skipper” by Cathy and I, and the other, obviously, “Gilligan,” the young kid who was first mate, and one woman, who we named “Maryanne” and assumed was the girlfriend of the Skipper) and wondered “if the Skipper brought his girlfriend along, it must not be too bad, right? I mean, would he bring her along to die? Of course not. Unless, he brought her along to prove how well he could handle the monster seas?” The 90-minute crossing ended up being nothing more than an uncomfortable ride, and the SS Minnow would not be lost after all. We made it to Phi Phi Don, the larger of the two islands that make up Phi Phi itself. The smaller of the islands, Phi Phi Le, I think, is famous for Maya Cave, the site where the Shangri-La, hidden paradise film The Beach was filmed. Phi Phi was stunning. As a marine reserve, the waters were clear and beautiful. The resort was pretty crowded and western, and I thought back to a 2001 NY Times article we ripped out mentioning Phi Phi as a great place to get away from the tourist crowd. Yeah, right! Not after the article! We didn’t mind though, after our hiatus on Ko Yao, and we enjoyed the spa and some excellent scuba diving. We figured Phi Phi was also our last chance to enjoy some of the western touches we didn’t expect to find in our next destination - Myanmar: telephones, TV, the internet, etc. Thus my entry of 15 Dec 2002 was from Phi Phi.

Burma, or Myanmar as it was renamed (to shed its colonialist past), is a study in contradiction. First, there are the names: Is it Burma or is it Myanmar? Is it Rangoon or is it Yangon? Irrawaddy River, or the Ayerwaddy? Then there is the driving: the wheel is on the right side, like the British, but the cars drive on the left like France or the USA. (all together now: hunnnhhhh?) This creates the dangerous situation of facing head on traffic while steering from the far side of the car as you pass one another. Thus the toughest side from which to judge the distance. Yeesh. As a passenger, this took some getting used to! Next, the people: poor, destitute, human rights violating/suffering, ice hockey-playing goons (they don’t play ice hockey, but I’ll explain shortly) or sweet, caring, calm people untouched by western social vices? Which face of the nation is real? Burma’s history (I’ll call it Burma just for consistency’s sake…also, while called Myanmar, there is no word “Myanmarese” or Myanmarite” – the people still refer to themselves and their language as Burmese, so it seems easier for me to stick with that) has been both turbulent and strangely disturbing. Once a great nation, it warred with neighboring Thailand in the 1700s and 1800s until English colonialism posed a new threat. Burma struggled for independence and wars with England were fought. Ultimately Burma succumbed and was under British rule from the late 1800s until WWII struck. The country then suffered terribly at the hands of the Japanese, who occupied Burma for two difficult oppressive years. The Japanese destroyed many temples, palaces, and pagodas – more than even the British – and the Burmese were happy to see them expelled at the end of WWII. So happy, in fact, they look back on the Japanese with hatred for those two years and the British with respect and deference over their past colonial rule. After the war, a democratic movement for independence took shape behind General Aung Suu Kyit, but he was mysteriously assassinated in 1948. (It is his daughter, the Lady Suu Kyit, pronounced “Sue Chee,” that leads the present day push for democracy). Burma prospered despite his death until 1962, when the General’s #2 man, Ne Win, took control of the country. Ne Win established himself as “Number 1” and ruled with iron authority, shutting Burma’s doors to the world. The people suffered – and continue to suffer – at the hands of the ruling military. Ne Win plundered the country and drove it from relative economic prosperity into the nether reaches of poverty and decline, personally becoming rich beyond belief along the way. Ne Win was so dominant a figure, people were afraid to speak his name, and he even made radical, ridiculous changes in law and government that none questioned. For example, he completely overhauled the monetary system (made up of 10s, 20s, 50s, 100s, etc, just like all other countries) and changed it to a system based on denominations of 45 and 90, because of the auspicious implications of the sacred number 9. No thought was given to the money rendered worthless or the life savings of so many that were simply wiped out by this whimsical policy change. Incredible. Yet while Ne Win died only 3 weeks ago, there was no rejoicing in the streets. A powerful junta of 3 Generals still leads the country, and the military goes unquestioned. Burma is still a long way from reform. Tourism was permitted in limited areas starting 5 years ago, but cell phones and internet access are illegal, save to those few businesses favored by the government (can you say kickback?) Car imports are illegal – people must recycle old cars and parts…only monks (funny enough) and government officials are allowed the special license to import a new car. (Another contradiction – monks drive Mercedes in Burma!) People talk in hushed tones about the government for fear of being carried off to jail, or worse. (By the way, what is the government afraid of? That Democracy and free market systems will creep in via the internet? That people will use cell phones to whisper about freedom to each other or to call 1.800.DEMOCRACY? Perhaps, but don’t tell me the ruling Generals aren’t logged on to Victoria’s Secret.com as we speak. You know these guys love internet porn and probably shop ‘til they drop on-line with all their plundered cash and kickbacks. Same thing for Castro. You know that guy gets cheeseburgers from McD’s flown in along with a Playboy subscription.) We certainly – as visitors – bring some unnecessary apprehension or prejudice along with us. We were scared to have our bags searched and all our electronics taken away. I was afraid to be carted off to jail because they might think my vitamin supplements were in fact drugs of some kind. None of this happened, of course, and we were treated like royalty our entire stay. But was our fear justified? Were we just “handled” – only shown the happy face of Burma – the smiling, peace-loving side and sheltered from the reality lurking underneath this constructed image? I think the answer is both yes and no. Yes, we were clearly shuffled along the tourist program, taken to all the beautiful sites, and we were steered clear of the destitute areas – the poor shantytowns, perhaps. But also no, we were not kept from the Burmese people themselves, some of whom spoke warily or not at all about government, and some of whom offered up a few opinions. The people of Burma are it’s treasure, I feel, and in that sense we got to see every bit of the wonder that is Burma, a land that is warm and friendly, and untouched by the west. There are no McDonald’s, no American products here. It was almost eerie to see a busy city street with no one talking on a cell phone. It was charming, in fact. But, what is charming to the western eye is also quite restrictive and prohibitive to the Burmese people, and I felt great respect and admiration for these people – people who made the best of what they had, who maintained a great sense of humor in spite of their government’s corruption. It made me appreciate American freedom and liberty, but made me more deeply appreciate the idea of positive mental attitude…

My first impression of Yangon (which loosely means “enemy gone”…”yang on”…it was named such after the Portuguese vacated it in the 1500s after a short stay…it was originally named Dagon. Anyway, the British couldn’t pronounce this and mangled it to Rangoon instead) was apprehension and fear. Another world, new rules. We got off the plane to a blue-lit tarmac that reflected from the large neon sign overhead that read “Welcome to Yangon International Airport.” I wanted a photo of it, but Cathy pointed out a soldier nearby. I remembered reading that cameras are often confiscated, especially when they suspect visitors of being journalists. Jeez, I wondered… I gotta ask to take a photo! I did ask the guard and he nodded and grunted his compliance. But I was so nervous that the image came out blurry – we were in a police state! Moving into the airport itself I was blown away by the bureaucracy at work. We had pre-arranged for visas from the Burmese Consulate in Washington, DC, but still needed forms filled out in triplicate, it seemed. There was one person to take our passport, one to stamp it, one to take a copy of the visa, another to take the second visa copy, a fifth to check our photo versus our passport – it was crazy! And no computers! All entry procedures were done by hand. Needless to say, it took us an hour or so to clear immigration, and we suffered a short search at the hands of customs. There was a skip in my heart when the agent found my underwater camera housing and demanded to know why I had two cameras (journalist alert!), but it soon dissipated when I inserted my camera into the housing and told him “scuba, scuba.” Whether he knew what I meant or not, I have no idea, but he let me go… We met our guide Yan and found out he was going to be with us for our entire 11 days. As a rule, tourists in Burma must be accompanied by a registered tour guide. We made our way to our hotel and had dinner and an early night ahead of our full day sightseeing in Yangon.

Yangon struck me as a geographically large city. It holds 4 million people, but is spread out over circles and wide tree-lined boulevards. Aside from downtown, there is little foot traffic, and there are many more cars than bikes. I was reminded of Cairo for the number of cars, but Washington, DC for its traffic circles, numerous parks, and wide boulevards. Even the medians were planted with trees, and I wondered if George Washington Carver managed to have a hand in Yangon’s street layout! We visited the Shwedagon Pagoda on our first day, which reputedly holds 8 of Buddha’s hairs. “Shwe” means gold and Dagon, as mentioned above, is the former name for Yangon. We discovered that pagodas can be grouped as either stupas (solid structures) or temples (structures you can physically enter). Shwedagon is a stupa, and presumably the Buddha’s hairs are
somewhere underneath the structure, or perhaps – like the pyramids – hidden inside. The pagoda itself is enormous and is over 150 feet tall. It is entirely covered in gold leaf, and it’s “crown” at the top is decorated with jewels, gemstones, gold bells, and other splendors beyond the ability to count. At it’s very peak sits a 76 carat diamond! The fact that people have not climbed the structure and stolen al the gold is a testament to the firm religious beliefs of this Buddhist nation. Shwedagon is a holy place, the holiest in Burma, and I don’t think they could even conceive of stealing from it. Much of the treasure atop the pagoda dates from the earliest days of the Burmese empire (12th and 13th Century AD) and it hasn’t been stolen yet… The complex itself includes the area around the pagoda, which interestingly is supposed to sit atop the very last hill of the eastern Himalayas. The hill is not that high – maybe 200 feet or so – but the resulting hill + pagoda effect dominates the surrounding area. The area around the pagoda holds many shrines and temples, built by families in tribute to Buddha’s glory and kept up caretakers on descendants of the donating family. On a daily basis, Burmese people visit the pagoda out of respect and loyalty to Buddha. The Burmese people practice Theravada Buddhism, one of a hand full of nations that do so (Laos is another, not sure of the rest). Thailand, Tibet, Japan, etc all practice Mahayana Buddhism, a more moderate form of the “orthodox” Theravada style, which takes the Buddha’s teachings as pure and literal. Theravada Buddhism, as a result, strikes me as being stricter, and the Burmese are considered quite devout worshippers. We were made to take off our shoes to wander the 2-3 acre pagoda complex, and would be made to do so at each and every pagoda and monastery we visited. To Buddhists, the head is holiest since that’s where our soul resides (never touch a Buddhist on the head – it is considered quite in poor taste), and feet the most unclean or dirty. One should never point with a foot – it’s considered very rude – and shoes must be taken off in respect of all holy places. I was impressed with the conviction of the Burmese (the Thais proved a bit more lax), but soon grumbled a bit as we had to suffer through dirt and pigeon droppings at each site. Tough to be a monk, I thought…not only do you have to vow celibacy and shave your head, you have to walk around in pigeon crap all day!! We got used to the shoes thing, though, and soon began hoarding those scented hand-wipes from airplanes to wipe our feet with after each temple visit! In Yangon we also saw the National Museum, and got our first taste of Burmese food, which was surprisingly similar to Indian food. Burma has 5 borders: Thailand, Laos, China, Bangladesh, and India and has borrowed from the cuisine of each. Thus one of the local dishes is a variation on curry. At lunch or dinner we were given the simple choice: chicken or fish curry. It was actually delicious and had the added effect of saving us time in reading menus!

In Yangon I was also pleasantly surprised to make contact with the local basketball federation. I shot off a few e-mails before the trip in the hopes of making some friends via basketball along the way. Many of my best friends and warmest memories have come via basketball, and sport has this amazing way of melting away cultural differences. Two complete strangers can find the common ground of sport, and I have long considered it my passport to push the boundaries beyond tourism and into the actual heart of a culture or nation. The secretary of the MBF, Mr. Maung Maung Myint (“call me Arthur,” he said, clearly harkening back to a time when the British had to rename everyone in a style they could understand) replied to my e-mail and showed up at our hotel the very day we arrived! He invited me to the gym to meet some of the local players. Americans don’t exactly pass through, apparently. Also, he asked, can you come around 3 p.m.…it gets dark around 6 and we have no electricity in the gym? Arrangements were made with our guide Yan and I was dropped off at the gym after our sightseeing. I entered to a collected group of about 100 people! National Team players, young players, parents, FIBA referees, the National Coach, and other interested parties! Wow! I hadn’t planned to give a clinic! I wondered how to connect with all these people and found myself quite nervous, when my host, Arthur, asked if he could introduce me. Sure, I said. He told the group about my background (he had a copy of my player resume), where I had played, points I had scored, etc. Next, he told them that a group of former NBA players (the NBA “Legends Tour”) had contacted him and offered to do a week-long series of clinics and help along basketball in Myanmar. They only demanded 5-star accommodations, food, and $500,000 in payment!!!!! (this in a country with a per capita income of $500 or less!!) He then went on to explain that I was there on holiday to see the sights of Burma, and had volunteered my time to meet them and share our basketball common ground, and that spoke to the kind of person that I must be. It was the nicest introduction I have ever received. What gracious people, I thought. I was welcomed to applause and started talking to them about basketball in America and how our players develop from grade school right up to the pro ranks. Satellite TV was a recent development in Yangon, and some kids had a working knowledge of MJ, Kobe, Shaq, et al. I demonstrated some drills and used the kids as volunteers, answered some technical stuff for the National Team coach, posed for some photos, signed some autographs (it had been a while…what number was I???), and joked with the kids. They loved some of the dribbling and shooting games I showed them. Once again, basketball proves the great equalizer – a perfect means to meet people I would never otherwise meet. What a blessing! Arthur and his wife Diana invited Cathy and I to dinner at a local Thai restaurant that night and we graciously accepted. We met their children and their cousin, who works in the US Embassy in Yangon. They were amazingly hospitable and we were just amazed to have enjoyed this experience. The family had a interesting history, and they were related to the very first President of Democratic Burma in the late 1940s! This meant trouble for them under the current military dictatorship, however, and they told us an amazing story. The family had opened a restaurant, and soon after opening, Lady Suu Kyit (mentioned above – Nobel Prize winner and the leader of the Democratic movement since 1988 – she was actually elected President in 1988 but was forced into house arrest by the military and never took office) visited the restaurant. The government heard of it, and the military arrived the next day to shut the place down. It was never allowed to re-open. This story was amazing in its own right, but even more so when I considered the attitude of the people telling the story. Arthur and Diana smiled and laughed and shrugged as if it was no big deal. The key, they said, was to see the glass as half full and not let the government and their corruption get you down. Incredible. They were so at peace, so accepting, and so seemingly happy, that I admired them. It made me think that I should coin an new phrase and introduce it into the English vernacular: when a child or a friend is whining about toys they don’t have or a job that is too tough, look them square in the eyes and ask “can you please try and be a little more Burmese?” In other words, transcend your current “problem” and maintain perspective, a sense of humor, and a positive outlook! Let’s all try to be a little more Burmese! Such attitudes can be both good and bad, I suppose. On one hand, I thought that such easy-going people were easy
prey for a dictator to control. Was there any fight in them? Or are they too sweet and too polite to stand up for what they believe is right? On the other hand, maybe they have tapped into a sensibility, an acceptance or tolerance, that I can never understand. Tolerance, peace, and acceptance. Maybe such tolerance is the ultimate strength, something for us all to aspire to. What is stronger: the rigid, solid stone, or the ever-flowing, ever-accepting river that flows? I guess the Grand Canyon answers that question. Water beats rock. I admire the Burmese. They seem clued into a secret place of peace, a secret truth, which my western mind can’t reach. Is it Buddhism? Simple wisdom? Or maybe even that they’ve been knocked so low they have no choice but to accept? Whatever the reason, whatever the cause, good for them. They are ‘right’ in mind – at least from my limited experience and interaction.

From Yangon we flew to Bagan. The flight was uneventful, but interesting for the simple fact that I had picked up a Time magazine in Thailand on the way to Burma. The lead, cover story was about the Wa tribe of Northern Burma. These opium-producing, well-armed, Chinese-descendants rule a small area of Northern Burma called “Special Territory No. 2.” They are left to their drug trafficking by the Burmese government in exchange for healthy kickbacks. The Wa Tribe is headed by one of the world’s most wanted drug lords, “Chairman” Bao. Anyway, turns out Chairman Bao owns a bank in Burma, and – as I read on the way to the airport – Yangon Airways! Joy! I pictured gruff male stewards, reeking of Mekong Whisky, stubble-faced, machine guns in hand, asking us to “take your seats, punks!” Of course, my imagination really gets the best of me at times, and the airline was run like any other, but it certainly had me thinking… Could you imagine if an American crime lord – John Gotti, for example – owned an airline? (Dis is da cap’n speakin’. Everybody pipe down and take ya friggin’ seats. We’re gonna take off now and if any a youse people cause any trouble, I’ll come back dere and lay a pipe to ya heads myself, capece?) Bagan is the city of 4,000,000 pagodas. Yep, 4 million. They think that’s an exaggeration, but they’ve found 4,000, and for such a small area, that’s plenty. Bagan was at it’s acme in the 10th to 13th Centuries, and many of its ancient temples are amazingly well preserved. Tourists abound, though (well…not really abound, but there are lots for Burma. If it was anywhere else in the world I’d say it seemed devoid of tourists, but we had gotten used to the stares and gaped jaws that clearly marked us as unique to Burma…also, one funny thing – we kept seeing the same people over and over, from city to city. There really is a tourist circuit there, and people are shuffled through it in strict order. Again, it made us wonder what we were not seeing, you know?), and we began to see bits and pieces of the side industry – the dreaded souvenir shop – that feeds off tourism. Everywhere we were bombarded with the particular Burmese accented English “He-lo, he-lo, he-lo” said very quickly. Say “hello” as fast as you can and stress the first syllable. Now say “buy postcard, lucky price, one dollar.” Yep, you got it – a regular Burmese souvenir hawker. Not as bad as Egypt or Southern & Eastern Africa(and no one begged – a huge bonus for us after Africa), but still pretty
invasive. They weren’t too pushy, though, and I found a few firm “no, thank you”s turned them off. The highlight of Bagan may have been the sunrise balloon trip. Afraid of heights as I am, I still thought it was amazing. We had seen the major pagodas on foot, but here was a great way to se all of them at once. What a sight: the sun rising over a distance mountain range and shedding light over the misty topped pagodas that pepper the flat Bagan (semi-arid desert land) expanse. Our driver in Bagan was aptly named I Beip U Honk. Just kidding, but this guy must have beeped the horn with each breath he took. And he had to, really. Bikes and pedestrians were everywhere in Bagan, and no one seems to pay much attention to cars. A guy on a bike will look at an oncoming car, and merge right into it instead of waiting 1.3 seconds for it to pass. I assumed the number of bike accidents were high, and thus the need to beep. Cathy and I deciphered another reason for the beeping, though. Apparently there is a subtle Morse Code that we began to identify. Our driver would beep 3 times forcefully when he wanted to pass someone, as in “we want to get by…move!”. As the car ahead slid over for us, 3 medium beeps warned “we are now passing you, don’t swerve!”. And as we pulled clear, three chirping beeps said “thanks, have a nice day!”

Incidentally, hello in Burmese is mingila ba. Thank you is kye sus ba (sounds like ‘chezu bah’). The ‘ky’ in Burmese makes our ‘ch’ sound. Thus Burmese money – the kyat – is pronounced “chaat.” Funny enough, it rhymes with ‘baht,’ the Thai word for money. Besides that, though, Thai and Burmese are pretty dissimilar. (So we were told.)

In Bagan we also came across betel nut chewing for the first time, and this should explain why I asked if the Burmese were ‘hockey-playing goons’ earlier. You see, the betel nut is a pretty potent drug of sorts – think of chewing tobacco, I guess – and it is illegal, yet found everywhere. (another contradiction) Chewing it seems to be a ‘hick’ kinda thing, which explains why we didn’t see it in Yangon, the capital city (although I’m sure it’s there, too). When you chew betel nut, you secrete this blood red juice that stains your teeth horribly. (Burmese have serious dental problems as it is, but betel nut chewers take the cake) So, in effect, a betel nut chewer looks like a hockey player after a fight, or one that has been hit in the mouth with a puck. All bloody and gross. Kinda like Dracula after he leans back to take in that first bite… Yuck. We actually saw monks chewing betel nut, and even smoking. Apparently Buddha had no opinion on such ‘vices.’ We began to wonder, again, if the pure and holy monks were quite that pure. Again, the contradiction. In fact, I met two monks outside a temple and asked to take their picture. They were happy enough guys (aren’t all monks? They seem so darn happy and at peace. Not a cliché, they really do), and they complied. Now, the very best thing about a digital camera is that you can show your subjects the photo right away and thank them. Kids loved this, and I made many new friends this way. Old ladies at the market loved it, too. But this was my first time with a monk, though. As I showed them the photo, I happened to click on an image from Thailand. They asked “Burma?” and I said no, Thailand, and began to take them through some of my shots. They seemed to particularly enjoy the underwater shots I took, and I figured monks had never seen stuff like that before. (Had they? I don’t know. They read books and magazines and see movies, right?) Anyway, I scrolled past a photo of Cathy pre-dive, wearing a bikini. “Ooohhh,” said the monks, with raised eyebrows. These guys were not supposed to touch or talk to women, so I figured looking was bad too. But I noticed these two characters had all the seasoned maturity of a Japanese businessman in the Tokyo red-light sake district. I quickly moved past the photo and they laughed and clapped me on the back. Happy guys, and friendly. And, I guess, just like you and me… After a while, Bagan’s temples began to blend into one and I was ready to move on. We had one tough day when we climbed to a pagoda atop Mt Popa, a sacred mountain for the Burmese since it reputedly is the home of the 37 nats, or spirit gods. The climb wasn’t strenuous, but the aggressive monkeys made it a bit trying. As did walking through monkey pee and feces (‘watch out for the monkey products,’ said our guide Yan sweetly) up 790 steps to the top. The view was great, but not that great. Also, pagodas had begun to take on other forms to me. The more colorful and distinct ones began to look like putt-putt golf courses. C’mon, you know the ones – the Asian themed ones. It was pretty funny – I could imagine putting into Buddha’s hand and having him deposit the ball into “Nirvana” for a hole in one, or dropping it back into “samsara,” the cosmic cycle of life, death, and rebirth for another go-around. Sorry – that’s not too devout, but I’m sure Buddha forgives me…

From Bagan we boarded the riverboat Pandaw for a two-day paddleboat ride up the Irrawaddy River to Mandalay. The boat ride was great and we enjoying watching the daily snapshots of life along the river. Ox carts, fishing boats, and women pounding dirty clothes on rocks dotted the banks of the river. We were early to bed and early to rise, and enjoyed some gorgeous sunsets and sunrises while on board.

Mandalay was altogether different from the quiet, peaceful sacred city of Bagan and the congested, car-infested, wide-boulevarded Yangon. Apparently ‘mandala’ means ‘the center of the universe,’ and Mandalay is – aptly – at the very center of Burma. The city itself is set within surrounding mountain ranges that form a sort of ‘crater plain’ within. The crater is not round, though, it’s square – not a bowl, but a tray. Mandalay is set within that tray, and its centerpiece is the Mandalay Palace, a 2-km by 2-km square at the heart of the city. The palace grounds are surrounded by a moat that frame it in a perfect square. Looking down on Mandalay from a nearby hilltop is like looking down on a small scale Manhattan, with the palace acting as a square version of Central Park. The palace itself is restored from its earlier 1700s splendor, and houses a museum. The surrounding grounds are home to the Burmese military. In fact, the grounds were also occupied by the British military and the Japanese military during their respective occupations. Thus the destruction and decay. Military personnel are apparently not to easy on ancient buildings. Our hotel was set at one corner of the moat/palace grounds, and I went for a run around the moat on one particular misty morning. The palace spires stood up from the mist and I wondered at how those same spires and this same mist must have looked 250 years ago, when Mandalay was Burma’s capital under King Mindon. The roads at 6 am were a jumble of bikes, mopeds, motorcycles, and cars in that order of seniority. There were no lanes, no markers, no signs, and no traffic lights at 90% of intersections. It was a gorgeous, chaotic, living-and-breathing free-for-all! I loved it. Bikes and cars merged into traffic with reckless abandon. Chickens ran into the road. Horns honked. Asian anarchy. Very cool. Some major intersections do have small huts painted the colors of traffic lights: red, yellow, and green. These housed traffic guards that came out to assist from time to time. Their whistling only added to the din. People honked and waved and yelled at me as I ran. Apparently not many runners around here! It was hard to watch the street, though, since I kept whacking my head on tree
branches as I circled the sidewalk along the moat. Trees are clipped with 5 ½ foot Burmese in mind, and I performed my very own brand of the ‘Burmese Slalom” as I weaved in and out of the trees. I’m sure this brought a chuckle from passers-by. I whacked my head so many times my neck began to hurt and I wondered about Central Park in NYC. Is there an average height at which they measure and trim the branches in New York? Or is just the job of some poor 7-footer to run around the park and whack his head and naturally ‘break in’ the paths over time? We spent Christmas eve in Mandalay, and headed southeast to Inle Lake on Christmas Day.

Inle Lake is unique for the tribes that live literally on the lake. There are stilted houses and floating markets replete with banana boats, t-shirt boats, onion boats, potato boats, etc. We drifted through the floating market and felt pretty claustrophobic. People just attached themselves to our boat – a captured audience! As I watched the daily life in the houses I began to think about the things these people had no access to. Bikes, for example. And it goes without saying that the villages of Inle Lake don’t turn out many stellar long distance runners! And the pets…man, those were some neurotic dogs. Where do they bury bones? Where do they do their doggy business? I was intrigued. Inle was beautiful, and the real appeal was just being there, sleeping in a stilted bungalow just feet above the water. From Inle, we flew back to Yangon to connect to our evening flight to Bangkok.

Have to leave it there for now. Not much access ahead from Laos, Cambodia, or Vietnam, so my next update may have to be from Singapore on January 22nd/23rd!!

All the Best,
BEN