Two cats fcuking
The things you find in Burma... between a hairdresser and a fruit-shop was a taxidermist, replete with what seemed like every known endangered species on Earth. Note the thick bundle of giant python skins on the coat-hanger, and a limp eagle soaring above that. You wan buy Civet-cat fur wallet, mister?
Domestic
generators can be seen
outside almost every shop and house.
No wonder anger hit the fan when the Junta
suddenly jacked up fuel prices. The public is literally
subsidizing the national electricity supply: the Junta
feathers its own nest by selling massive quantities
of gas and oil to other countries - including
Thailand. But even 73 years after the
1947 Independence it has failed
to re-invest enough revenue
to provide reliable
electric light
for its own
citizens.
It's a
great
shame,
really.
The main street of the town of Hpa'An after dark.
The ubiquitous (and free) Junta propaganda "newspaper" is the 'New Light of Myanmar', known universally as the 'New Lies of Myanmar'. One recent issue (next photo) ran a piece headed "Myanmar energy: promise of nation's brighter future"... written, as always, for foreigners' consumption:
"The colonialist capitalists who had enslaved Myanmar for over 100 years... waged aggressive wars against Myanmar by giving various excuses...After that, they exploited the... the resources in their interests as they wished. In the time of the colonialists, Myanmar people had to live in utter misery. The colonialist government did not spend the benefits obtained from the exploitation of natural resources of Myanmar on socio-economic development tasks of the people. In the post-independence period, the natural resources could not be used effectively in the absence of peace and stability in the nation..."
"...preservation and safeguarding of cultural heritage..."It's also ironic that while 'New Lies' bongs on with all this anti-Western sentiment, it simultaneously prints news items from the internet like"Association found between Alzheimer's and Anemia", or "New Superplastic Compound discovered", all of which laud the achievements of [mostly] Western scientists. One friend in Rangoon said that the government knew that 90% of the population (mostly rural) can't read English anyway and never get exposed to anything Western, while the middle class in the cities value what they do have and don't want to do anything which might put that at risk. In other words, their spirits have been broken. He said that's why BBC TV is permitted in touristed/middle class areas, but blocked over the vast majority of the country. Tourists mostly go away believing that the Burmese media is as free as their own country.
"Voice of America, BBC, sowing hatred among the people"
"Do not allow ourselves to be swayed by killer broadcasts designed to cause troubles" (etc)
In this propaganda context, blatant contradictions really don't matter so much. One issue of 'New Lies' headlined WORLD NO TOBACCO DAY OBSERVED... Health Ministry in fight against tobacco... But in another issue, the front page photo had high ranking ministers greeting CEOs of Philip Morris and promising them the earth. We drove past the Philip Morris Factory on our way to the airport north of Yangon. Huge place. Big bucks.
The one single bulb in Hpa'An which uses public electricity
usefully serves to illuminate the Junta's propaganda billboard.
One chap, quite well-off middle-class, said to us [para-phrased]:
He also described how the authorities unofficially require 'presents' in order to grant these permissions. They invoke the ubiquitous Asian 'patron-client' tradition. Favours earn favours, and no wheels will turn without this oil."Don't be fooled, the middle-class doesn't get it easy. If we want to visit a friend or relative in another area, we still have to apply in writing to our authorities for approval. The visited person also needs to apply in writing to their own local authorities. Of course, phone calls between areas to arrange such visits are expensive, and the government makes money from those, too. When you are out of your own area, you can expect night-time visits from police to request your permission documents. Failure to produce them earns 7 days in jail.
The government also blocks many sites on the internet, and downloads can sometimes [literally] take forever. Hotmail and Yahoo Mail are almost impossible to get ("ACCESS DENIED") but you may be able to get Gmail - on rare occasions. Facebook is currently a more realistic option for communication, not email.
Recently the government has removed some fuel quotas for cars, but not for jerry-cans. I'd estimate that it has worked out that it can collect more tax revenue that way, because the public has to keep on buying fuel specifically for generators. Some wealthier individuals who actually own a car have worked out a plan to exploit this new access to petrol - they fill up their car's tank then go away, siphon out the fuel, and sell it on in small quantities to tiny (unregulated) roadside outlets whose "bowser" consists of plastic water-bottles. Here is a typical petrol point, outside a cafe in Myitkyina [pron. 'Myit-chee-na']:
...and here is an altogether bigger outfit. When our tuk-tuk stopped for fuel, the attendant opened 4 bottles and up-ended them simultaneously into the tank. Skill, dude. Respect... but hey please, don't smoke.
Be witness to the decay of priceless old colonial British architectural gems. But fear not, Internet Modernity and Capitalism are coming to Burma - in spite of its government's ostrich-like insistence on imitating North Korea. Advertising billboards often disfigure glorious facades which scream out for heritage restoration... or at least some cleaning....
PS: I always thought Burma was up there with the most Goebelsesque of propaganda-based regimes until we went to Sri Lanka last year just after the 're-election' of Mahinda Rajapakse. I was wrong... Sri Lanka's the winner by a propaganda mile. The next article, which I clipped from Srilanka's 'Daily Times', truly wasn't intended as a joke, believe it or not:
Burmese propaganda looks tame after Sri Lanka.
Now that you've stopped giggling, we'll walk you round Yangon's drug market: here's the grand entrance, just along from the Boyoke Aung San Market:
As usual, no electric light of course. Skylights make for more reliable lighting:
Aisle after aisle of bulk drugs, medications, syringes, stethescopes, prescription and non-prescription medecines. Mostly Vietnamese generic copies of originals, probably about 50% effective, and many of them actually within their use-by dates, if you believe the fake labels... A few were genuine, but obviously sold on cheap to Burma by big international companies wishing to off-load out-of-date stock. Watching a smallish rat scuttle away under a raised wooden pallet floor, I began mentally concocting a potion I named Rodenticillin...
We browsed for a while... and after finding someone whose English was half coherent, asked "Who is allowed to buy this stuff?" Answer - Anyone. Yes, for a model of true and unfettered Free Enterprise, don't bother looking at the regulation-bound West, go straight to Burma and collect 200 pills.
Then a plaintive sound wafted over from two aisles away, a lusty baritone voice beefing out a folky Burmese song. No-one seemed to be paying much attention to the well-dressed performer, who was gyrating her hips next to [yet another!] medical supplies shop. Like it happened every day. Maybe it did. Maybe she was singing for her supper. Or her morphine - look, here's your dose - now please go away... She was away somewhere else in a world all of her own.
Regular medecines are mostly for the upper middle class, though, as most folks can't afford them. They rely on herbal/natural remedies, like tiger testicles, etc... One woman told us "This is all we have".
...or cheaper bulk outlets in the dim recesses of local markets...
Note: small bags of Thanaka powder at left.
FOOD. Now that I have your attention, allow me to show you some of the items we found. Of course, I was always on the lookout for unusual menu items in restaurants - as is my habit. Burma always provides a few gems. I recall "Squashed Potatos" and "Fried Crushed Egg" from Vietnam... but had soon realised they referred to 'Mashed Potato' and 'Scrambled Egg'.
We selected a not-too-disgusting cafe in a Rangoon shopping centre called "Tissue City" (yeah, I wondered that, too) and scanned through a grubby disintegrating menu. Roosted Chinken... Fish stuff with H.p souce... Goat Brain Curry... Fish in two taste... Fride Crab Thumb... Goat's Thigh Soup... Deep Fried Sparrow... Fried Assorted Fruits... Hot & Sour Eels... Sweet and sour pigs brain... Hmm, well, ok, at least I can sort of predict what they are....
But gee wiz, what might arrive on your plate if you ordered one of these?
Mutton Fighting Ball
Sacculent Chicken Boxing
Crab Kwither
Prawn Coin
Prawn Family
Mutton milk cream
Sticking up fish tail
Sticking up fish tail
Fried Friable mutton
Fried stuffed big tribe with kite-lon
Fish box salad
Boiled Shitlins Salad
Slide fried egg
Tender fat dry interstine
Oh, do stop drooling. To confuse us further, one menu requested
PLEASE PAY BEFORE YOU ORDER
.......and at the bottom of the page:
THANK YOU FOR YOUR COMING
...and here's a rooster, crowing threateningly at us to defend its territory under a table at an Indian cafe at Myitkyina:
We walk a lot. Here's a snap taken at random in a morning street market at Myitkyina...
One shop was a betel-nut stall - Burma is one of the few places where chewing betel-nut is still a national addiction... perfect if you want red gums and black rotten teeth...
Betel-nut (areca-nut) is chewed with lime to produce an addictive narcotic stimulant effect.
Just here, near where Marie was sussing out some jewelery, was a favourite spot for local vendors to come to spit out their chewed betel spittle. Long red gobs of red spit looped down past me every so often - I craftily avoided sitting in the Danger Zone:
In a shop in Mandalay, wholesale monkey skulls. Whatever does it for you, I say.
From Rangoon (Yangon) we took a train to Moulmein. The hardest part was locating the ticket office. No, it wasn't at the station - that's far too logical. It was across a bridge, round a corner, "opposite a cinema" (which one? there were bloody 6 cinemas in a row...), and was signed only in Burmese. The ticket-seller couldn't read English, so when he wrote down my passport number on the ticket, he copied the number of my 2009 visa to Indonesia! ...probably because it was the most colourful and shiny thing he could see in the entire passport.
Another hurdle - a sleeping cat lodged resolutely on the counter.
The final glitch - you have to buy train tickets two days in advance.
Why? Shrug. We just do it that way.
P.S. It was near the railway station that we found the best exchange rate.
We got 104,000 kyats for each clean US $100 bill. Hint - always take
mint-condition notes with no marks or folds, and avoid notes with
serial numbers beginning with CB or HB. Money-changers simply won't
take them. And definitely DON'T go to a bank or you'll be ripped off big-time.
Countryside doesn't get more rural and picturesquee than this -
For Burma, this was quite a comfortable ride by comparison with others we've done... apart from the chipmunk children chattering in rapid-fire Burmese behind us, and swinging from the luggage rack. They soon learned not to kick the backs of our seats. My seat, missing 3 of the 4 original floor bolts, swivelled back and forth with every lurch of the train. Try to drink less... reduced risk of needing the toilet. During rainy patches, the windows were lowered - instant stem-bath - and umbrellas were opened... the roof leaked. Ceiling fans had died years ago. This was "upper class" - foreigners aren't permitted to travel in anything cheaper. Some locals, as usual, took the 'free option' - atop the roof.
Uh-oh, toilet time. Protocol inhibits poetic rendition. But why, oh why did the train choose this moment to perform a Mexican Hat Dance? What the fcuk to hold onto?? It's ALL filthy. It was at that moment that I coined the phrase 'extreme toilet yoga'...
It was an 'expres's train, but nevertheless it stopped regularly. Even before it had stopped, food-vendors with trays balanced on their heads had clambered aboard, screaming their offerings down the aisle. Small tied bags of orange grease containing small bits of unidentifiable animals. Chopped unripe mangos with salt. Betel nut DIY kits... As the train rumbled out of the stations, they'd nimbly leap off, tray intact.
Arriving at Moulmein, there's the usual feeding frenzy of hungry tuk-tuk drivers. Spine-shattering ride to the hotel, where we discovered the barrel-bolt on the outside of the bathroom door (...curious, querulous interrogative noise...).
The southern town chosen by the Brits as their seaport in the 19th century, a gaudy old mosque. Yes, that's the true colour.
...and to counterbalance cultures, a genuine Anglican parish church, as if shipped in straight from Sussex. The sign at the front fence reads:
CHURCH OF THE PROVINCE OF MYANMAR.
ST MATTHEWS CHURCH.
(Cheeky, I thought. How blimming colonial is that?)
Yes, it really was that green... it's was July and the monsoon was full tilt. Nearby, a teenage girl in bare feet was squatting at the roadside eating tidbits extracted from dumped rubbish. An old woman attempted to steal a banana from a side-pocket of my back-pack. A cyclist squeaked past, bearing two large helpless bunches of chickens slung to a pole by their feet, clucking listlessly. Dotted through Moulmein, you'll spot crumbling relics of the British era in the form of grand old colonial houses, covered, of course, with designer grime, rusty iron patches, and threadbare blue tarpaulins.
Check out of hotel. Goodbye, hot water. Catch two motorcycle taxis to the Hpa'an ferry jetty near Shampoo Island. Oh no, why does it choose this moment to shower heavily? Our boat waits - and waits - until enough people have bought tickets, the subterranean diesel engine grumbles into life, and we drift out into the Andaman Sea. This was sheer luxury compared to our later 'cruise' down the Irrawaddy... more of that anon... It wasn't crowded, and hey, we could hire plastic seats for 50c.
Soon we turn into a river-mouth and head inland towards Hpa'an. The double-decker ferry is the supply link and contact with the outside world for isolated villages along the way:
Georgina Orwell, appointed to the Emeritus Chair of Burmese Poetry,
fires up the Writing Iron, inspired by the warm orange-ness of the late afternoon light.
The moving foreigner writes, and having writ, floats on...
fires up the Writing Iron, inspired by the warm orange-ness of the late afternoon light.
The moving foreigner writes, and having writ, floats on...
Our guest-house at Hpa'an featured staircases that resembled vertical tunnels. Getting oneself and luggage through was tough going. No windows in the room. All the bathrooms on our floor were connected by a continuous floor drain, allowing you to observe other people's bath-water frothing past. No hot water, needless to say, but you did get a tub of cold water and a plastic icecream container for a bucket shower. This was Bangkok's Khaosan Road, twenty years ago.
Early morning and as ever we go out exploring the town. This snake-charmer was booming in a loud voice, and probably regretting having fed his pet cobra too much morpheine that morning. Even crashing loud cymbals wouldn't stir it. Maybe the sleeping snake was mesmerised by the Barbie Doll puzzlingly taking pride of place on the table...
Even down here in the south there is increasing evidence of investment by Chinese. Big pretentious Chinese houses, often surrounded by unfriendly fences topped with iron spikes or broken glass - are popping up everywhere...
Truth is that China covets Burma for a number of strategic reasons. First, it needs a window onto the Indian Ocean (hence the big new Chinese government funded ports at Sittwe on Burma's west coast, and the other link in the chain being built at Hambantota, Sri Lanka, from whence it can play peek-a-boo with India, too). Second, it desperately needs Burma's abundant resources like oil, gas, timber, gems. China is ever so grateful to the UN for having declared its anti-Junta sanctions - now the Burmese have to get most of what they need from China (= Big Profit for China). There is huuuge Chinese investment in Burma, especially in the north, where Mandalay is now known wryly by locals as Beijing. Lashio is 50% Chinese-owned and populated. China doesn't need to invade like it did in Tibet - the Burmese are inviting them in with welcoming arms: it's invasion by another name.
Thailand is also cashing in wholesale on the UN sanctions. Hpa'an isn't far from the Thai border, and you can't help but notice the constant convoys of heavy Thai trucks heading to Yangon, having crossed the Thai border at Maesot. (By the way, Burmese authorities are now establishing toll stations for these truckers, to make a few extra kyat). Chinese and Thai products like this provide the only way to keep re-stocking shelves in Burmese shops. This mixed business in Hpa'an (photo below) only sold dry goods which were 100% imported. Nothing fresh of course, because that requires refrigeration, which requires reliable electricity. We searched for ages to find something (a) identifiable and (b) edible. All the people in the shop were staff... many people are underemployed in Burma. As foreigners, we were a novelty. They couldn't stop gazing at Marie's tattoos:
Hpa'an itself is nothing out-of-the-box, but the area around it does hold some treats for the adventurous.The only way to get to these places is with a local guide along teeth-rattling pot-holed roads which haven't been fixed since the Brits left.
Better hang onto your mouse for the next 30 metres or so while you bump along inside the next photo...
The Jao Ga-Lak monastery [photo below] rivals the more touristed 'Golden Rock' at Tchaktyio. Very few westerners get here, especially during the Wet. Surprising, really - I thought I could smell dope. Jao Ga-Lak is smaller than Golden Rock, but no less awesome, not to mention the jaw-dropping setting of 'dragon-teeth' karst limestone peaks encircling the lake:
...plus the usual donation boxes en route to the viewing platform halfway up.
En route to the next spot in the magical mystery tour, there were haystacks of rice chaff for feeding cattle.
Why don't Thai farmers do this too, rather than burning it off every year?
Lumphini Garden features 1,300 Buddha statues over the plain and extending up the mountainside. The entrance was well-maintained, but once the foothills began, things were no longer quite so kempt. The monastery and statues are only new, and still under construction. Workers slashed with machetes everywhere, but nevertheless the current scoreline was Nature 1, Humans 0.
Even the stone park benches were vanishing under rapacious herbacious borders. I began to understand how the city of Angkor disappeared:
Onwards. The guide book mentioned the Saddar Cave: "How brave are you feeling today?" and went on to warn about the dangers and annoyances etc.
Here's the ever intrepid Marie with the brave tour guide, preparing to plunge into the dark depths. The steps lead up to the entrance...
It's like a blacked-out football stadium inside, and as dark as the inside of your hat. Take a strong torch. Or two. Just in case of dragons. Even a flash camera couldn't illuminate it adequately. The reflection in the water is of Marie's torch as she forges on ahead of me in search of treasure...
Half an hour of balancing your way along slippery limestone slopes and dank puddles, there's gradually increasing glow of light at the end of the tunnel...
(Mad Goats' Tea Party... Catherine's bin here!)
...and we emerged into daylight to see the most astonishing picture-book Wonderland. Jurassic Park minus raptors:
Then to another monsatery. Inside the ubiquitous cave entrance, an electronic version of the tune of 'Frosty the Snowman' was merrily tinkling away. A bit like being 'on hold' on a cosmic phone call from Nibbana. Thankfully, the music died the moment the generator cut out.
Ouside, an interminable line of begging monk statues stretched away into the distance...
This was a genuine weaving factory, not just a set-up for tourists. Men wove here too...
We set out for Bago on the Rangoon bus, intending it to be a transit point for a bus or train to Toungoo. As usual, it was a milk run, stopping frequently. The two chaps in front of us had red betel-mouths with no teeth, and one had world-class combover hair which flew back in the wind like a superman cape.
We ate 'food' at a cheap 'blue tarp' Burmese lunch stop. I ordered goat meat curry ("mutton") with veg and got goat liver curry with no veg. Three well-dressed Burmese women (who were travelling on our bus) sat at the table right next to us and half-watched us. We started speaking to each other in Thai because we suspected they were government stooges. We knew they spoke English because we had heard one of them speaking (very articulately) to two lost Israeli tourists earlier. On the bus they never had to present their ID at checkpoints like we mere tourists did.
Heading out to the back to find the toilet, we had to walk through the restaurant kitchen [gag]...
Brain inactivity on a boring bus-ride can sometimes force grown adults resort to inventing limericks... or worse. It all started with Herculean literary efforts like -
Four fat generals sitting in a jeep...[etc], or
There once was a monk from Rangoon... [etc]
and degenerated from that point on.
Unknowingly, we stayed on board the bus at Bago because the expected bus station was just another roadside stop, and there were no announcements in English. One is expected to know. Thus a 6-hour trip turned into an 8-hour trip, with the last unexpected leg for free to Rangoon. We were glad, really, because we've been to Bago before, and we later learned that Bago is currently suffering an outbreak of Bubonic Plague, and... we reeeally wanted [=needed] a hot shower...
Well, no matter where you go, there you are.
There is a Burmese legend about the folly of marrying any woman from Bago.
Two mythical Hintha Birds from Bago were stranded by a flood, and as the waters rose,
the male bird suggested the female climb onto his shoulders to stay dry and safe.
She enjoyed the position of power so much that she became completely dominating.
Julia Gillard, take note.
Yeehah, Yangon's northern bus station at last. We negotiated a price for a taxi to the city and got in. Then a woman got in the front seat. She was the main English speaker from the Gang of Three. We objected to her freeloading and suggested firmly that the fare must be split two ways, but oh no, the driver wasn't going to come down that much. He obviously knew that she was a government rep and therefore expected to travel for free... he would probably have been reported to the junta had he asked her to pay any money at all. Instead, he dropped the fare from 7000 kyats to 6000. No go, says we, and promptly hop out. Extract luggage, find a different taxi. But by then the spy-lady had, of course, learned which hotel we were going to.
What fear drives them to harrass tourists like this?
Yangon. Was. Hot. Even this barefoot cop was snoozing in his paddy-wagon. No insurrection or riots today... z z z z z
...and ditto for this Trishaw driver...
Assisted by a cool lime soda, we took an exploratory stroll through Rangoon's Chinatown area:
An old Chinese clan house:
A grand old cinema devolves into a gaudily painted noodle shop. No respect at all...
SO hot, indeed, that there was a thunderstorm that night as we were emerging from a restaurant. Water was knee-deep already as drains were un-maintained and often thoroughly choked with unmentionable rubbish. As we negotiated the half-dozen blocks back to the guest-house, there was huge thunder, lightning, and wind more than sufficient to turn the umbrellas inside-out. Water was by now above the knee - and my knee is further above the ground than most - and it was impossible to guess what geographical traps might be lurking in the gloom below the surface. My imagination went to the clots of smelly grey water presently disgorging from greywater drains everywhere... urp. It was a nightmare scenario worthy of a disaster epic film - disturbingly dark (no street lighting at all, as usual), except for the few cars which hadn't yet stalled. I would love to have taken a photo of it, but at the time, to be frank, I didn't give a damn, my dear...
Headlights created an eerie effect of highlighting only the peaks of the frothing choppy dark brown water. I placed each foot gingerly to test the surface of whatever-it-was down there, finally resorting to walking down the centre of the road where the camber was highest. There I merged with a bobbing ballet of umbrellas, dipping and curtseying to each other in their hurry to pass. Marie in her haste was far ahead, and unbeknown to me had taken a cunning shortcut round a corner to get to the guest house.
THIS was the corner....
We were relieved, too, that the qualified electrical/plumbing experts had fixed our bathroom:
Having had our hot shower (the day after) we hopped a morning flight up to the very north of Burma, the town of Myitkyina in Kachin State. Allow me to introduce you to the duty-free section at Yangon airport:
It was more entertaining watching a rat amble across the departure lounge under the chairs.
We had originally planned to fly to Bhamo for the start of our "luxury cruise" back to Mandalay, but the only choice was a flight by Bagan Air to Myitkyina, considerably further to the north. Aw, what the heck, it only meant another couple of days and one more 8-hour bus rattle-bone trip. Check in to the local YMCA. OK, let's explore the town... check out this double-decker songthaew:
British World War II fire engine, still chugging.
A flash Chinese-made taxi
I advise against swimming here.
The wealth gap is obviou$.
The 8-hour bus ride from Myitkyina to Bhamo [pron. Bah-mor, without Americanization of the 'r'] was bearable, given that we had stocked up with chicken biriyanis, drinks etc. A little weary, due to YMCA generator thudding outside the bedroom window the night before, a horny cat performing Oh Solo Meow, and a fcuking train-whistle over the road at 4.30am.
On the road again. An enthusiastic barefoot young man acted as the bus 'tout' ie not only ticket collector, but the 'lookout'. I'll explain. Astrology's really big in Burma. Burma's previous dictator (General Ne Win) had consulted his astrologer who cryptically told him "You must turn to the Right". Ne Win chose to interpret this by suddenly requiring all traffic to drive on the right-hand side of the road. Steering wheels, naturally, are still mostly on the right side of vehicles as was always the British custom of driving on the left. So now, bus drivers cannot easily see the road ahead and must rely on a tout hanging out the side door to be his eyes. The tout shouts when it's OK or not OK to overtake. Madness. Solution? New buses. You must be kidding, mate, this is Burma.
At one point the bus was stopped by a soldier, who loaded a small basket of something onto the bus. The tout stored it close to our feet. A few minutes later we noticed the same soldier pass the bus on his scooter. We thought little more of it until the bus stopped again 10 minutes later, and a different soldier collected the basket. Odd. It would have been simple enough to carry the basket on the scooter. We smelled a rat, but like the tout, knew enough to keep our mouths shut.
The Chinese-owned hotel at Bhamo was a relief. A day of R&R to replenish. The morning we set out early to the ferry for our cruise to Mandalay, it was raining really hard, and the chaps from the hotel were very helpful in taking us to the ferry landing. Even so, the two plastic chairs they'd kindly put in the back of the hotel ute had quickly filled with water - we sat on the edge. Talk about crowded and frantic up the gangplank. We found our 4 allocated spaces on the painted metal deck, numbered in Burmese - each was 18" wide, the same space allocated to a prisoner in a Burmese jai, viz:
By 7am it was go, and we settled into a routine of defending our patch from poachers. The inevitable sick babies, drunks, tinny transistor radios competing for earspace, and worst of all, eternal infernal smoke from those god-awful cheroot cigars. In a confined space, they ain't good:
Views were ok, though repetition dulled it after a while. Gotta lie down... oh, me back... good thing we thought to buy a cheap blanket to lie on. We gave it away to a Burmese woman after the trip - she thought all her christmases had come at once.
Constant rain of plastic bags, bottles, and gobs of red betel goo over the side. There's zero conscioussness of environmental issues.. the river, to them, is a legitimate dumping ground. Period. Water is regarded as self-cleansing and eternally replenished. No wonder there are no more Pink Irrawaddy dolphins. Didn't get to hear any wild gibbons calling in the forest either - as the Lying Planet guide book had suggested.
Only 28 hours to go. Rain squalls sometimes gusted into the boat. I recalled the railway carriage at Moulmein with envy - it may have leaked and squeaked, buthey, at least there was a seat. Thirty-six hours sitting on a damp metal floor. Don't do it. Take the 'luxury' ferry, the $60 "Shwe Kennery" instead. It would have to be less unbearable.
Three o'clock in the morning - just got a little sleep after the drunk stopped yelling, and the boat damn well stops at a village. Vendors invade, sceaming their wares. Only 24 hours to go...
This next one's for Dale. Electrical expertise is common here... everyone's an electrician. The bulb in the toilet swung down near my collarbone. Water all over the floor:
Only 21 hours to go. This trip was our Big Mistake.
One of us at a time could go to the upper deck for fresh air when it wasn't raining. The women were sorting some of the farm produce they'd bought in the big city, ie Bhamo. They got off the ferry at a smallish village downriver, probably taking their treasures to their shop to sell...
Only 19 hours to go...
Only 12 hours to go...
Next to where we had established our fortified residence, there was a slightly raised platform intended equally for monks and the military. That should tell you something, in light of the Saffron Revolution last year. I waited a long time for the right moment to get a candid photo like this, secretly shot from the hip. I think they automatically place foreigners near the platform so the soldiers can be defacto spies for the Junta. Some government spies dress as monks too, which is a strategy to sow distrust and fear.
In these parts of the north many areas have unfortunately been converted to
Christianity, so monks don't command quite the same degree of moral authority.
Certainly, these monks were tucking into food & drink well into the afternoon in
apparent contradiction of their post-noon fasting rule. One was regularly spitting
betel into a jar so he wouldn't have to pick his way through the crowd to get
to the railing. Well, the Abbott wasn't there to see, was he?
YEEES! Mandalay at laaaaaast!
That feeling of anticipation of a hot shower in the guest house!
But no, the hot water didn't work, but it still felt goooood.
I'm grateful for anything I can get.
I must be becoming more Burmese.
Let's zip out and check if the Nylon Icecream Bar is still there... caffeine is my blood type...
Walked past the huge but rather unimpressive Mandalay Palace with its attractive moat. It could have been peaceful except for the eternal hooting of traffic. Same as Colombo. I'm beginning to think that as humans emerge from swamps and evolve, they hoot less.
Next, a quick visit by share taxi to the elevated town of Pyin U Lin, favoured by the Brits as a refreshingly cool 'hill station'. Lots of British architecture, including a boring clock-tower - a gift from Queen Victoria, playing a soprano version of Big Ben's chimes. Unworthy of photo space.
Welcome to Pyin U Lin...
The Brits imported Indians last century as 'guest workers' for the houses they wanted built. Many have stayed and become 3rd and 4th generation Burmese citizens. The shop below may as well have been helicoptered in from Delhi. Their sign says it all - literally:
HOUSE FOR VALUE QUALITY & CHEAPNESS IN WOOLENCOTTON FANCY GOODS BUILDING & ROAD CONTRACTOR
At first sight we thought this chap [photo below] was an albino. We saw another similar girl in Mandalay. But they are probably a remnant of a small Portuguese population from early days.
Big Moslem influence as well. Spot the taxi rank next to the mosque.
Next, back to hot dusty Mandalay.
Marie and a friend go off (window!) shopping. People rubber-neck shamelessly to gaze at Marie's tattoos. One chap actually fell off his scooter from the effort. I think they might be trying to work out what symbolism there may be. Special secret magic, perhaps. The power of the Unknown Talisman is feared in this highly superstitious society...
I wanted some photos of the spectacular Mingun, just north of Mandalay, as I had been impressed with it last visit. A short ferry ride? Uh-oh... but only 30 minutes, mister. OK. Taxi, go. Arrive at jetty on the Irrawaddy. Uh-oh, check out the narrow wobbly gangplank we'll have to use... eek!
The dhobi-wallah lady is the only way for locals to get clothes washed as only higher-ranking
military people have enough money to buy and run one. Besides, electricity is a big issue.
My subconscious has conveniently deleted the memory of the transition from shore to boat. Inside, we discovered... luxury. Real seats:
Atmospheric riverbank ...
Mingun hoves into sight. It is an unfinished Buddhist stupa, started by a Burmese king who inconveniently died in 1819 when only the base was finished (162 feet high). Therein is a lesson for us all. The king gave commands to the builders while he was luxuriously ensconced on a royal barge on the river. He had envisioned a triple-layer structure with a huge bell-shaped stupa on top, several hundred feet high.
Nearby, he constructed a 'miniature' model of the upper sections. On its steps, Marie poses as a Dancing Apsara (minus the regulation pointy hat)...
These Guard Lions were also intended as models for much larger ones -
This, in fact, is just the rear haunches of one of those larger lions, which were built first as protection and good luck. They, along with the gigantic stupa base, were destroyed in the earthquake in 1839:
The entire upper body of each of the two big lions collapsed, leaving only the rear haunches:
The remains of both lions, seen from the rear. At this point, Marie was melting and in urgent medical need of a cold drink. They offered her Spirulina Beer ("Anti-ageing beer"). Yeah sure.
I'm tempted to quip that the Mingun disaster looks biblical in its proportions ("temple rent asunder", etc), but somehow it's the wrong country for that sort of rhetoric.
I shudder to imagine what it must have sounded like at the time of the earthquake...
The taxi takes a break while the driver has his noodles...
(Er, was this the King's barber shop?)
The Mingun Bell is quite difficult to find among the souvenir shops and drink stalls. It's the 2nd largest functioning bell in the world. Its supports collapsed in the earthquake too, and it lay on the ground for many decades. Strangely, its expected 'dong' sound is more like a 'ding'. Depends how you hit it, where, and with what. A large log might do the trick...
Later, I was moved to correct Mr Shelley's rather inaccurate poem:
Oh dear. Enough poetry.I met a traveller from a Non Teak LandWho said: Two vast and trunkless lions of stoneStand in the desert. Near them among the souvenir shopsHalf sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frownAnd wrinkled lip and sneer of cold commandTell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,The hand that mocked and the heart that fed.And on the pedestal, these words appear:'My name is Aussie-mandias, King of Kings; ("take note, Kev07")Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,The soup and noodle stands stretch far away.
The universal national pastime (for men only, it seems) is the game of Cane-ball (Chin-lon). A circle of players attempt to keep the ball airborne by using any part of their body except the arms or hands. Even amateurs - like these in the pic below near our hotel - can provide an entertaining display of skill for the spectator. By its nature it's a co-operative sport rather than a competitive one.
When we heard that there was a Chin-lon championship being held near a local temple, naturally we made a bee-line. Sure, these guys were good, very good.
But Catherine the Goat was bored with life...
Enjoy the game...
The musicians' skills need to be acknowledged as well...
Every now and again, an individual can take a 'solo' to showcase his particular skill/s, much like a musician in a jazz band. This guy in the next video combined his Chin-lon skills with Rap Dance style. Cool bananas...
*Inflight announcement by hostess - "Adjuss your fess mask and breed normally".
*Air Bagan unloads your luggage from the plane, you collect it as per normal, but then you have to queue up to put it through the security scanner! After the flight? Huh?
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