Island Time

The last week. It's island time. Our first visit to Koh Tao. I could wax nostalgic about the good old days on Koh Phangan, Bottle Beach, Pi Mi and the special mushroom omelets, but lets face it, there are more people everywhere now and the islands in the Gulf of Thailand are no exception. Everyone dreams of a hut on the beach with the white sands stretching into the distance, alone, warm breezes wafting...it ain't that way anymore. Still, I have to say the Seaview Resort on the east side of Koh Tao is a little piece of paradise, even if the beach is a glimmer in the valley between two rising hills. It's walkable, but at this time of year, a little too blown out for swimming and snorkeling. Nevermind. The next good place is a motorbike ride away. We are already talking about coming back next February...a better month in the gulf. O, the Burmese cook at the Seaview, has enough skills for several and the food alone is enough to make a return journey desirable. Seaview is a little more upscale than we usually do, but our hut perches on the hill behind the restaurant and reception area, quiet, secluded, with its own hammock (I don't get in and out of those things like I used to!), great bathroom and stunning view. The whole resort comes with a set of charming Burmese workers, Neil, who interprets our needs in Thai with a Scottish accent, several fat resident cats and 3 colorful large geckos...tu-kay. One of them even stays out during the daytime, perhaps a pariah because of his missing tail. There isn't much to do...nothing to draw me away. There is a motorbike for Muz to make the 10 minute jaunt to town and return with treats, or to look for good snorkeling spots. I am busy reading...finishing up the depressing biography of Kurt Vonnegut, an Indian murder mystery by Paul Theroux, and looking forward to The Cider House Rules by John Irving...you never know about the books you bring on vacation. I did get all the way through The Passage by Justin Cronin, but ohhhhhh, the nightmares! I don't think I'll go there again. We return to Bangkok on Friday...night train with lower berths this time, thank god! If we can get checked in to the New Siam and breakfast at Ricky's, we may have two more days at the weekend market...just enough time to buy that fan we wanted and several more things we don't need.

Escape from Rangoon

It matters a lot where you stay. We chose the May Shan, by luck and coincidence, and by staying in the heart of the city, we got to see many aspects of life in Yangon that we might have missed. Aside from the act of crossing the busy Yangon streets being very similar to a game of Frogger, the inner city area is rich with life all within walking distance. I looked at hotels that were more upscale, some quite romantic, but in the end, each traveler makes their own decisions about what is tolerable or what they need when they are in a foreign city. If we had stayed at the Savoy, for example, we would have had to take a taxi to see the market, to see Shwedegon or Sule Paya, or the Bogyoke Aung San Market. There is something vital and exciting about the busy mix of Muslim, Hindu, Chinese, Burman all blended together that we might have missed. Just walking to the Daw Saw Ye for dinner was a game of dodge-car and an adventure in balancing on sidewalks that were once broad expanses of pavement but are now remnants of cement tipping and wobbling and waiting to tip you over. You feel you've accomplished something when you arrive without having been impaled on a surprise piece of rebar. The May Shan was an oasis in the middle of this, air conditioned, free wifi in the lobby, room cleaning daily,a little cell-like (and I think this is typical of old cities with old hotel residences because all the buildings are close together and the windows are in the front and back), but quiet and secure. The owners went out of their way to be helpful; laundry service, taxis to the airport, a little map of the city, air tickets and a huge free breakfast which we chose not to eat because we had breakfast at the tea shop across the road. The May Shan booked our guesthouse in Inle and in Nyuang U, both of which turned out to be fine for us. And right outside our door was the Sule Paya, a night food market complete with the big green sugar cane and lime extractor and the food sellers hawking their wares with sing song cries and tin cups banging on top of their tin bowls to attract your attention. In the morning as we stepped out, the only time it was cool and there was no death-defying traffic, the cries of the bus attendants yelling their destinations and hustling passengers was the first thing we heard. Our last two nights, we went to sleep and woke up to Buddhist chants over the loudspeakers.
Some travelers consider the ambiance of a hotel or guesthouse part of the trip. I can relate to that and you will need to spend a little more money on accommodation to get that than Muz and I do. So...if you want clean, convenient, basic plus, our recommendations are all of that. If you want romantic, atmospheric lodgings, our choices may not match what you have in mind.
As far as food goes, it's a big part of the fun of travel. Trying street food, finding good local places to eat, all of that can be costly in terms of stomach issues, but it's worth the hassle. All we can advise is to WASH YOUR HANDS a lot and try not to put your fingers in your mouth. Be extra careful the first week, use bottled water always, keep your mouth shut in the shower and don't forget to use bottled water to rinse your toothbrush, ask if any uncooked vegetables and fruits were rinsed in bottled or pure water (you may have to mime this). If you eat at street stalls, take a look at the food first...is it on ice? does it look fresh? With skewers of food, ask them to be put back on the grill for a few minutes before eating them (gestures once again). And who is eating there? Lots of locals, lots of happy people? Then its probably okay..and good luck...lots of positive thoughts...if it doesn't feel right, trust your gut, no pun intended.

Redemption

Our last full day in Myanmar. We are back in Yangon, doing a little laundry, finishing up a couple of novels, racing to the tea shop in the morning just in time for fried hot puffy bread soaked in sweet milk and egg, a fresh semolina cake, sanwin makan, which is pronounced nothing like it looks, and nam ja doe, Muz's noodle breakfast. But it is Asia, nothing is like it looks. Now that we are preparing to leave for Thailand, I find myself regretting it, but that is why we keep coming back...for one more trip. We are off to look for a flowered enameled tin lunch stack, not just the regular tiffins, but a fun Chinese one, maybe in pink. And, of course, one more visit to Bogyoke Aung San market.
Its hard to describe our last day in Bagan. The power was off and on for most of the day, but we spent one more morning in the Nyuang U market. Unlike the markets in Thailand and Laos, the markets in Burma open later...9 or even 10 am. I'm not sure why this is and because of my extremely poor language skills, it's impossible to get down to the fine points of time or anything philosophical that requires more than just one word declaratives. Needless to say, I did better with the Two Sisters, Myin Myin and Than Than. They were overjoyed to see me again, pulling out stools for us, producing glasses of tea and some little snacks on a tray. Then we got down to business...a lot of fabric business...concluding in a nice sale for them. Then out came their photo albums, the two unmarried sisters in an array of traditional costumes, their families, their parents, their school days. Impossible as it seems, they found a great shirt for Muzzy and a fun T shirt as well...full service shopping. They loved him! "So handsome, I think he is actor!" Muz was in heaven and his element. We left with something for everyone, including a huge stack of cheap napkins...it occurred to me that night in bed that they may not look so great after their first washing. I just loved these women, university grads, living near one another and running this stall in the Nyuang U market, so full of grace and humor and passion. I'd have kept buying just to sit with them and chat.
Around 3 in the afternoon, So Ren drove up in his horse cart to take us to view the sunset...again. He promised there would be no repeat of the previous night's experience, standing perilously on top of a temple on a narrow ledge with Germans, Japanese, Dutch, French, some really nasty Thai girls, and some confused Canadians, all trying to shoot the perfect sunset photo with their tour buses arrayed in the dirt yard below. And it was redemption, really. We went first to Suliman Paya, a 12th Century temple with a stunning entrance walkway leading to the ornate stone worked walls. The interior walls were still covered with original murals depicting the life of Buddha, the Jataka tales, reclining Buddhas and one breathtaking mural of his enlightenment surrounded by a pyramid of intricately detailed intertwined nagas. I was thrilled to be able to walk right up to the walls of the temple and examine the paintings closely. Muzzy did his very best to capture some of the images, but truth be told, how do you capture eternity? This was the very best temple we have ever seen...of the old ones, anyway. So Ren patiently walked us around, helped Muz with his camera equipment and stood with me passing the time as Muzzy bustled about. And indeed, some of the photos are quite wonderful!
After Suliman, which was pretty empty considering the hordes of people out in the fields, So Ren took us to his "spot", another 12th century temple that has not been closed to the public yet. By the time the builders at Bagan got to this century, they were building their stairways with a little more light, wider and more uniform steps. Still, all of these temples are filled with Buddha images and it's shoes off for everyone. I find it lovely that you go into some obscure little temple with crumbling facade and debris scattered everywhere and in front of an ancient statue of the Buddha is a vase or bouquet of flowers, a stick of incense and perhaps a small pile of rice that hasn't quite been eaten by the animal and bird life that abounds. We went up and up and up to the very top of this temple, whose name I cannot remember and is not on the LP "list", and while we were not completely alone, there were only about 15 of us and this is a big something. No doubt it will be discovered soon and thronged until someone falls and then it will be closed. Bagan is a very compromised archaeological area, odd and quirky in many ways, but still so stunning when you think about its history and where you are. 11th and 12th century payas, ancient kings and Kubla Khan, earthquakes and wars, all arrayed on a high plain next to the Irradwaddy. The sunset was nice...not spectacular, but still, a worthy sunset sitting atop an ancient brick temple in the middle of a field of temples as far as you can see. The drive back was a trip through time, the sound of So Ren speaking to his horse, the creak of the cart, and looking out the back with my legs dangling down, the silhouettes of the temples etched into the fading light. This was the best.

Impressions

Impressions:
Thin man in a conical hat standing up to peddle his bicycle down the road in the midday sun. You can't see the back of his bicycle because it is hidden under several sacks of produce. In fact, when he finally moves past us, you can't see him or the bike at all, just a giant jumble of sacks with wheels underneath.
Women returning from the morning market with leftover goods and items they have purchased. Their longyi are worn and slightly askew, their faces painted on each cheek with tanaka paste and shadowed by the wide brimmed straw hats they wear.
Midday...few people are out. Shop keepers lie on platforms in front of their stores, napping. Some have rigged up hammocks and swing gently, one arm hanging over the edge, one knee propped up, other arm over their head.
The way women walk in the longyi. Shoulders back, almost scuffing their feet in their dusty flip flops, arms hanging loosely at their sides. An island walk, a walk for hot countries where time has a different meaning. I have forgotten what day it is.
Horse cart drivers, like rickshaw drivers and tuk tuk drivers, asleep in their rigs in the afternoon.
Early morning vendors walking the streets calling their wares. Women and men with wide trays balanced on their heads or poles slung across their shoulders ending in buckets of something.
Flowers, so many flowers in the markets in Myanmar. It was a surprise to me to see that. Chrysthanemums, gladiolus, gaura, roses, many more I don't recognize, but everywhere women return from the market with food items and a bouquet of flowers.
The helpfulness of the people in the market. One woman will rush to aid another in a sale, helping to fit a blouse, offering a different choice, assuring me the price is good. I bought silk/cotton from The Two Sisters and could have bought more and more and more. They were like chattering parrots, excited about a sale, laughing and calling me sister. They made a place for me when they saw I was hot, laughed when I got out my glasses to better see what I was buying, explained about the 50/50 silk cotton and the 70/30 silk cotton..."no synthetic". So much laughter, so many beautiful colors and pieces whisked away to be cut to the length I desired. They presented me their card and told me they were having new cards printed with English on them as well as Burmese. Their sweetness and enthusiasm made me miss being a merchant myself.
The clicks and snaps of the horse cart drivers as they give directions to their horses. They way people break into song for no reason in particular. Because it is an unfamiliar language, it reminds me of the scene in Trading Places where Eddie Murphy is on the train pretending to be an exchange student from Cameroon and he breaks into a heartfelt nonsense language song. It makes me laugh, but it is also very sweet.
The way this country has changed in the 7 years since we have been here. There is a feeling of hope everywhere and the spirit of the people blossoms all around us.
We chased the sunset across the finely sifted sand of the Bagan plains. The first time I came here, I was chased by a grief so profound it was hard to see the ruins at all. Everything I looked at was covered by my mourning and I saw this world through a veil of tears. Sometimes the universe saves the best for later. The Great Spirit, whatever we perceive it to be, provides a second chance. I could deny that I know what the crumbling city teaches me, but it's plain as the nose on my face. All things are transitory. We live in a world of illusion. Maya dances across the crumbling frescoes inside the tunnels protected from the light. We glimpse all of life through a veil darkly. Perhaps, last time, that lesson was too fresh for me and my own loss, the profound loss of one of my children, was too close for me to need any reminders of just how fleeting life really is. But time softens the edges of grief just like time has worn away the steps leading up inside the crumbling brick temples whose purpose is no longer important. They are just structures to make us wonder. Each of us brings to travel our own expectations. I have always felt it was best to bring as little expectation with me as possible...to allow space in the suitcase of my soul for the unexpected. If we leave a vacuum and hope for the best, the best will fill that void. If I could apply that same philosophy to my life at home, what a gift it would be, but it seems to work best for me here...away from the everyday. And though it is fleeting, it is the best thing I bring home.
At the top of the tallest paya with the corncob pinnacle, waiting for the sunset with hundreds of people from all over the world bringing their expectations and frustrations with them, I couldn't get down fast enough. Yes, the sunset was stunning, magical, the outline of hundreds of temples stretched out along the Irrawaddy, the dust of horse carts, tour buses, private cars and taxis mixing with the setting sun and turning the light a golden glow, but we got the definitive photo in 2006, and we have the photo inside of us, the memory of that older magick. It's wonderful that Myanmar, Burma, is opening up and money is pouring in along with tourists, but here we are, fighting for space, for our own little piece of eternity, the perfect picture, the perfect experience, along with everyone else. It is only a matter of time before someone tumbles from the parapets and this temple, one of the last remaining two whose upper reaches are open to the public, will be closed. The disappointment of all these people, packed together on a narrow ledge reached by stairs not unlike those up the pyramids in Central America, was palpable and horrifying.
We will take one more trip out to the ruins on our last day upcountry. Our laughing driver, So Ren, will lead us to some temples less crowded, our own private piece of eternity...and that is the gift of serendipity...the jewel in the lotus.

Bus journeys and beyond

Early morning, smoke,Sunday's are the same everywhere. Nyuang U on a Sunday morning. We are waiting for our not so bad coffee, fruit plate and eggs. I bought a can of Happy Cow Sweetened Condensed Milk for my coffee yesterday. We are butressed against the chill in our warm clothes, including the dusty fleeces that have served us well these last two weeks, but later we will shed them as the temperature soars and the dust billows up around us leaving a fine coating on everything, our hair, our feet from the constant on and off of shoes at the temples, and even seeping onto the keyboard of my little Ipad. Along with the clip clop clip clop of the horse carts, traffic picks up along the main Nyuang U road and guesthouse row. Myanmar has especially loud, piercing horns on their buses, although everyone seems to have taken a cue from India and honks at every opportunity while pressing their feet on the accelerator. In the case of the horse carts, which roll and ramble down the streets right out there with huge trucks and buses, they signal they are coming by dragging the driver's stick on the spokes of the big wooden wheels. It isn't a bad way to travel, horse cart, especially out by the temples where the fine dust erupts into choking clouds every time a motor vehicle races down the paths to deposit high end tourists who are disgorged from their aiir-conditioned cocoons into the gloomy interiors of 11th century pagodas. Even they have to remove their shoes at the entrance and dance along the pebbled corridors of the temples, listening to guides in a plethora of languages explain the history of Buddha as painted on the walls. Restoration projects abound and ordinary Burmese bypass the camera toting crowds in order to kneel for a moment, place some lotus flowers, sticks of incense and a candle in front of towering images that have been there for centuries. The contrast between Burma of 2006 and 2013 is startling. Police presence is much more discreet. Private cars abound. New gas stations are popping up along the roads sans the barbed wire and rationing lines we saw in '06. Food stalls, souvenir stands, coffee shops and tea houses dot the highways of places like Nyuangshwe and Nyuang U. Backpacker and Flashpackers abound. The Lonely Planet Burma's blue covered guidebook can be seen in the hands of dozens of travelers. The road to the temple fields around Bagan have guesthouses and vegetarian restaurants in various stages of building. People talk about Aung San Su Kyi openly, and give a hearty thumbs up when we say we are from America..."Obama, we like!" And they remind us that he came to Burma. What an impact he made. I wonder what part of Burma he saw?
The bus trip from Nyuangshwe to Bagan, 7+ hours that seemed like 14. We actually had seats, and the buses aren't that old here. They look deluxe from the outside and unlike the treadless tires on most of the city buses in Yangon, they look roadworthy, from the outside. The road from Nyuangshwe, Inle, goes up and up into the mountains that surround the lake and then down, rather rapidly, to the high plateau of Bagan on the banks of the Irrawaddy. Coming down was an adventure that included a stop about halfway so the driver could get out and hose off the brakes until steam stopped rising from the wheels! He was a good driver...slow, very slow, even on the straightaways, and we started the journey, the bus about half filled with farangs including a young man from Belllingham, with a nice long Buddhist sermon, very soothing and reassuring. At least we had a devout driver. As we continued across the arid countryside. We stopped in the crossroads town of Thazi where the rail lines intersect for Mandalay and for the narrow gauge rail that goes back up to Inle, to take on more Burmese and let off one lone Aussie. We shed clothing as the temperature climbed. Stopping at the entrance to the Bagan Archaeological Zone to pay our entrance fee of $10 per person, we arrived at the Nyuang U bus station. Our ears bled from the constant, non-stop videos played at full volume...unrequited love, silly girl and serious boy, silly boy and serious girl, long concerts of the same popular songs over and over and over until we could actually sing along. The only time the farang perked up was when the marathon Gagnam-style video came on. It went on and on and on and included a segment of young men in Burmese longyi dancing along with our little Korean friend. We found a horse cart for our luggage, my head was reeling and my ears ringing, and we finally checked in with Auntie Cho at the Mya Kha Lar. Water so hot its written on the wall above the spigot in red paint, "HOT!", two twin beds, a large cross shaped key that fits in a slot to activate electricity, free wifi if you sit close enough to the signal, a big veranda and free breakfast...coffee, toast, eggs, fruit plate, and crepe like pancake. What more could we possible want. Oh, yes, I wish you all were here...

Continued

So I believe we were pulling up to the market at the end of the lake when the internet went back to wherever it resides and took my flowery description with it. But here goes...
Spreading before us at the end of the narrow boat clogged canal, the market spilled down the hill from the paya we had glimpsed for a way before turning off the main waterway. The paya (temple) grounds were littered with hundreds of stupas of random sizes and a long covered walkway led down the hill to the market grounds around the edge of the canal. Our boatman hefted me up on top of a long berm that led to the action. To my right was a large area full of oxen carts, some still hitched up and just starting to leave the area in single file, their drivers standing up to steer. To my left, a sea of Bao women in market dress ambled along, black tunics and longyi trimmed with blue or red stitching, short tight jackets with narrow sleeves made of the same fabric and some from velvet, and their headwraps a shocking contrast in red, orange and blue. Most of the women had their faces painted with tanaka paste, a soft wood that smells like sandalwood that is mixed and used as a cosmetic. Some were the usual patterns of overlarge round dots on the cheeks but some of them had taken great pains to make elaborate designs with the paste. The Bao women dominated the market, standing out like the tribe they are and I had to catch my breath because this is what I love about the markets of Asia, the fact that these beautiful costumes are still part of everyday life, even if only on special occasions now.

Ban-Khan Village Market

Boats for the market

Bullock carts

Pa'O girls

Snacks

Causeway to Payas

Going home

Muzzy and I separated, he to take photographs and me to wander, a little awestruck and awkward. I approached three Bao women to ask for a photo but was quickly rebuffed, so I turned my attention to the little bags of palm sugar candy at one of the utilitarian stalls. You can never have too much palm sugar candy in Burma. It is set out on the table as an after dinner treat in most of the Myanmar style restaurants. Then I found the local Bao clothing dealer and negotiated for a longyi, which I had failed to buy when I got my tunic and jacket at the Nyaungshwe market. I decided to add one of the scarves...I am a sucker for those cheesy plaid scarves. I decided to go with orange. Since the costume is so sombre, the color of the headwrap designates the tribe you are from. After searching for Muzzy and finally finding him at the edge of the oxcart field, I brought him into the food stall part of the market where we tried some deep fried Shan tofu. Shan tofu is made from chickpea flour and fried up crispy, eaten as a snack. We shared a small salad with tofu strips, nuts and shredded cabbage. Of course Muz asked for chillis and boy did he get them. It was the source of much laughter among the other diners and the girls doing the cooking.
We started up the main walkway which led to the temple up the hill. These long covered walkways are typical of the payas in Myanmar, one for each of the four directions, leading to the main courtyard around the stupa. This one swooped gently uphill, but we got sidetracked talking to some other foreigners. We were lucky that our boatman got us there early, before the market started to dissolve and the tourists outnumbered the villagers. Much as we would love to have everything to ourselves, "we" are everywhere and I consider us lucky to be able to experience a market like this at all anymore. Not that I haven't made some interesting contacts with other travelers, but...who doesn't want to be Indiana Jones?
We returned to our boat and began the journey back up the canals and up the lake, stopping at one of the schlock "get the farangi to buy some cheap tourist shit" places that I hate. Unfortunately, by the time we realized what was happening, we were fully committed to the dock, so we dutifully got out of the boat and went inside. Imagine our surprise when three Paduang women sat at the end of the porch, spinning and weaving. I have no intention of trying to impose my values on other cultures. I try very hard not to. I am aware of the great privilege I have in being able to travel like I do, spend money on things I don't need in countries where some people never travel beyond their village and could never afford to, but I also try very hard to support positive change in the world. I was very uncomfortable staring at the brass rings strung around the necks of these young Paduang women. In case you are not aware of them, they live in the highlands between Myanmar and Thailand and their ancient custom dictated placing these brass rings around the necks of the women, also on their legs and arms. The rings on the neck force the collar bones and shoulders of the women down and their heads sit on the top rung where a little piece of cloth softens the metal against their chins. As they age, some develop breathing issues because of the deformation of the rib cage and most loose the muscle strength in their necks so they cannot hold their heads up without the rings. This practice was dying out until some entrepreneur decided that the women and the tribe could make money by charging for photos of the "long-necked" women. The practice was revived using young women who had never been part made to wear rings. Some tour operators exhibit the women and ask if you would like to have your photo taken with them or if you would like to take a photograph. Since I don't speak their language, I have no way of determining if this is something the women do voluntarily or are pressured into, or what, but I think it is a cruel freak show kind of way to make money, exploitative under any circumstances. Human rights organizations ask us not to support this practice by not taking photos of the women, but instead, buy their weavings or other handicrafts. I was so appalled when the gift shop operator asked if I wanted a photo, that I just wanted to get the hell out of there and I hate to say, I bought nothing at all. As soon as we got back into the boat we made it clear we just wanted to head back to town. No more "shops".

And jeez su bay

We board a morning bus for the dry hot plains of Bagan tomorrow morning. 5 days in Nyuangshwe may have been a bit much, however, we seem to be doing fine. The Nyuangshwe market day on Tuesday was very fun, but imagine my delight when we asked where the next market was in the five day rotation and Moogee, our sweet bright, funny travel gal, told me it was waaaay at the end of the lake in the village of Thaung Tho. "Not very big market, not many visitors." This was the market I'd wanted to see because the LP described it as "off the toruist track" and well worth a visit because the surrounding hill tribe villagers come down for this one. Yeaaaaa! So we bundled up in the early morning fog and met up with our boatman, a different one, the other one's brother, Jojo, and headed for the bridge over the canal where the boats wait for lake tours with their little chairs, heavy blankets and umbrellas tucked away in the back.
The lake was shrouded in a chilly mist, neither shore visible and its glassy surface broken only by the tat tat tat of boats as villagers motored past us heading for Nyaungshwe and the faint sillhouttes of the legendary leg rowing fishermen of Inle deploying their conical nets. We saw no other toruist boats this early as we headed for the south end of the lake and the long narrow canal that connects it to the second lake, Sankar. Sankar is a protected area, only open to visitors with permits and a Pa-O guide. Thaung Tho sits just north of this area, a small market, sparsely visited by tourists because it is small and takes so long to get to. As we motored and motored endlessly, our butts numb and faces frozen from the cold, we approached a narrow canal that looked too narrow for our boat. It was clogged with reeds and hyacinth. I turned to our driver with alarm. With his cheek bulging from a wad of betel nut, he smiled and nodded, which I took to mean this was the place, or okay you crazy farang, now I'm going to dump you in the reeds and take your fleece jacket. As I turned back, I drew my breath at the sight before me. On the hill was a temple with literally hundreds of stupas glistening gold in the morning sun. Spread below on the banks of the lake was a field of red, orange, and blue head wraps of the Bao women and a parade of gaily adorned ox carts. The excitement of the market reached us as our boat made its way through the narrow passage parking next to hundreds of other boats along a high berm that led to the shore. To be continued...