February 18th, 2013

     As I climbed, and contemplated life, the scenery really opened up. I was treated to breathtaking valley vistas, cooler weather, and woodland aromas. Although the summit was almost 5000 ft. high, the mountains on the way to Namshan could justifiably be described as hills. Snow covered peaks and jagged peaks were absent. The hills, which I believe to me made of limestone, support dense foliage which yield smooth contours at a distance. As I rose, the so did the moisture content. Brown foliage became verdant, and towards the top lay the evergreens (which is a fancy way of saying I can recognize pine trees).

     The road was mostly dirt and rock, and took 5 hours to climb. I spent most of my time in second gear, which could handle about 10 mph. I didn’t pass through any towns until I neared the summit. Tiny villages were scattered amongst the ridge-lines approaching Namshan. Every village looked promising, and I would stop the bike and ask ‘Namshan?’to passerby's. People usually didn’t understand what I said on the first go around, which is to be expected considering I descended out of nowhere and launched questions at them in a foreign tongue. I’d remove my cloth mask and they would chuckle, and let out an ‘oooooh’ which indicated they understood the situation. With a beaming smile I would repeat my inquiry, to which they would point me in the right direction. I was in no hurry, and I always took the time to say a proper thank you and drink in the scene a bit. The air was getting crisper every moment, and my nose seemed to be working properly for the first time all week. Every time I came to a stop, I could detect a marked increase in the stillness of the surrounds. In these little moments, the brief connection between myself and the locals was a real pleasure. Deliberate, slow action generated an atmosphere of mutual wonder. “What is this person doing here? What is their life like?” was our telepathic exchange. I’d give a final nod, start the engine,  and slowly putter off.

     There had been on decent pavement for 30 swift minutes as I came upon the first substantial intersection since lunch. I was a bit relieved as the sun was preparing to tuck behind the artificial horizon of the mountains in the distance. I asked a lone woman nearby the way to Namshan, but she was too bewildered to answer. She was quite old, and waved me in both directions with a smile. It was obvious I picked a bad candidate, and I think I was made her a bit uncomfortable. I said thanks and moved on. Shortly, I came upon two men, one sitting astride a motorbike. I asked for Namshan, and instantly he motioned to follow him. “I go to Namshan” he said.  

     He lead me back to the intersection I had come from and took the turn I had not. The road was good, and we descended into a major town, clearly Namshan. The main road was dust covered thoroughfare which followed the apex of the ridge and carried moderate traffic along its twisty, hilly, natural contours. We whizzed between walls of two story wooden structures which abutted their adjacent neighbors. Though not nearly as ornamental, the architecture had a distinct Nepalese feel to it. I imagined I was driving in an exotic rally race through a Himalayan village, and added the requisite sound effects with my mind. Looking through buildings, I could see dramatic valley views on either side. Unsurprisingly, the stores were limited in variety. Farming supplies, bulk items, eateries, machine shops, and the odd electronics store were all I could differentiate. However, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was weaving through some sort of upscale mountain town. Country homes, dramatic views, and the triumph of living at elevation all increased my valuation of the town, even though the locals don’t value such things as I do.

     After a few enthralling minutes, the man I was following pulled to the side of the road and dismounted. I was happy to have arrived, and eager to check the place out by foot. He walked across the street into a building with a sign that said 'Guest House' in English. In nearly every other circumstance, in nearly every other country, this would have meant that the man purporting to help me was merely making sure I went to a friend’s guesthouse, for which he would receive remuneration. Just like touts have done for me the world over, he walked me in and made sure I was comfortable with the place. However, this was the only guesthouse in town. Legally, I could not sleep anywhere else. Furthermore, the place would have been hard to find as it was one nameless façade amongst many. It would take me some time to piece all this together, and until I did I held an erroneous opinion of my helpful friend.

     Travel has helped me work through the considerable issues I’ve had with holding people in contempt. Touts, scam artists, illegitimate beggars, dishonest salesmen, and lousy cab drivers are bound to exist everywhere. In fact, they exist in similar form the world over. It never ceases to amaze me that poor kids beg for pens the world over, even when they do not need pens. I’ve found this to be the case in Bolivia, India, and Cambodia. Where do they host the international summit that devises these policies? “Okay, all the six to nine year olds will ask for pens. Taxi drivers: always insist that the meter is broken.”

     Travel has made it increasingly clear to me the extent to which humans need rewiring. Why is it so easy to have contempt for beggars, but compassion for the poor who ask for nothing? Regardless of material wealth, beggars are the poorest people imaginable. Honest or dishonest, they denigrate themselves every time they beg. I adore the innocent children of the developing world, but when they ask me for money by rote, my blood boils. “Shame on them, the little shits! They represent all that is wrong with the world. I can’t stand it!” I smugly think to myself, about innocent children who are programmed to beg! These sentiments comes quite naturally, too. I think I’m hooked up wrong. The wires are clearly crossed.

     Of my friend that took me to the one and only guesthouse in Namshan, thankfully I had not bothered to formulate a negative opinion of him. I'm has blessedly learned to make no, or at least fewer, judgments. I would have cheated myself out of basking in the good nature of his kindness had I not investigated the matter further. The people of Myanmar are the nicest of any country I have ever been to, and I made a mental note to check for other guesthouses in town to verify the purity the people. Success! The guy really had gone out of his way just to help a foreigner.

I was feeling good about the trip. I was finally doing what I came to Myanmar to do. Namely, to make a small test run of my proposed longer motorcycle trip from Vietnam to Portugal. Though I had only completed one day on the bike, it had been the best of the trip. Something about perpetual motion gives the spirit a sense of literal progress as a human being, which I guess is what the journey is really about anyhow.

     I have traveled enough for the sake of travel. Regrettably, the idea of a yearlong motorcycle trip does not excite me as much as it should. I’ve been on the road for at least 40 months over the past 5 years, usually backpacking in strange places. I haven’t seen all there is to see; not even close. But, I think I get the plot of travel for the sake of travel. You go someplace to look at some stuff; there is usually a waterfall, or cave, or religious site, or ethnic group nearby. Bolivia starts to look like Myanmar (Katha in particular for some reason), Indonesia reminds you of Nicaragua, and Thailand looks like Florida populated by Thai people. Luckily, the essence of travel penetrates the surface reality. To me, the places one goes and the things one sees are secondary to the broadened view of the human condition one experiences while traveling. The more I dive into travel, the deeper I penetrate my own subconscious. And when I get thoroughly lost in my travel; when I become the journey, I become part of the collective unconscious which animates the whole show!

     As I lay in my cheap guesthouse bed awaiting sleep, contemplation of the mystery of it all transmuted fears and anxiety I had about the larger trip I had planned. Was I really going to make such a trip? I had developed a lackluster, possibly even jaded, attitude toward travel. It will be expensive and I’ve got no job, what the hell am I thinking? These were my normal concerns. But the day recently passed seemed to have an agency about it, a will or intent of its own. It was urging me.

     The Universe conspired to talk to me. “Why not do it? What does it matter? What does anything matter? Just go with it.” it seemed to say.

     I’m no fatalist. I believe that things simply happen, and our minds like to invent reasons after the fact, and ascribe agency to coincidence as numerous studies have shown. But I was beginning to feel a connection with something; a connection with the way things are before they are judged by the mind. Maybe reason-ing things to death was getting in the way. Surrendering to the way things are was starting to feel more and more natural. And I fell into a worry free  slumber. 

Off To The Races...

I was up at dawn on a cold and dry morning in Hsipaw. There was a nourishing quality to the air. My cold lingered, but had retreated from my body and was now garrisoned within the chambers of my head. My sinuses ached and my nasal passages were blocked, but my spirit was roaring in anticipation of the adventure to come.

The motorbike I had rented for the week arrived just as I finished my breakfast. Manly, powerful, and stylish, it was not. In fact, to call it a motorbike was to stretch the definition of the word. Most two-wheeled motor transport in Asia is fusion. What appears to be a motorcycle when viewed head on looks far more like a scooter when viewed from the side. I heard a German couple refer to them as ‘mo-scoots’, and the term seems to fit. Escalating the whimpiness quotient is the fact that they are tiny, both in stature and power. Like most things economical, they’re enough to get the job done, but not much more.

I went for a ride around town to gather supplies and test out the bike. I picked up a length of rope for the luggage, and bought a cloth mask to minimize debris in my already taxed respiratory system. My throat was intolerably dry from breathing through my mouth all night, so I decided to make a trip to the pharmacy as well. Lord knows what I could buy over the counter in Myanmar, but thanks to the Internet I could figure out what was what.  Decongestants were only available in combination with either antihistamine’s, which make you drowsy, or cough medicine which apparently, at high enough doses, can cause dissociation, feelings of euphoria, and strong hallucinations. I opted for the latter as it sounded like a much better way to go compared to falling asleep at the wheel.

     I tied my luggage to the back of the seat, and with a head full of cold medicine I tore out of town. After only a few kilometers, I found my turnoff towards the mountains. In an instant, I was a lone journeyman on an empty, laneless road walled in by parched trees and dry hedges. Peppered with potholes and noticeably domed, the thin, crumbly asphalt carried light traffic in both directions.

It was almost 10am and the temperature was beginning to rise. Wind blow across fallow fields and brambles arrived at my face like hot breath. On the horizon was the mountain I was to be climbing all day, speckled with sepia tone deciduous trees which complemented the rest of the landscape. The 32 kilometers of road that led to Namshan would bring me some 1500 meters closer to the heavens, but the trip had already reached a new zenith. 

     I motored along at around 35 mph, occasionally passing by or overtaking the odd motorist. The large and ancient trucks that ply the roads in Myanmar were the most common obstacle, for they take up two lanes and can hardly manage to lummox along much faster than a joggers pace. To overtake one required squeezing by on either side after signaling with your horn. Approaching one head-on meant slowing down and perhaps coming to a stop on the shoulder, its exhaust pelting you with balls of air as it puttered by.

I continued along this road for an hour or so, making a barely perceptible ascent. I was still in the flats, and had gone around the mountain so that it was now to the left of my field of view. I came to a roundabout, the first intersection of any kind, with two options: continue straight or turn left and head toward the mountain. To the right of the roundabout were a handful of structures and parked vehicles. Ruddy dirt from their surrounds made for a seamless transition of asphalt to earth. I came to a stop and, except for my idling engine, everything was quiet and still except for the livestock which milled about. A tumbleweed animated by whooshing wind would have made perfect sense.

     I approached one of the open air structures and noticed the by then familiar cadre of cookware which indicated noodles were served. I parked and entered upon a small group of locals that seemed to be the owners. One of the two women present was tending to a messy child as two older men sat relaxed and drank tea. The other woman approached me and understood my request for Shan noodles with chicken. The two men looked up with delighted surprise, and the child stopped fussing around to take a look at the unexpected foreigner. I acknowledged the old men with respect, and then switched my attention to the child so that I could make silly faces. The childlike happiness I get from travel was yearning to be expressed in its purest form. I presented a restrained grin and wide eyes to the child, and exhaled a genuine and playful ‘blub-blub-blub’ of the lounge. I’m not sure who was more amused, me or the child, but it seemed to go over well.

     I exchanged general information with the adults in limited English, and answered such questions as “What country you come from?”, “How long you stay in Myanmar?”, and “Where you go now?” with gracious simplicity. I smiled and ate my noodles in silence as they went about their business of the day. When I left, they made sure I knew the correct way to Namshan. As far as I knew there was only one road, and my plan if lost was to ask people, in the universal language of gestures if necessary.

     The road that headed directly towards the mountain, and therefore Namshan, deteriorated rapidly. Asphalt became gravel, gravel became smooth dirt, and smooth dirt became a wide but stony path, all in rapid succession. The incline had become much more pronounced, and long straightaways were replaced by zigzags. The scooters in Myanmar looked, felt, and had a reputation for being cheaply made. I was already delivering some punishing blows to the machine, and wondered if this thing would fall apart before the weeks end.

     The distinct smell of tar met my nose and around the next bend there I came to roadwork in progress. The distinction between how things are done in the developing and the Western worlds were more striking than they had been on the entire trip. The basic road building process what the same: earth was leveled, covered with bedrock, bonded by tar, and covered in asphalt. However, it was the makeup of the workforce was that grabbed my attention. Men were using sledgehammers to crush large boulders into rocks like the chain-gangs of long ago, but most workers were women. The women gathered the rocks in baskets and splashed them on the earth to form the bedrock. A man operating a modern steamroller compacted the rocks into a sturdy formation, but women were in charge of the tarring too, which was done by hand. Buckets were ladled into a barrel of tar kept molten by a wood burning fire, and quickly poured onto freshly compacted rocks.

     This moment struck me in a way that I am still trying to comprehend. I’ve seen how arduous life is for most people in the world many times over. I’ve seen farmers, construction workers, and even cab drivers for whom life is very demanding at the physical level. This comprises the vast majority of people in the world. What stood out here was the percentage of the workforce made up of women performing a typically male, physically intensive work. Women, from their teen years into what looked to be their forties and fifties were hard at work under a hot sun, shoving baskets of rock and inhaling noxious fumes. And, they looked womanly while they did it! In typical Myanmar fashion, everyone had enough energy left over to give a dignified and genuine smile to a passing foreigner.

I would pass the ‘Women at Work’ scene several times that day on the way to Namshan, and my meditations shifted from the joy of travel to the joy of suffering. Myanmar is a Buddhist country, and the very first truth of the ‘Four Noble Truths’ upon which Buddhism is constructed is the Truth of Suffering. “Life is suffering” were purportedly the first words uttered as a sermon by the Buddha.

I recall learning this for the first time. It set my head spinning. I was depressed and searching for answers. I had the preconceived notion that Buddhism was perhaps the most positive and optimistic philosophy in existence. “That’s the introductory statement?” I thought. Wanting to throw the book away, I thought “Well, fuck this! Life does suck. I knew it!”. I quickly realized the irony. “And, now I back where they start. Those cheeky bastards!”. I’ve been reading eastern philosophy ever since.  

     The more I affirm and understand the inescapable nature of suffering, more I affirm and understand my own life. Of course life is suffering! You can’t suffer if you aren’t alive. And if life wasn’t suffering, then why was I seeking explanation from philosophy in the first place?

     I thought about the laboring women, and how hard they have to work at jobs they don’t like. Yet in the middle of all that suffering there is life, there are smiles. I wanted to hug every worker I saw for being so brave. What difficult lives they had! What difficulties we all have. "Life is suffering" says Buddha. How odd. And so it goes, this bewildering song, this strange dance, this mysterious play.  

Hsipaw = See Paw

February 15th, 2013

     Having arrived in Mandalay during the afternoon by boat, I saw no need to stick around and took the first bus east, to Hsipaw.  Hsipaw is a staging town for treks into the surrounding villages, and I planned on renting a motorbike to do some two-wheeled independent trekking. What few trekkers made it to this outlying town in Myanmar’s Shan state generally walk either parallel to, or on, existing “roads”. The locals that go putting by must think that Westerners folk are strange, flying all this way to go for a needless walk. If they had gone through the trouble of building a road, I wanted to ride on it.

     On the bus to Hispaw, the fatigue of the trip began to catch up with me. Of the previous 7 nights, only 3 had been spent in a real bed. Along with a shortage of sleep, I had been continually dirty and eating “dirty” things. When traveling, I’m good about washing my hands and brushing my teeth, but that’s all of the mandatory hygine I can handle. As for food, I eat primaritly in the streets. View through the lens of the wider world, the minimum requirements for cleanliness in America looks like a treatable neuroses. Travel has taught me how robust the human immunological system. Its amazing to see what humans can can eat and not get sick. In 5 years of constant travel as a street meat fanatic, I have gotten sick from food I ordered only once. Feeling uneasy on the bus I wondered, would this be the second time? My allergies were going berserk, and I downed Claritin like tic-tac’s. Something was up.   

     I got off the 7 hour bus ride feeling a bit delirious and in want of a real bed. I arrived at a guesthouse only to find that they were out of single rooms, but was offered bed in the garage instead, at a discount! Even though it was technically a real bed it was not, as they say in the developing world, export quality (translation: fit for use by soft white folk), but I was too tired to care. I took the bed, and passed out. Throbbing stomach pains woke me in the pre-dawn hours and I made a run for the bathroom. Thankfully, the toilets were of the sit down, Western style I am accustomed to, and they were certainly worthy of export in my opinion.

     I went back to bed, expecting that food poisoning was just around the corner, but fell fast asleep. When I awoke, I had all the symptoms of a common cold: stuffy head, runny nose, body aches, chills, sore throat, etc. I was surprisingly happy. I knew what I had: the common cold. This I knew how to handle. The front desk had even more good news, a single bedroom was now available, and at a reasonable $10 a night. Wi-Fi, and a great breakfast were included. The room was quite new, and the common showers were both hot and clean. Somehow, the trip was hitting a high instead of a low. This notion followed me throughout my first day of being officially sick. I felt happy knowing  what was going on.  I envisioned my next few days: reading, eating, sleeping, and Internet zombification. Beats the hell out of food poisoning. Oh, what a glorious cold this was going to be!

     I ate my complimentary breakfast and headed into town to load up on healthy snacks. This is quite the chore in the developing world. Healthy food is expensive and/or difficult to store. There are endless varieties of cheap confectionaries, sugared drinks, and all manner of fried and salted things. When the majority of stores all sell identical products, shelf life is the priority.

I arrived at the local market close to noon. Most stalls had shut up for the day, but I spotted piles of my favorite healthy snack in the developing world, the tomato. Usually less than a dollar a Kilo the tomato, with obligatory salt shaker accompaniment, is my go to health booster. I made my selection and off I went, smiling under the hot Burmese sun as I sneezed, sniffled, and ached my way back to the guesthouse. On the way, I spotted some fantastic golden pears, and bought some delicious dried fruits as well. Could the day get any better?

     I returned to launch Operation Laziness and over the next few days I watched movies, surfed the web, and ate a prodigious amounts of fruit. I attempted occasional walks, but usually felt lousy afterwards, so I stopped that. For dinner, my routine was chicken noodle soup a la Hsipaw. A common dish in Myanmar is “Shan noodles”, which are simply various cuts of rice noodles, served as a soup or salad, along with various veggies and herbs. I usually downed two bowls of the soup at the street vendor nearest to my guesthouse every night. Apparently  my faith in street food, and the immune system, was still intact.

     I had time for some trip planning. I wanted to get a scooter, tie my luggage to the back, and take off for weeks to see what happened. I had done something similar to this in Indonesia, so I knew it was possible. However, in Indonesia, scooter rental cost $2-3 a day for long-term rental of quality Japanese machines. In Myanmar, for reasons I have yet to divine, the going rate is $10 a day for a bike of dubious Chinese construction. What really baffled me was that nobody would budge for long-term rentals. I asked a dealer how much a brand new motorbike was and he said they go for $375. I seriously considered buying one. I told the dealer that I wanted to ride 20 days on a motorbike, and then sell it. He said I’d lose a lot of money buying one only to sell it shortly thereafter. “Bad deal for you” were his exact words. He estimated that I would lose at least $100 in the transaction, and advised me to rent one. When I mentioned that renting one for 20 days would cost $200 he seemed genuinely surprised. “When you put it that way” his furrowed brow seemed to say, “these rentals are pretty expensive”.

     What I wanted was unbridled freedom, and renting would require lots of backtracking. There are restrictions throughout Myanmar of where tourists can rent motorbikes, but I was curious what would happen if I owned the bike. Rudeness was not my intention, but rather a sense of adventure was. The thought of talking my way through checkpoints around Bagan, where tourists are not allowed to rent motorbikes for fear that they might injure themselves, enthralled me. I had gotten a feel for the country quickly. I had been stopped at military checkpoints and had talked over the situation with numerous locals. Things were changing fast, and the people were extremely kind to foreigners. My only fear was getting someone else in trouble for being overly accommodating to me, a legitimate concern. With each passing day, buying a scooter made less and less sense. My cold was dissipating quickly, but I didn’t want to rush things and exhaust myself once again. To avoid any complexities, I decided to rest a while longer, and then rent a scooter.

     Being limited by in area because of backtracking meant that I would only be able to allot one week to motorbike travel. The negotiation for the rental was bizarre. Logic that would seem so standard in the West was ill-understood. The scooters were rented for a certain price per day, and that’s how much they always cost. A discount for a guaranteed rental, or a discount for not having to refuel them at the end of each day, did not compute. Fortunately, I’m done being frustrated by situations like this. They were honest people, and they hadn’t gown up with cultural conditions that formed my thinking. Here was a real life window into the workings of human thought. How interesting! Finding out these kinds of things is a large part of why I travel. Granted, I do think my propositions were based on sound logic, but as Heidegger said “Has reason constituted itself to be the ruler of philosophy? If so, by what right?” There is mystery in the world after all.  To hear travelers complain about the way things “should be” in a foreign country makes me chuckle inside. “I was once like you.” I smilingly think. “Why aggravate yourself in the face of that which you cannot change?” That thought, I contemplate daily.

     I’ve witnessed the unfamiliar workings of a foreign country bring people to their breaking point. It’s not a pretty sight. Unaware of how much certainty they require to stay sane, they venture into an abyss of the unknown and implode under the pressure. This is more often the case in countries where people are trying to take advantage of you at every turn, but even in then, why invite negative thoughts into your being? Why be the harbinger of negative emotions when there is no benefit? As Buddha said “Being angry is like drinking poison and expecting someone else to get sick.” We humans do strange things. 

     Finally, a deal on the scooter was struck. $9.50 a day for the week. Huzzah! Victory at long last. I had given myself one more full day to rest and bask in what is perhaps the most riveting part of travel: anticipation. The following day, I would have a motorbike to call my own for a week. I had a vague idea where to go, but there is a catch. The best places are rarely in the book. Even when they are, there’s no adventure in it, and adventure was what I wanted. Therefore, I ‘d have to set out, and make it up as I carried along. The trekking trails would be a good start. Returning hikers raved about the towns, the scenery, and the lack of other tourists. By not trekking I would miss out on camping, which I thoroughly enjoy, but I would make great time and see the same things.

     My first destination would be mountain town of Namshan. Although only 40 km by road from Hispaw, I was told it should take 6 to 8 hours to drive by motorbike. That was my first indication of how bad the roads would be.

     I packed up my bags and got and prepared for a good night’s sleep. I wanted to be on the road early so I didn’t have to ride in the heat of the day. The scooter was to arrive at 7:30am the following morning, and I thought I’d be off by 8:00. Though I still had some sickness left to conquer, the excitement kept me smiling.     

Part Two – the $9 cruise

February 12, 2013

     The boat arrived in Katha 10 hours later than promised. Two exiting travelers told us the boat had been stuck on a sandbar for nearly that long.

     There were 6 ½ tourists departing Katha for Mandalay that day. There was myself, the French couple I had ridden bikes with the day before, a lone German who was new to backpacking and having the time of his life, and a Polish couple with the daughter they created whilst traveling in Asia four years ago. We all had similar provisions: snacks, water, beer, blankets, and cardboard for sleeping on.

    Looking like hunchbacked hobo’s, we walked across two wooden planks and into the bottom of the three story behemoth. Pillars of cargo took up most of the space below. Bags of rice so large they would prove lethal if dropped on someone formed an alley which lead to an open dining area. A dilapidated table ran the length of the back wall, behind which was the engine room. On the starboard side was a staircase. To port, there was a small shop where packeted snacks hung from the ceiling like worms, and basic items were displayed on a small shelf. Next to the shop were a few coal powered burners with massive cookware on top. At least we would have hot tea and warm food on this trip.

     Our accommodations amounted to a common area of steel floor towards the aft of the ship, second level. There were only a dozen or so people aboard as we climbed up, and we created a mild stir. People’s eyes widened and smiles spread across their faces. We placed our cardboard down, and set up camp. We had all learned that theft would not be as issue, and would leave our bags unattended for hours at time. Though the hefty penalty for crime against a foreigner may appear to be a likely deterrent, the genuine nature of the people shines so bright that it obliterates such causal thinking. They are sweet, innocent, generous, and extremely helpful to foreigners. So far, they have been the highlight of the trip, and are the nicest people of any country I have ever been to.

     Being treated in such a kind and generous manner by complete strangers for weeks on end restores one’s faith in humanity. Why some countries treat foreigners like this and others do not is a mystery that needs solving. If everybody in the world treated each other like the people of Myanmar have treated me, the human race would know heaven on earth. Tragically, we lose our way some times. We forget to be nice to one another, and judge whole groups of people as worthy of either praise or condemnation. Even in a country were foreigners are treated as kin, a brutal war rages on.  

The Irrawaddy was spectacular as we cast off near sunset. The river is like a stout brown snake that slithers between low lying hills. The water is brown, but the sands can be pure white in places. Earthen tone cliffs rise a vertical 10 meters out of the water, a predicament for the productive fields above. It was the end of dry season, so the water was particularly low. Our horizon was a rambling line of lumpy autumn colored hills covered with trees so dry you could hear their giant leaves crackling from far away during a strong breeze.     

     I was feeling a bit physically drained from all the travel, but was nonetheless thoroughly enjoying myself. The French couple, the German, and I went below for an early dinner. We has some chicken and rice, a few beers, and interacted with the crew for a bit. The atmosphere was cozy. The engines provided a rhythmic hum; the breeze was constant and cool. The beers relaxed as all a bit;, and the endless tea kept us warm. We rambled on about nothing in particular for hours, telling jokes and enjoying the scene.

     The Polish couple and their daughter was nowhere to be found. They had mistakenly ushered into a private cabin upon entering the ship, and didn’t think it wise to question authority, Myanmar being run by a military dictatorship and all. We were all happy for them, and it seemed fitting that those traveling with a kid got a room and proper beds to sleep on. Even they questioned if it had been an accident, or was simply born out of the unsolicited generosity so common to foreigners in Myanmar. 

     I was first to retire. It was only 9pm, but I was ready to sleep. I layered up on clothing, put in headphones, and prepared for some much needed sleep.  I was off to sleep quickly but awoke a short while later when the ever-present drone of the engine quit and the lights turned off. I sat up and took out my headphones. Everything was wonderfully silent, save the tinny sounds coming from the ear-buds in my lap.

     The German, who had come up after me, said that we were going to tie up at the river’s edge for the night, something to do with government regulations; perhaps a result of the ongoing fighting. Who really knows why. In any event, our machine lullaby was replaced by an infinitely better natural one. Wonderful jungle sounds boarded our ship, free of charge. There was no moon, and we were miles from any city. I asked the German if he wanted to go up to the roof and check out the stars. He too concluded that it was too good of and opportunity to pass on, and up we went. The sky was marvelously high contrast, the Milky Way was quite visible. I took a moment to revel in the stillness of it all. Water made lapping sounds at the sides of our static boat, and insects played constant melodies. A million miles away from everything there I stood, breathing in natures tranquility through all available senses.

     It was cold at night, and I didn’t get the best night sleep. With the added delay of not moving during the night, the ferry was to be arriving in Mandalay almost 20 hours later than scheduled, but better to arrive at 8pm than 1am I figured. However, I was now praying that there wouldn’t be any further delays. It was early and I was still tired but I got up because I knew that downstairs there were liters of hot tea to be had, the quickest way to warm my cold bones.

     The French couple was already there, and Julian was enjoying a coffee and cigarette. Apparently they slept better than I had, and hadn’t been bothered by the cold at all. I’m quite used to not being as rugged as just about everyone in the developing world, for whom rock hard mattress are just a fact of life. But, less rugged than the French? It was the lowest point on the trip thus far.

I warmed myself and spent most of the day reading alongside the German. The day gradually grew warmer and sunnier. On the top deck it was possible to soak in some of  the Suns warmth. It never ceases to amaze me that after traversing 92 million miles, the Sun’s rays kiss ones skin with just the right amount of oomph.

     We all lazed about, and watched the world go by. The ferry made a handful of stops, and swapped cargo. Women with trays or bowls on their heads boarded with and offered us various snacks. I couldn’t tell what most of it was, but that never stops me from buying a thing or two if it looks clean. I got some chicken and rice and a woman, noticing my glance of intrigue, bought me a bag of fruit with chili sauce. He son had taken an interest in me, and I responded by taking a polaroid of him and his mom, and gave it to her. Perhaps she was repaying my tiny gift, and there are wealthy people in Myanmar, but she was not one of them! Here was a woman who likely got by on between $500 - $1000 a year buying me a snack! It was as moving as it was insane. Even if it was 25 cents, the average income in the US is 40 times higher, so proportionately she shelled out $10 for some stranger who she knew to be comparatively wealthy. Staying in line with my philosophy of not robbing people of their kind deeds, I gave her my most sincere thanks, and expressed ecstasy with every bite of fruit she bought me (which was not hard as it was quite good). I made a promise to pay it forward, and I let it be.

     We passed the second night much as we had the first, although this time we would motor through the night. As I dozed off, the German was chatting up the soldiers onboard. They were just kids, one of whom had lost most of his calf in a landmine explosion. Now, they goofed around and played cards with a random foreigner. It’s a strange world.

     The next day we arrived in Mandalay by 1pm. I offered my fairly new blanket to the woman who bought me the fruit, and luckily she accepted with a smile. The information about 8pm was flawed, you never can tell. There are very few certainties in life. Generally speaking, the events that shape one’s life the most are incidental. I think it’s important to recognize the impact of our given situation in life, and embrace the choices we can freely make. Freedom wasted is life rejected. 

  

Two Nights on The Irrawaddy.

February 10th 2013

     I awoke early, grabbed my already backed bag, and began walking down the road which parallels the massive Irrawaddy River, keeping an eye out for the ticket office.

     Government buildings in Myanmar, and perhaps everywhere else, stand out. Their universal aesthetic informs onlookers that inside, adults wearing uninspiring costumes have chosen to play bureaucrat. Surly service is to be expected. I walked through the exterior gate of this tiny administrative building and saw the lone employee. He was reading the paper and having some tea, as many people in Myanmar do to start their day. With languid administration of his hand, the man felled a corner of the newspaper. The slowly falling corner revealed a face with spectacles riding low the nose. It was the man who had sold me the ticket yesterday.

     “No boat.” He said, recognizing me. “Come back 9 o’clock” he said with a self-assured nod. He quickly reconstructed his paper fortress with a firming snap. Although I could not read the bolded headline on the front page, the message was clear: This window is now closed. 

     I was neither surprised nor upset. In fact, I figured the boat would be delayed because the river was low. And in fact, I wanted to leave later than scheduled as we were scheduled to arrive in Mandalay at 1am. I was praying for a delay. I didn’t expect to leave a 9am either, but that wouldn’t matter anyhow. Travel has taught me the value in having no expectations, especially on long trips. This important lesson should be extended to all areas of one’s life; the reasons why  become clearer to me every day.  

     When traveling, guide books may say one thing and a person arrives only to discover that the opposite of what was read would better describe the reality of the place as they perceive it. Thus, a necessary consequence of travel is the inward journey. Travel is mirror which reflects how the perceiver perceives the myriad situations one encounters.  To travel with no expectations is to be free of burdensome judgments. This way of being comes naturally to the long term traveler, for if it does not travel is experienced as a pendulum that swings between moments of enjoyment when things are going as planned and moments of disappointment when they are not. This is exhausting, and travel becomes a chore of looking or waiting for the next high. On long terms trips, it is far better to let the experience be as it is, and not make judgments about how it “should” be.

     As applied in life, having no expectations might better be phrased as accepting what is. Having an emotional reliance on that which is not yet so can only cause harm. On close examination, it can be seen that, for the vast majority of cases, having expectations is useless. This is not the same thing as having no goals, desires, or plans for the future. This are all good things that should be developed and nourished. With or without expectations, one arrives at the same place. Why set yourself up to be disappointed?

     In his old age W.B. Yeats reflected “When I think of all the books I have read, wise words heard, anxieties given to parents… of hope I have had, all life weighed in the balance seems to be a preparation for something that never happens” One has to wonder what he was expecting, or rather, why he was expecting anything thing at all.

     And so I took the news of the delay with equanimity. The goal oriented part of my mind was piqued, for this is its nature. However, I’ve learned to when and how to ignore it. I was still traveling, and still on the same trip. I whittled away delay after delay with prodigious amounts of reading an tea. None of the other travelers seemed to mind terribly either. Eventually, all travelers intuit this maxim:

“Better to travel happily than to arrive”.

An Orwellian town… sort of.

February 8th, 2013

     I retreated from Mytkyina by train, backtracking towards Mandalay, exiting in Naba. From there it was a short bus ride to the town of Katha, a port-town on the Irrawaddy which I had initially to travel to by boat. Katha’s claim to fame was that a one-time British officer used it as the setting for his book Burmese Days. The author? Eric Blair, better known as George Orwell.

     Contemporary Katha is no idyllic city; its charms are few and far between. However, to the discerning eye of a travel hound like myself, its veritable paradise. Katha resembles a typical town in the developing world. Buildings are gritty in the most severe sense of the word. The roads that are paved are in poor condition, and often lined with garbage. There’s a limited variety of nameless stores, and they all sell the same things. Merchandise and food tables explode onto the street during the day, only to be put back inside each night. And, in most out of the way towns, there are few tourists, everything is cheap, and the people are generally happy to see you.

     I arrived in the late afternoon, but didn’t actually see another tourist until the following morning. It was a French couple, and I asked to join their table for breakfast. They too were on long trips, and we seemed to understand each other from the start. I find that most long term travelers interact with people in the most genuine of way. They never ask for your name; formalities are dispensed of. Talks about where you’re from, where you’ve been, and where you’re going are seen as a chore that can be put off until later. Only the present tense is considered. 

“Can I join you for breakfast?” Was my introduction to these complete strangers.

“Please. Take a seat. They have good bread.”

“What are you guys doing today?”

“We thought we’d rent bikes. Want to join?”

     And so, shortly thereafter, the three of us were off to explore the neighboring villages. After an hour or so of riding, we took rest in an vacant roadside shade structure . The open air hut sat in a shallow valley which was now a patchwork of rice fields. The main road cut through the agricultural quilt; the road itself was bisected by a small stream. It was hot, dry, still, and silent, save the odd truck that puttered by.

     We launched into a philosophical discussion about how to live life. Unsurprisingly, our mutual philosophies were closely aligned. Why most people didn’t travel for years at a time confused us to no end. The strivings of the career oriented were lost on us. Approaching the line between expanded horizons and aimless wandering is not without its risks, but to never have tried seems far more hazardous and irresponsible.  The couple, Julian and Femica, had spent two years working and travelling in Australia, where they met. They had saved enough money to travel comfortably for a year. Many of their friends back home were unemployed or in debt, yet they still marveled at how the two could be so irresponsible! We had a laugh and finally Julian said “By the way, what is your name”? Good people.

     The villages were a real treat. Although they were supposedly comprised of a distinct ethnic group, the Shan people, to us they were indistinguishable from the people in town, who were Bamar. Nevertheless, the outlying villages were quaint and innocent; one road, one-horse towns with modest wooden abodes. We happened upon a group of kids playing soccer in the street, and the game disbanded immediately as they showered with “hellos” and enthusiastic intrigue. They motioned for us to start taking pictures, which we did. They really got into it, cheering and lining up in different arrangements for the camera. To observe the creation of joy from nothing is to watch magic happen. The chance encounter of distinct and individually uninteresting phenomena created so much joy. Smiles and enthusiasm begat more smiles and enthusiasm. Where does it all come from?

     Everywhere we went we were greeted by the people that looked quite happy. I’ve noticed this trend before in the developing world, that within certain countries the villagers appear much happier than the city folk. This is a generalization to be sure, and I have no data to back it up directly. But observation confirms, and there is, I think, reason to it. The first few phases of modernization are not so pleasant; cities are polluted, expensive, and fierce. Eventually, cities can produce enough economic output where people can afford comforts, but this can take decades. Even today, what is it like to struggle in NYC, on of the most successful cities on the planet? How many of its residents are struggling today?

     It’s a curious thing to contemplate, but if an empirical study could be made, who would be the happier group: the city dwellers of Detroit, or the villagers surrounding Katha? A more firm point is made by asking this question: if the villagers of Katha appear, to me at least, to be living reasonably happy lives with few material resources at their disposal, and if we desire add happiness to our own lives, then don’t those who are forced to conjure happiness out of thin are have much to teach us? I think they do.

     We rode back to Katha, and bought our tickets for the ferry back to Mandalay. The 200km boat ride was expected to take between 20 and 40 hours. Obviously, we weren’t in it for the efficiency. We bought some provisions for the journey, and got to bed early to wake up in time for the scheduled 7am departure. As I drifted off to an easy sleep, I reaffirmed my love of travel. For me, travel is the school of life. Where else can lessons about how to live be so apparent?

Roughing it for a reason

February 8th, 2013

     Regarding the comfort of my train ride to Mytkyina, ‘Ordinary Class’ may have been a bit unnecessary.  Ten dollars more could have purchased a comfortable, reclining, cushioned seat. For twenty more I could have had my own bunk bed in a four person sleeper cabin. Instead I rode 30 hours in that rickety, slow moving, swaying, train on a wooden bench. I slept upright. Two teenage boys lay perpendicular to the walkway, spooning in the foot-space between my bench and the one across. It was awful.

     I didn't do it because I'm a masochist. I didn't do it to rub elbows with the locals as I was the only Westerner on the entire train in any class. I did it to better know the conditions that affect happiness. Money does correlate to happiness; up to a point. Several studies demonstrate the "decreasing marginal utility" of money with respect to life satisfaction. Basically, up to a certain point and starting from zero, each additional dollar earned correlates to, on average, a measurable rise in reported happiness. This correlation diminishes with every dollar earned, eventually evaporating completely.

     Speaking broadly about the US, after earnings reach $75,000 per year, money ceases to have much, if any, correlation with happiness. Put another way, from the perspective of subjective well being, one CANNOT earn more than $75,000 a year. I think that's a shockingly low number. As tough as it is for me to imagine, on average, once a person earns $75,000 a year money, in-and-of-itself, ceases to add happiness to life. Although meaningful work is highly correlated with happiness, the ego’s habit of deluding us must be acknowledged. Are we pursing more work for the money or because we find it intrinsically meaningful? It’s a tough, but very important question to answer in life, especially if you’re lucky enough to have options.

     If ones goal is happiness in life, wouldn't it be logical to pursue happiness directly, and ignore the income component once it is maxed out? Forming good relationships, cultivating qualities such as forgiveness and gratitude, these are the kinds of things are highly correlated to life satisfaction; these are the things that have real value in life.

     But, I digress. What happiness, or lack thereof did I observe on the train? Well, comfort does buy happiness. I could observe this simply by looking within. I was very uncomfortable and wanted to be free of such discomfort. On the whole, my fellow passengers appeared to be a happy lot. However, observing closely, I did noticed a preponderance of forlorn faces.

     Was this mere statistical noise, or was it part of something real? Can suffering be detected by simply looking at the faces of the uncomfortable? I think so. The train ride was a transient situation to be sure; particularly for the fortunate people of the world such as myself. However life, especially in the developing world, is full of ardor. Things are considerably less comfortable. Life is, quite literally, harder. As a traveler, you learn to deal with it. But over a lifetime, how much would it chip away at our happiness? Minimal levels of comfort are easy to attain. Learning to deal with moderate discomfort only lowers the bar to such attainment. However much comfort is correlated to happiness,  I'm glad to know the situation better, and I'm grateful for my lucky lot in life.

Using the evidence to live a happy life:

http://www.joyfuldays.com/what-makes-people-happy-the-top-10-list/

A day on the edge of nowhere

February 5th, 2013

     I decided to dedicate at least one day to Mytkyina and its surrounding area. For the first time ever, I was on the boarder of disputed territory. People with juxtaposed ideals were forcibly laying claim to common land. Fighting was sparse, and confined to the hills which surround the city. I felt safe enough.

     The only place of interest to me was the village of Mison, some 30km north by road. I rented a motorbike of noticeably flimsy Chinese construction, and took off just after breakfast. I cruised around the city to get a feel for the tiny scooter. Sufficient confidence gained, I importuned surprised locals for the general direction of Mison. Scooting to the curbside, I discharged my inquiries in the universal language of hand gestures and pantomime.

Using my most quizzical tone I said “Mison” with raised eyebrows and a finger pointing along the road. A group of passerby’s nodded in agreement with the direction I had chosen at random, announcing with declarative inflection “Mison”. I’ve traveled enough to know that, out of politeness, people may simply affirm whatever it is you ask. Hence, it is important to confirm by negation. I pointed in the opposite direction, and, using the same quizzical tone as before said “Mison.”

     “No, no, no!” they clamored, legitimately concerned for this dimwit on a scooter. Pointing in the original direction, they emphatically confirmed “Mison”. Some even added additional cues. There were crooked hands indicating a left turn at some point. Some elaborated that gesture with rolls of the hands, clearly indicative of length, and then left. Perfect! Three rolls of the hand and then left! There really is an art to everything.

     There was only one road to Mison, and I found it easily (apparently one roll of the hand equals about half a kilometer). Unlike in the city, the pavement was in good shape. With a top speed of 40mph, I still managed to pass most traffic. Lining the road were church grounds that seemed built to house and educate locals. The churches varied in external appearance from out of place stone built structures, to more modest places that agreed with local styling’s.

I came upon what appeared to be road barriers, and slowed. I putted between them and nobody seemed to mind, until two armed men in uniform sprung forth from behind a roadside tree waving their hands and saying “stop, stop” and “no, no”. They were smiling, and so was I. We seemed to understand each other. Nevertheless, the sight of a Kalashnikov’s is bound to raise the pulse a bit. I was directed to a small desk which sat under the shade of a tree on the opposite side of the road. A lone military officer with brandishing only a smile asked me, in broken English, for my passport. I handed it over, and he marched it into a small compound enclosed by a brown bamboo fence with sharpened ends. It was a small military outpost with obvious barracks, administrative buildings, and watchtowers, yet the atmosphere was calm.

     After some time, another official came out side to say hello. He engaged me as most civilian locals would have. “Where you come from?”, “What is your name?” etc. Other guards looked on curiously as he continued to ask some officious questions like where I was born, and what I wanted to do in Mison. Everything was very polite and relaxed. It was clear that people were surprised and even delighted by the presence of a foreigner. I asked if there was any danger in the area; he shook a smiling head, no, no. I may use different metrics to measure risk than he does, but I nonetheless decided to continue on.

     Soon after the checkpoint, I had to turn onto a rocky road to Mison. After thirty minutes I happened upon a riverside pagoda, a regular occurrence in this country. I stopped for a breather and happened upon a lone, aged, monk. He didn’t display too much surprise in seeing me, and attempted to engage me in conversation. Quickly understanding that I didn’t speak his language, he watched as I took some pictures, and even obliged to stand presentably in one of my photos.

     As I put the camera away, it was he who began talking the universal language. He motioned as if he wanted me to eat; or perhaps I was supposed to drink tea. I was hungry and this is a fairly common custom, so I nodded in agreement. He led the way out and pointed down the road. I pointed to my motorbike and motioned for him to get on the back. Although the store was only a few hundred yards away, it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. He climbed on the back, and off we went, me and an old Burmese monk riding a flimsy Chinese scooter through my day on the edge of nowhere.

     

     We entered a local store typical of the developing world: the mini-bazaar. Batteries from the 80’s, dish soap, rope varying length, water bottles filled with gasoline, snacks, bulk rice, nail clippers, and even clothing are all arranged in semi-logical order in these dirt floored lean-to’s. The people inside were happy to see a foreigner. Extra plastic stools were placed around a low table. The monk said something and a cup with hot water and some sweet bread was brought out. They gave me packets of both tea and coffee. I chose the tea, and the monk, somewhat surprisingly, had an energy drink. The predecessor to red-bull, Lipovitan-D comes in a 4 oz. faux-medicinal glass bottle. I've given it a try and it makes red bull taste like ambrosia. To each their own.

     I drank my tea, ate my bread, and we stared and smiled at each other. I got up to leave, and motioned to pay, but everyone waved me off. It’s a tough call when someone who likely makes less than $1000 USD per years offers to give you something, even if it’s only a few pennies. Do you insist on paying, which necessarily prevents their kind deed, and may offend them? Or, do you go with the custom, and accept graciously? To these situations I take a pay-it-forward attitude. I graciously accepted, and left with a strong determination to pay it back to their countrymen with considerable interest. To me, it creates a situation to do far more good.

On the way home I stopped at a church that has signs in English. I wanted to talk to the local people about the area, and what they thought about the war, life, missionaries, modernization, and Westernization. I pulled inside the church compound and parked, not quite knowing what to do. I faffed around for a bit until someone pointed my into a small building on the edge of the property. I walked over to find four men enjoying tea and snacks, and, in perfect English, they asked me to join them. They seemed totally unsurprised by my presence, and started with the normal questions about where I’m from. There was one older gentleman and three well-dressed younger lads in their twenties. They were all theological students and spoke great English. The older man had traveled extensively, and had family in the USA. The others had hopes of emigrating to the US same day. The conversation naturally progressed to the topic of the war, and its effect on the people.

“We are tired of the fighting. 100,000 people have been displaced. Let the people of your country know about it.”

     They were not despondent, or ignorant of worldly affairs. They could face their reality, but sought greater peace and stability in life. Who could blame them? The worst of the fighting had passed, but it left its mark. And for all they knew, it may return.

     With the day’s end approaching, I was forced to leave. The warmth of a setting sun warmed my back as rode towards Mytkyina and its YMCA. There are many strange and wonderful days on the road, and this was one of them. However, on the best of days one gets to live a valuable life lesson from an otherwise unavailable perspective  On the ride home I reflected on what I had learned. People the world over want to live in such a way that they can count on the future. Humans desire certainty in an uncertain world. Whether you’re a subsistence farmer relying on uncertain rain for food, or a family relying on uncertain finances for shelter, the want is the same. Modes of living across the planet vary widely, but the basic wants and desires of humans is remarkably similar. Lucky are those who can rely on basic needs being met. Wise are those who learn to live with uncertainty.

I'm glad to be of the lucky few, and I try and develop my wisdom every day. 

A Surreal Arrival

February 4th, 2013

Stepping off the train and onto the platform at Mytkyina station was like stepping onto a movie set. Everything was authentic, only more so. It was surreal.

The train pulled into station around 8pm, and a young tuk-tuk driver was first to spot me. He approached the still moving coached and asked with a smile of intrigue "YMCA? Two thousand Kyat"? He held up two fingers to confirm the price, but a genuine smile never left his face. As comic as staying at a YMCA while in Burma sounds, I was in Burma's Kachin state, which is supposedly 95% Christian.

 Also, the YMCA is the cheapest place in town that accepts foreigners, so I agreed. 

I passed my luggage through the wooden window-frame to the expectant arms of my teenage driver and headed for the door. I don't recommend such a nonchalant parting with your valuables in India, or even Argentina, but one develops an instinct for trustworthiness after traveling for so long. That, coupled with the knowledge that Myanmar is still run by a military dictatorship where crimes against tourists are punished as severely as, say, speaking out against the government tyrannical rule, made me feel very secure.

In the station, people buzzed about rapidly unloading goods from the train. The driver hoisted my bag onto his shoulder and led me to the exit. Outside of the station were poorly lit streets. Audible commotion created a sense of uncertainty.

Across the passenger drop off area of the station lay the main road. A swarming mass of traffic composed of tuk-tuks, motorbikes, cars, and bicycles which slowly rambled over broken concrete in indistinguishable directions. A dust composed of kicked up dirt, exhaust, and pulverized road crated an opaque urban fog which enshrouded the traffic. Haloed headlights were the primary source of light. Seeing in color was not possible; everything appeared as grainy back and white. I was wearing used a brown leather bomber jacket I purchased for the trip. Wading through rickshaw traffic with silver screen vision in that getup contorted my logic. Had I slid through a time warp? I climbed into the back of the tuk-tuk and we putted away, kicking up more dust and adding our share of sooty exhaust common to poor quality fuel.

An emergency light lit the front desk at the 'Y'. There was only one large room left, but it was within my budget. The place itself was very rundown. It looked like it had been a medical clinic at one point. There were caged doors on all the cabinets; the hallway was curiously wide.

The manager was a local man in his late twenties who spoke good English. He quizzed me about what I was doing so far north, and told him planned to drift back from where I came via ferry boats on the Irrawaddy. He broke in before I could finish describing my plans. Due to ongoing fighting in the north, the military banned public transit on the river between Mytkyina and Bahmo, my first scheduled destination.

Ongoing fighting? That would explain the brownouts, broken streets, absence of tourists, and quizzical expression on everyone's face when I arrived at the YMCA. The managers furrowed brows and bewildered query "You are not with NGO... or missionary?" made infinitely more sense.

Travel can be like this. Firm plans made at one juncture are laughable at the next. One simply has to go with the flow. I was a bit stunned in the face of my decision: to stay a full day or hop back on the train the following morning?

I had a dinner of seaweed soup at the Chinese eatery next door; a pause to let the atmosphere of the place soak into by being a bit more. Plans aside, I was in a pretty unique place. What electricity the street lights lacked pervaded the air. There had been fighting nearby, I was told, but the city itself was quite safe. I had no schedule, no plans, and no responsibilities. I was all alone on the edge of a world unknown to me. Is that not what travel is all about?

Yes, a day or two on the edge of a populated nowhere would do me good. 

Really Travelling

February 3rd , 2013

It's concerning when the 26 hour train ride you just booked cost half the price of the 9 hour bus ride you just took.

"Ordinary class?" The man in the ticket widow asks for a second time, eyebrows raised 

"Oh yeah. Ordinary class" I confirm casually, like an old hand.

After a polite scoffing; a head shaken in bemusement, I am issued a ticket. It is not until I'm told the price that to I begin to reconsider.

What little I have seen of Myanmar has been great so far. As with most places that see few foreigner visitors, the people of Burma account for nearly all of my enjoyment in my two short days here. I've been stuck in cities (which I typically dislike) or in transit (which I sometimes enjoy. I am, after all, a traveler).

Yangon was pretty much what I expected a city of 5 million people in the developing world to be: a fairly developed concrete jungle of bad roads and aspiring strip malls.

One of my favorite features of cities in the developing world is that food stalls spill out onto the street, sometimes taking up half the sidewalk for an entire block. A tunnel of umbrellas and makeshift awnings trap vaporized flavor; the backpackers entrée.

Dwarf-sized plastic stools and chairs take a further half of the remaining sidewalk. The impedance created is fortunate; this seemingly chaotic world forms perfect order. Walking slowly, wandering eyes begin to connect. Timid "hellos" are issued by the bold and the curious. You turn to notice that all eyes are on you: the oversized, white skinned, alien looking creature (just like on TV)! It's a good thing I'm always hungry, because whether I like it or not, it's time to eat.

Interactions like this let me know I'm traveling again. As I stepped of the bus in Mandalay at 5am, I had tea with a moto-taxi  driver. He spoke good English and we talked about potential travel itineraries for me. He knew right away what I was looking for. Over the course of two hours of tea drinking, he convinced me that I should keep pressing north to Myitkyina, and make my way back to Mandalay by boat. It should take about 10 days. We finally had a destination to which he could taxi me: the train station.

"Ordinary class okay" he said with a smile as he road off. Sounds like perfect chaos.