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.
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.