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.