Off to Bagan

March 31st, 2013

     The bus to Mandalay was set to depart around 10 am, which left me with a relaxed morning. I chatted with other travellers around the guesthouse. In general, the travellers in Myanmar tend to be older; in their forty’s or fifties. Apparently, lack of banana pancakes and nightlife stultifies youthful exploration. Group tours are common in Myanmar, but in Hsipaw the independent traveller predominated. I met several people from America, a statistical rarity, along with the familiar mix of Canadians, Brits, Swiss, French, Dutch, and Germans. Most travellers have similar views of life and politics, and I regurgitated mine for the umpteenth time. 

     The bus to Mandalay contained a few of the elusive youthful backpackers. There was a muscular Aussie sporting a tank top and a spectacular sunburn. I had forgotten that Myanmar has beaches. There were two teenage girls who, although overly spry and too well kempt, looked like they knew what they were doing. Bravo, I thought. I was looking forward to staring out the window, so I hid towards the back. At the last moment an additional westerner got on and made his way to the only available seat, the one adjacent to me. I didn’t want to get into the all too familiar dance of exchanging basic information for fear that I might get caught up in small talk for hours. The man marched onto the bus; there was certitude in his gait. He threw his satchel overhead, and sat down mechanically. He aimed his gaze forward, and shut his eyes.

     I was simultaneous relieved and offended. Who wouldn’t want to make small talk with me, I pleaded inwardly. I have very interesting views on life and politics. Even in the moment this internal scene amused me. I love watching my own play.

     I threw in my headphones and prepared for a six hour ride. For me, bus rides are part of the journey. I actually enjoy them. There is vivid cultural scenery both on and off the bus. Sometimes, the busses themselves are cultural relics. In Myanmar, this was less the case. The buses were all fairly modern, and carried mostly westerners or Burmese with western aspirations. However, I’ve gotten very adept at passing time on buses with pleasure. The proper ratio of quality podcasts to good music can greatly alter perceptions of the passage of time.

     After three hours, the bus came stop in a gravel parking lot behind a fairly modern building. Most everyone got off to stretch or buy snacks. My neighbor remained stoic, and seemed to intuit the wisdom of the creed “speak not unless it improves on silence.” I’ve realized that this is quite true when practiced thoughtfully. Getting it right is a balancing act, but its true nonetheless.  

     I went inside to hunt for novel snacks. Half of the building was devoted to a restaurant, and the other half sold a variety of goodies, most wrapped in plastic. If you’re in a country long enough, it’s well worth figuring out which snacks are your favorites (or at least that’s my excuse for trying everything). So far I had only taken a liking to some of the dried fruits, and the store didn’t carry my preferred style. A group of young local women stood in uniforms comprised of taut black jeans and knitted orange shirts. They were cutting what looked to be large blocks of opaque Jell-O into manageable portions. Catching my glance, they motioned for me to come try, and I approached with enthusiasm. They giggled and seemed amused that I was so eager to try their food. There was a custard colored block, a bright green one, and a milky white one. I tried the milky white one, and was quickly offered several chunks of every flavor. They were all a bit slippery, and tasted as expected. It was a sweet snack; dense, but not rich. I had discovered my new favorite snack. Or perhaps it was the women I enjoyed. We men are incomprehensibly simple creatures.

     The bus honked, and I withdrew from the friendly female conclave. The bus was already full and beginning to back up as I jumped on. I sat next to my silent neighbor and launched my attention through the window and into outer space.

     We arrived at a labyrinthine bus terminal on the outskirts of Mandalay. It was not so much a bus terminal as it was a town unto itself. Endless rows of barrack-style buildings had double decker bused perpendicularly parked in front, creating ultra wide avenues. The center of town was comprised of food stands, and an agglomeration of small local buses. Large bus stations in the developing world often have an ordered frenzy that I’ve come to relish.

     Finding our parking place amongst the avenues took almost half an hour. We parked, and I entered the open façade of the nearest bus company to inquire about Bagan. Bagan was only 7 hours away, and I wanted the latest departure possible. I hate arriving at absurd hours, and bought a ticket for a 9 p.m. departure. With luck, we’d be delayed and arrive just before sunrise. I took my ticket and as I looked up I saw my stoical seat pal ready to break the ice. “They go to Bagan?” he asked as an afterthought in accented English. His eyes darted between me and the agent, and he was already reaching for his wallet. I answered in the affirmative, but knew I didn’t need to explain any details. He quickly bought a ticket and found a place to leave his bag.

     Turning to me he said “Okay” as he clasped his hands. “Four hours waiting. Want some food?” This man conducted himself in a manner perfectly to my liking. He was never discourteous; always direct. Speak not unless it improves on silence. All the best travellers know this to some extent. We are thrilled just to observe.

     The sun had nearly gone, and the buildings and buses began to light up. We strode towards the central cluster of food stands and eateries. I professed my fondness for tea houses and noodle soup. He too had taken a liking to both. Eventually, we exchanged names. His was Marcio, and he was from Italy. He worked as part of a production crew for Italian movies and TV, and usually had three months of the year off. The first two months of this year’s vacation were spent in India and Thailand with his girlfriend, but he had Myanmar all to himself. If the amount of dirt on his threadbare shirt was a litmus test for how much fun he was having by himself, the reading was off the charts.

     Our bellies full, we walked out into the darkness of night. The unceasing activity on the pavement surrounding us kicked up considerable dust. The dark haze conspired to obscure everything not in the immediate vicinity. We stood at the center of the dimly lit transportation nexus and watched for a moment. The central expanse of gravely pavement was walled in by two-story buildings, creating the feel of a courtyard. Buses prowled everywhere, whining and burping as they went. People were running or walking in all directions. Neon signs blinked and begged for attention. Below them people flitted in an out of shops. The night was filled with gritty activity.

     I turned to Marcio and said “You know, I love travelling. It makes sense to enjoy nice scenery and beautiful beaches, but I absolutely love this shit too. A bus station. This bus station. Its hectic, its gritty, its poorly lit, its polluted, and I fucking love it.”

     Marcio looked at me with a knowing grin. “Me too” he said with raised eyebrows and a nod of the head.

     The ride to Bagan was uneventful. Marcio and I had seats along the back row, and Marcio gave me the more comfortable one. Sleep was intermittent, and thanks to improvements in Myanmar’s roads we arrived early, around 3:30 am. We were met by a handful of touts, all vying for our attention. The half dozen or so backpackers from the bus formed a group of which Marcio and I were a part. Nobody had accommodation, and nobody was in a rush. Some touts offered horse cart taxi’s to guesthouses at what were deemed by consensus to be exorbitant prices. The price sounded fair enough to me, but I was too delirious to care. In the end, we surprised them all by walking into town.

     The touts trailed off and left us alone, and the group roamed the streets looking for accommodation. We found a few suitable places, but beds and rooms were in short supply. Nobody took a room until everybody was sorted out. We split ourselves between three nearby guesthouses and persuaded the owners to charge us only for the approaching day and following night. Marcio and I ended up splitting a room with two double beds. It was dank, windowless room with decent beds and a hot shower. Being in a tourist hotspot meant paying the ridiculous government taxes, which were supposedly responsible for pushing the price up to $25 a night for the two of us. It sounds cheap, but if you’ve backpacked around Asia you know that someone is laughing all the way to the bank renting that room for $25.     

     Marcio and I had a quick chat and made vague references to our plans. It was clear that we got along well, but neither of us wanted to be on the others schedule. We weren’t able to rent bikes and catch the approaching sunrise, but somehow sleep sounded far more fascinating than seeing the light of dawn illuminate the ancient temples I had traveled 12,000 to see. I was tired right then and there. The temples could wait a day.    

An epiphany.

March 30th, 2013

     I had a full day to relax in one of the best town I have visited in a long time. The surrounds of Ming-Ngo are idyllic; its character authentic. It must not be in any guidebooks yet, for it is too perfect. I suspect that someday soon there will be signs in English everywhere; storefronts promoting laughably expensive treks to villages, restaurants proclaiming the best pizza in town. I would like to say that changes like this would undoubtedly change the town for the betterment of the residents, but I’m not so sure.

     I spent a full day reading, lazing, observing, and pondering. I continued reading Jupiter’s Travels, attempting to lure myself into making a similar motorcycle journey. The magnitude of such a commitment loomed.

     The following day, I left in mid-afternoon, the bike was due back in Hsipaw by nightfall. I had missed the best riding of the day, the cool morning air. Brief shady sections were chilled, but I had to remove my jacket due to the mounting heat of the day. Something about riding a motorcycle draws one into the present moment. For safety reasons alone, riding should make one more aware of their immediate surroundings. However, I was beginning to understand the mythology of the motorcycle. I chuckled to myself pondering futurist Ray Kurzweils predictions about the approaching age of spiritual machines. Clearly, Ray doesn’t ride motorcycles.

     My down-day in Ming-Ngo had cleared my head and helped my mind to stop wandering. As the pavement improved, I picked up my speed and all of my awareness was drawn into the thoughtless task at hand. I was moving, but my mind was still. All actions came of their own accord. ‘I’ was no longer piloting my bike. Nature whizzed by and was picked up by every available receptor. Minute temperature changes were noted, intricate smells came and went, shadow and texture were appreciated with acuity. All the threads which intertwine to form awareness could be observed individually. The faster I went, the more still I felt.

     Approaching a sections of uphill switchbacks, the gears of the tiny bike ratcheted up and down. The engine buzzed in a furry, and my balance was examined. I felt calmly alive, propelled by the frenetic motions of the machine of which I was now a part. I watched the world go by and hummed melodically in accord with the sounds of the engine. There came a breakthrough moment when, without thinking or analyzing, I simply knew: I was going to ride a motorcycle across Asia. With that, I let off the throttle. The engine whined to a stop, and puttered. My pulse was raised not even a beat; my breathing my slow and rhythmic.

     Transcendent moments are not unknown to the traveller, and for me this was one. The decision I perceived as substantial was instantaneously rendered weightless for reasons beyond my understanding. Consciously,  I had no burning desire to ride a motorcycle across Asia. However, it was then that I simply knew I was going to do it; or attempt to do it anyhow. The ten thousand reasons I had for and against it were in repose.  Through a hiccup in time I saw through my thoughts, straight to the answer. I felt both elation and resignation. The task ahead of my had yet to feel real.

     I made a slow ride back to Hsipaw, stopping in Chow-meh for some noodle soup. I was mulling the whole experience over. It had left me in a very calm state, but my mind soon resumed wandering. I had thoughts about safety and planning. I anticipated adventure and setbacks. Occasionally, I would slip back into pondering whether or not I was going to commit to it, even though I already knew I was. All of this thinking yielded only angst.

     An unstructured life is both more liberating and more difficult to live. As Kierkegaard noted in The Concept of Anxiety: “anxiety is the dizziness of freedom”. Amen. My life is currently hovering in a void, and can be pushed in any direction. However, I’m highly suspicious that it wherever I move it, the core will always remain in place. I exist, and that’s all that seems to matter. The external symbols that describe the exterior of my life may change, but there is something unmovable at my core. Wherever I go, it is there. Realizing this, all directions look good to me. This in turn makes me I’m maddeningly indecisive, but I’m slowly learning to relinquish my pointless concerns.

     I returned to Hsipaw just before nightfall. My mind continued to tie itself back into knots. Yet the clarity of my epiphany could still be recollected, and that alone assuaged much of my worry. I treated myself to a fancy dinner overlooking the river. At just over ten dollars, the meal was excessive but felt deserved. I made an effort to be as relaxed and alert as possible. Nevertheless my thoughts bounced around, reflecting on the day behind and the one ahead.

     I ate my fish and was with myself for fleeting moments. I observed the table cloth, the teak furniture, the moonlit river, the trash on its banks, the people who swam and bathed, the group tour that came in and ordered wine, and the nervousness of the wait staff. I was dining at the only place in town that served wine, and the only one that had table cloths. There was no mention of it in the guidebook, so I assumed it was a new operation. The edgy movements of the waitresses fit the story. They too were new to the scene.   

     The following day I would be heading to Bagan by a series of buses. First I would head to Mandalay, then I would catch a night bus to Bagan, arriving in the early morning hours. A dozen or so hours of transit is a happy refuge for a traveller, and I looked forward to it.

  

A note on the blog. Spoiler alert!

March 29th, 2013

Any journey into new territory is bound to be wrought with false starts and missteps. So it is with this blog. I’m not quite sure what I’m attempting to create is this space. Is it a living journal, an automatic update for friends, family, and curious onlookers, or is it supposed to be something more?  In all honestly I don’t know, but I am enjoying my new venture.

By design, the blog is asynchronous with my travels. I figured that would give me some lead time and perhaps I could get the writing ahead of itself to make up for down time for when I head to remote regions or go on a retreat or something. This may change. The dates at the top of each post are now the dates posted, and not the dates written, as they had previously been. I’m not sure what future changes  I will or should make, but I suspect there will be some. My entries are absurdly long for a typical blog, but that seems to be what I enjoy writing, so hopefully that won’t change, but I think it’d be nice to throw some shorter posts up there too.

*Spoiler alert* I’m currently in Laos. I made the affirmative decision to go ahead with the grander trip of riding a motorcycle from Vietnam to Portugal. This journey I started a few days ago, and I think it will take me about a year to complete. Driving through Myanmar is not allowed, and riding through China requires a private guide at $240 a day. No thank you. Hence, I will need to ship the bike once, and have two proposed routes. I will either ship the bike either east to Bangladesh, India, or Nepal, or ship it north to Mongolia. The part of the trip I’m most looking forward to is my ride through “The Stan’s”. If I ship the bike east, that means going through northern Pakistan, Tajikistan,  Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, and hopefully across the Black Sea into Azerbaijan, then Georgia, then Turkey, etc. The northern route is infinitely more simple with regard to bureaucratic necessities, and obviously eliminates Bangladesh, India, Nepal, and Pakistan. However, the rest of the proposed itinerary remains unchanged.

I have plans to write a bunch about my experiences, my observations, and my thoughts on life. The Internet is pretty amazing, and I hope to take all readers with me. Enjoy!

Escape from thought.

March 21st, 2013

     My journey was evaporating quickly, the inescapable tide of time carried me with it. I was not concerned with the disintegration of my current trip, but I was anxious about the future. Each day brought me closer to an impasse: should I attempt to drive a motorcycle across Asia, or not? Whenever I thought about it, the result was paralysis by analysis. This is typical of me and I know it. I’m clinically indecisive. I can’t do much to change this feature of my brain, but I can adopted different strategies to deal with it.

     In the case of deciding on The Happy Ride, I simply made a series of small commitments to the overall plan. The Sirens of fear, doubt, and reason all conspired to pull me away from attempting a trans-Asia motorcycle ride. All I could think to do was tie a few lashes. I couldn’t make a decision, but I told a few key friends I was going to do it. I was unsure what to do, but I put a deposit on the motorcycle I would need to complete the journey anyway. I sought opinions from trusted sources, and they all said do it. In short, I pit lack of overarching forethought against indecisiveness. But, try as I might, I couldn’t stop my mind from incessantly debating the issue. 

     The whole way back to Ming-Ngo I questioned my approaching decision. I got so lost in irrelevant thoughts that I found myself back in Hsipaw, the town where I began some five days prior. It was only 11 am. I had overshot my turn-off to Chow-Meh by an hour. What bothered me most was not the time lost, but the sense of continuity I compromised. My subconscious was bound to realize the truth. I had returned to the beginning of my trip, therefore the trip was over. Framing and context are often more powerful than the issues themselves. I acquiesced to fate and declared the trip finished. However, I still had the bike for two more days. Wouldn't an excursion to Mingo-Ngo be wonderful, I thought. “Yes,” agreed my spirit, “Let’s ride to Ming-Ngo and celebrate.” With the issue successfully re-framed for digestion by the mind, I backtracked with a smile.   

     The section between Chow-Meh and Ming-Ngo provided me with excellent riding once again. Even in reverse the turns were fun, the traffic was sparse, the pavement was good, and the scenery was beautiful. I approached the guesthouse as delighted to see my hosts as they were to see me. I was genuinely happy to see them. By now it was late afternoon; I had some lunch and marched out to the rice field pagoda with my book. I had 36 wonderful hours to relax and enjoy simple things in my favorite place in Myanmar.

     I began reading Jupiter’s Travels, by Ted Simon. It’s a cult classic novel about Simon’s around the world motorcycle trip, which lasted four years beginning in 1972. Immediately, I recognized the similarities in thought he shared with me and indeed all travelers. This made me begin the question the causal direction of thought in general. Do you have certain thoughts because of the experiences and surroundings you choose, or do certain thoughts cause you to choose certain experiences and surroundings?

     I’m not a fatalist; I’m a firm believer in free-will. However, this is an arbitrary belief as the issue of free-will is far from settled. The older I get, the less sure I am that it exists. Accepting lack of free-will as a possibility is something I find difficult to do. However, seeing as it’s a unsettled issue, I must accept it as a possibility. Ouch. Apparently, my belief in free will isn’t so firm after all.

     I spent the following morning drinking tea and reading my book. I wandered about town to look at the cycle of the day in Ming-Ngo. Children wore basic school uniforms, and grabbed breakfast from shops on the way to class. At the high school there were no uniforms. Kids, mostly the boys, wore loud and garish western style clothing, but with an Asian flair. Henna colored hair, mirrored sunglasses, distressed jeans, and busy t-shirts were common.  

     The two schools I saw were both comprised of a rectilinear building with large playgrounds in front. I wanted to take some photos, but found myself to be too much a distraction. Spotting a white person was cause enough for a student to stop paying attention, but one who was taking photos! That required divulging my presence to anyone that would listen. More than once, I compelled an entire classroom to come to a halt and stare out the window. Seeing as their minds were devoid of culturally conditioned fears of strangers, terrorism, suspicion, and the like, I wondered what they thought I was doing. Everyone smiled, waved, and pointed. Evidently, they were devoid of the concept of candid photography too.  

     There was a small mosque in town; Ming-Ngo’s most ornate building. The walls of the cube-like structure were covered in variegated geometries of tile, heavy on topaz and turquoise. Each corner had a small minaret, and the central room was accented by a dome. Surrounding the mosque were Ming-Ngo's Muslim residents. The people in the streets looked markedly different in both feature and dress. The men wore Arabic looking facial hear and stereotypically Muslim hats known as Taqiyah’s. The women, well, they were clearly kept out of sight. Definitely a Muslim neighborhood.

     The ox-cart was still a viable piece of living machinery. The animals were well cared for and tenderly conducted. For all I know they preferred their current routine to idling in the fields. Seeing one up close, I got a sense of their raw yet majestic power. I was surprised how terrifically muscular cattle can get. I chuckled to myself, remembering a section of Walden where a farmer advises Thoreau against being a vegetarian. The farmer reasoned that the body needs to consume meat in order to support muscle, bone, and the general life-force essence of the body. Thoreau was flummoxed. How could the farmer ignore the fact that the enormous and powerful oxen he put to work daily survived on grass? Thoreau was ahead of his time; indeed, if read thoughtfully, it becomes abundantly clear that he is far ahead of our time.

     I returned to the guesthouse determined to relax and let-got of the future tense. I knew I wanted to see the temples of Bagan, after which I’d fly to Malaysia for a meditation retreat. When that finished, I’d return to Thailand and either buy a motorcycle and attempt to drive it across Asia, or cordially back out the deal. There really wasn't that much to ponder after all. I resumed reading my book.  

    

    

March 20^th, 2013

     I got up in time to catch the sunrise over Ming-Ngo brilliant white pagoda. I wanted to get some good pictures of the pagoda and its beatific natural surrounds. Morning fog hung in a low thin cloud over the rice fields. However, try and I might, I could not channel Ansel Adams. I returned to town and grabbed some early morning tea and donuts. I was developing a great fondness for the Burmese tea house culture. I was now able to order competently enough to feel like one of the guys, for it was mostly men who inhabited these places.

     The tea-houses I most enjoyed were of tangibly authentic variety; the ones in Ming-Ngo all fit the bill. All customers knew each other, and many eyebrows were raised when I entered. I sauntered over to a table near the back, and took a seat. I ordered a milk tea, some chapatti, some donuts, and put my head into my book. Ensconced in second hand clothing, behind a wall of sensible food items, appearing mentally elsewhere, I was free to let the show begin. My ruse had worked and I was transformed into a fly on the wall.

      I let my attention drift to the routines of the people. Who was eating what? How did they look? Who chewed beetle nut, and where were they spitting? The younger generation seemed to smoke cigarettes, while the old folk seemed to prefer a cigar-like smokeable. Who was ordering coffee and why, the tea was clearly better.

      I watched people come and take away their daily bread, and I pondered the lives of the store owners. Cooking the chapattis and frying the donuts was an effervescent young man in his twenties. He managed the to-go orders and was clearly the face of the operation. In charge of tea and coffee, by my calculations, was his older brother, who wore a solemn face. Perhaps the tea business not for him. An ancient woman sat at the table nearest the tea station and preached to her older grandson. Was she driving him nuts, I wondered. I sat for an hour or so, and warmed myself with a liter of tea. The show was spectacular.

     I walked back to my guesthouse and readied the bike, formulaically tying my luggage to the rear.  My destination for that day was Pyin Oo Lwin, a colonial hill station about 100 km outside of Mandalay. The town was an escape from the heat and humidity of the big city for upper class Burmese and tourists alike. It was one of the first of my destination that was decidedly “in the book”. As all mathematicians and travelers know there is an inverse correlation between amount of text the guidebooks devote to place and how enjoyable it is. Mytkyina had a page or two dedicated to describing it, Katha was allotted several paragraphs, Namshan got an honorable mention, and Ming-Ngo was not in the book at all. This perfect correlation fits well with data I’ve gathered from years of travel.

      It would take me 6 hours or so to reach Pyin Oo Lwin, and most of my riding would be on the primary road which connects Mandalay with the Shan State. I would first have to reach Chow-Meh, however. I bade a hearty farewell to my hosts; they had been wonderful company and very kind.

      The road to Chow-Meh was the best  yet, which caught me off guard. The scenery was lovely, the air was good, and the road was both well paved and empty. I whizzed through some jungle sections, crashing into walls of cool air saturated with herbal exhalations. I saw my first limestone karsts, which are the tall vine covered flat faces of the mountain. Natural pots would form and fill with earth. Large, isolated trees were contentedly biding their time in arboreal purgatory; existing on a sheer vertical rock face, neither part of the forest above or below. How long would they last? They didn’t seem to mind at all.

     The most thrilling part of the ride was the final exit into Chow-Meh. The road had descended somewhat, and there remained one last ridge to climb. The road was well paved, indicating my proximity to civilization. I ascended via a series of switchbacks with hairpin turns at either end. For the first time, I was able to race through the gears and have a bit of fun. Over the ridge, I descended for the final time into the town of Chow-Meh.

     Chow-Meh is a large city, supporting nearly 150,000 residents. From my elevated vantage point, I could see the sprawling city. I was immediately happy to have spent the night in Ming-Ngo. I wound my way into town, and spotted a noodle station along the main road. I made a U-turn and parked the bike. Across the street were some other tourists, walking with their noses in the guidebook. They looked very lost. I dismounted and removed my concealing layers. A foreign couple at the noodle stand noticed my ridiculous get up and laughed. I asked to eat with them, and we had a wonderful conversation. They were married, but had yet to have children. They worked in San Francisco, and both had great jobs. Travel was a passion they both shared, and they seemed to do it well. We chatted about topics in the forefront of most travellers minds. We deliberated over which of the 7 billion lives currently being lived was truly best, and why. We praised the virtues of travel, the notions it liberates, the truths it dispels. We we’re all grateful for how easy it was to travel to exotic places, and praised our own intrepid spirits for guiding us to the very noodle stand at which we ate.

“To travel is to discover that everyone is wrong about other countries.” - Aldous Huxley

     I left Chow-Meh in a good mood, and made my way to the main road. Several days riding on the bike had, for better or worse, given me confidence. I rode comfortably on the highway. I was in top gear most of the time, with the throttle nearly wide open. Going about 45 mph, the wind howled and the engine made a fervent buzzing sound. The circular chrome apparatus I took to be the engine may well have been a some sort of mechanical bee’s nest. “Robotic bee’s on treadmills…” I thought. “Could Chinese engineers be so diabolical?!”. I never did find out.

     There were two lanes of traffic; a mixture of ancient lumbering trucks, new and speedy buses, motorbikes, and farm equipment. I took notice that I was moving far faster than most other motorbikes, a fact I couldn’t make sense of. There were exceptions, relative speed daemons that I tried to keep pace with. I was in no hurry, but the mind does get invent games, which it then tries to “win”. I had noticed this a few times in Indonesia when I was compelled to make some very assertive passes of slow moving trucks for no reason whatsoever. I’m traveling for years, and hence should rarely find myself in a hurry. Yet, I was observing here that my mind was compelling my body to drive faster.

     The ride to Pyin Oo Lwin was fairly uneventful. I was left with ample time to watch my thoughts wander to and fro under my helmet. I pondered the paradox of the head within. Why did this device so often fail to have its own best interest at heart? Clearly, it’s a defective machine. Unfortunately, there are no returns or exchanges, which leaves only one option: repair. I ran some diagnostics.

Test: “Was I driving too fast?”

Result: “Probably not. You feel comfortable and there are other reasons to explain why most of motorbikes are going slowly.”

Test: “Am I driving recklessly.”

Result: “Perhaps. You are not in a rush, and shouldn’t risk anything to go faster. No more risky maneuvers.”

Test: “Is my engine powered by robotic bee’s?”

Result: “It certainly sounds like it. If an Invisible Pink Unicorn or a Flying Spaghetti Monster are the logical equivalent of the biblical God then sure, until you look, you’re free to believe that your engine is run by robotic bees attached to gears. Bonus: Even if you do look, who’s to say the bee’s weren’t transubstantiated into an engine? Just have faith, you’re riding a bee powered motorcycle… Weeeeeeeeeeeee.” Awesome.  

Test “What should I be doing with my life?”

Result: “Hahahaha. I don’t have a friggin clue!” Damn.

     Accommodation in Pyin Oo Lwin was somewhat hard to find. Almost everything was booked. The city was most certainly on Myanmar’s narrowly defined tourist trail, a fact which made itself obvious the moment I pulled into town. I had come across less than a dozen tourists during my journey into the mountains. Flocks of my Caucasian counterparts were now everywhere. Upscale café’s overflowed, boutique hotels promoted themselves with extravagant signs. I longed for the chicken coop for humans I had in Ming-Ngo. I found a place on the main road with a very fair price of $6 a night, and began to look for a place to eat.

     I was a bit irritated by the look of the place, and regretted my decision to leave Ming-Ngo so quickly. However, like most judgments, these too were completely useless. The town was as it was; blameless. My initial dislike of the city was a fabrication of my mind. Pyin Oo Lwin isn’t intrinsically disagreeable. Why was I so determined to sully my own subjective experience with judgments? Another defect of the mind, the remedy of which is acceptance of what is. I loosed the phantoms I had created, and started enjoying the city as it was.

     I found a roti stand, got food, and wandered around aimlessly. I wasn’t sure what to do in Pyin Oo Lwin, but I decided to dedicate the next day to checking off some “must-do” items, which can be fun sometimes.  The following day I did just that. There was a waterfall to see, and some colonial building to admire.  I spent the day amused. Not every day can be among the “best”. In fact, I think discarding specious notions of best and worst, good and evil, and right and wrong is the only way to be truly free. Free from affect, free of the mind which judges neutral input to be this way, or that way. To eat of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil? Our minds feed us the forbidden friend each and every moment.

“The kingdom of the Father is spread out upon the earth, but man does not see it”. The Thomas Gospel.         

     I don’t believe in the biblical God any more than I believe in a Flying Spaghetti Monster (I'm not Pastafarian). But, that is not to say I don't make efforts to be more Christ-ian; more Christ-ish. I do want to real-ize my own divine nature, and the poetry of the bible can sometimes point the way. Eden is here an now. Everything is perfect as it, a fact the differential machine of my mind cannot process. 

      With all the list checking complete, I meandered in and out of the tea shops I loved so much and wrote in my journal. I contemplated my impending Big Trip: Vietnam to Portugal. Most everything was in order, but I was conflicted. I was having difficulty letting go simply making a decision. I was enjoying my mini-moto journey immensely. But, I thought, I didn’t need it. As Nietzsche said “He who has a strong enough why can bear almost any how.” That’s precisely what I didn’t have: an explicit why. I had ideas about a larger project on happiness, but was having doubts. Lost in a world of indecision and illusion, I ate my chapatti then left.

     As for my current journey, I had two options: press on towards to Mandalay and see if I can make it to Inle Lake, a tourist mega attraction, or go back to Ming-Ngo and spend the following day relaxing. To me, it was an easy decision, and I happily committed myself to going back to Ming-Ngo. 

Out of the mountains.

March 18th, 2013

     

     I was up before dawn, prepared for an early departure. I had decided to take too the long and less certain route out of the mountains, eventually ending the evening in the town of Chow-Meh. An hours bumpy ride from Namshan would be my first and only landmark: Thong Nag Pagoda, which could be seen from precipices of Namshan. Atop the most distant western peak was the barely discernible structure. I wanted to arrive for sunset, and rode towards it in the predawn light.

     At the physical level, I was frigid. My second-hand leather jacket was impervious to wind, and even had a removable faux fur lining which I had zipped in that morning, but it my dancing spirits which warmed me the most. Somehow I had put myself in a position were all was radiant, and I was just happy to be alive. All other concerns were too abstract and removed to be anything other than trivia. I laughed at my shivering body and sang out loud.  

     The pavement turned into sculpted earth just out of town. Boulders lay by the sides in piles, ready to be laboriously smashed, compacted, and tarred into legitimate road. I came upon a fork and spotted a nearby encampment of workers and families living in lean-to’s. Most families were astir. Scrap fires were burning, flea invested dogs trotted about, and messy and unkempt children roamed. Not wanting to get lost, I figured I’d ask which way to go. The people were surprised to see me, and couldn’t readily understand my speech. I produced a piece of paper with the name of my intended destination written in the local language. A group of helpful onlookers pondered over the paper and indicated the correct path with certitude.

     Unfortunately, they pointed me towards the more troublesome route. The road was a steep incline of massive stone blocks. It looked more like a felled wall than a road. I attacked it in first gear, crashing over rocks, expecting to bike to fall to pieces at any moment. At the top it turned into a foot path, and I passed a few herders as I went. The pagoda was getting larger, and it was clear that I was headed in the right direction. I came to a clearing, with roads and paths going in all directions. I stopped to have a look and a listen; not even the wind stirred the cold, dense morning air. I took a peek at the only road which continued to climb, and assumed it was way to the pagoda.

     I motored up and reached the apex in no time. The Sun’s rays had greeted the pagoda a while ago, but I could see that only the rooftops of distant Namshan were communing with the Sun. The pagoda complex consisted of a handful of buildings. One looked to be for resident monks, one for prayer, up a stone stairway was the highest point, and the pagoda itself. I was greeted by a groundskeeper, who was surprised to see me so early in the morning.

     The whole complex was crawling with men in military uniforms, about thirty in all. They all wore smiles and bare feet, as no footwear is allowed inside pagodas. However, assault rifles, mortars, and grenades were leaning against every available wall. Some men were longing about, others cooking breakfast in skillets over open flame, and some were still sleeping.  A soldier who spoke good English mustered the courage to open a dialogue with the out of place westerner. He introduced himself and offered me coffee.

     I was still riding high on the excitement of the morning’s drive. In a paradoxical way, the overabundance of living created a surreal and dreamlike state of being. Hot coffee and conversation sounded almost too perfect. In my relaxed yet very alert state, I embraced my coffee and launched into a very genuine conversation with the English speaking soldiers. All boundaries had dissolved.

     The soldier was youthful but not young, perhaps in his early thirties. He was tall and handsome in the classically western sense. This combined with his genuinely kind and inquisitive nature to completely disarm me. I told him I was interested in happiness: what it is, and how to get it. Immediately, the conversation turned talks about peace, kindness, compassion, and meditation. We talked calmly about the war, his life, and our shared values. He told me of his two children, and how he had never seen any violence in his five years of military service. He meditated regularly, and seemed to really understand the essence of Buddhism. Principally, he was against all conflict, yet he saw that he had no choice in joining the military, so he accept it. Above all he desired peace and mental stability because, as he saw it, happiness naturally flows this state of being. He said that he wanted peace in his country; peace around the world, and he had long ago discovered that these thoughts returned the gift of his intentions back him, immediately and in multiples.

     Our coffees finished, I asked to take picture with him. He obliged, but said he would have to change out of uniform first. We made our way to the top of the pagoda to enjoy the view and take the celebratory photo. The hills rolled away from us on all directions, disappearing into the horizon. We were standing on highest point in our immediately knowable universe, a fact our subconscious was no doubt aware.  Small villages and lesser pagodas were scattered about. He pointed out the marching destination for the day. There was a constant rotation of military in this area on security detail. Whatever the reason he was there, it makes me smile to know that there is a happy soldier, on a happy march, wishing for peace for the whole world.  

     I left under a barrage of farewells. I had been awake for less than two hours, yet I recognized that the zenith of the day had passed. I made my way down the hill, and continued on. My smile was absurdly broad, and I felt its intention spread across the far flung regions of space and time. If I’m not mistaken, traces of that smile are there still.

     I was told there would only be one road, and to simply ask if lost. I came upon a few intersections where there was no clear main road, and nobody around to ask. At the first intersection I made a guess, but turned back after ten minutes because the road was descending sharply and deteriorating rapidly. Don’t ride down what you can’t ride back up, I figured. I returned to the intersection and went the other way. This new road was more promising, and having no choice other than to go with it, I went with a smile.

     After two or so hours of passing only herders who couldn’t understand my pronunciation or the piece of paper, I came upon a lone house.  I stopped and announced a friendly hello, both in English and Burmese ("ming-la-ba"). There was smoke coming from the chimney and an old lady came outside. Without any questions whatsoever, I was asked to come inside for tea. Why I was there was apparently unimportant. I was happy to oblige and entered a clean and orderly three room abode made of mud brick and a tin roof. She made me some tea, and sat down. I pantomimed the way to Chow-Meh and she pantomimed back that I should carry on in the direction I was going. Pleased, I sat down and warmed myself. 

     She showed me some pictures on the wall. There were large 8 X 10 prints of her, her family, and the westerners who took them and probably had them printed. It was a real joy to reverse engineer the story that brought those quality photos to her place. She must have really been kind to these people. She lived in the middle of nowhere, which meant delivery of the photos would have been a chore. I tanked my fellow travelers for their efforts, whoever they are.

     After a few minutes reading the walls, some visitors arrived, a lone man on a motorbike and a neighboring woman with her child. The man entered, bought two cigarettes, and offered me one. He spoke a bit of English and explained that I could follow him to the next town where he would point me in the direction of Chow-Meh. Noticing that she had some things for sale , I bought some snacks. I knew I wouldn’t be charged for the tea, and I knew that tourist dollars don’t often make their way to this place, so it felt like the only way to contribute. I would find some way to make use of 10 packs of gum and two sleeves of stale crackers. 

     We left and the man swiftly guided me along the road. He traveled far faster than I did. Evidently he had more faith in the motorbikes than I. With a bit more concentration, I kept pace. He kept looking back over his shoulder to make sure I was alright. In an hour or so we reached a town of moderate size, perched on a moderate slope near the base of the mountain. There were thirty or so homes spread out overlooking a small valley. I bought some gas, and was pointed in the right direction, and off I went.

     The day began to get hot and I ditched the jacket, my dust mask, and my helmet. I wound down into more sparsely populated areas. Fully exposed, I attracted far more attention from the few people I passed. The road kept getting worse, and eventually it evolving some truly satanic characteristics. During the rainy season, larger machines ply the roads and carve tremendous ruts in the road. The earth hardens in the dry season, and the road was split into three dangerous plateaus. There was a choice, I could either ride on the outer edges of the road and hope I didn’t come to an impasse of brambles, or I could ride the central plateau and pray it doesn’t lead me into one of the ruts.

     The ruts were impassable and dangerous. They would swallow the front tire and lead the whole bike into a jam. I got stuck a few times, and was happy not to have had my foot torn off in the process. The shifter and brake pedal took a beating, but held together. I was puttering along at walking pace, but with the weight of everything it was still somewhat dangerous and very frustrating. Every time I got stuck I need to haul the front end of the bike up to the center, and then gun the engine so that the back end came out, but not so much that I shot across the center plateau and into the other rut, which happened from time to time.

     I carried on in this way for hours. I would get frustrated or worried for brief moments, but was quick to remind pause and reflect. I didn’t attempt to repress my negative thoughts. I simply took the time to let them arise in my consciousness where I could dispassionately observe them. After being acknowledged for a short while, the negative thoughts seemed to realize their own futility and pointlessness and, with nothing to feed on, would leave. The eventuality of this process always made me laugh. The key was reminding myself to take the necessary break and focus neutral attention on the negative thoughts. Consciously, I know that worry, frustration, and anger are unhelpful. Apparently, it takes a bit of time for my subconscious to apply such reasoning. 

     Eventually, the road flattened out and became respectable once more. I descended into a stifled valley, zigzagging down increasingly flat switchbacks. The foliage was speckled with brown dots of dry leaves, the hot sun pounded down from above, the wind was motionless. As I made the final descent, I saw a small river to my left and contemplated stopping to go for a swim. I was traveling far slower than expected, and was supposed to be nearing Chow-Meh by this time, around 3 in the afternoon. However, it was clear that I wasn’t. I didn’t want to delay too long, and as refreshing as a swim sounded I decided not to waste any time.

     Moments later, I had a reversal of opinion. I saw that the road on which I was riding, the one and only road, made a sharp left hand turn and disappeared into the stream, only to reappear on the other side. It looked like I would be going for a swim after all. Not quite knowing what to do, I dismounted and had a laugh. I took off my shoes and changed into a bathing suit.

     I walked across the stream to assess the situation. It seemed shallow enough, and I laid a small path of smooth rocks in problem areas. The deepest portions were all below my kneecap, which seemed shallow enough. I rewarded myself with marvelous sit. I plunked down into the chilly stream, caught my breath, and let the water take some of the heat away. I sat there some minutes and relaxed. I had nowhere to go, and nothing to do. All goals were self-imposed. I could sleep by the riverside for all I cared. I allowed myself to fall into the moment. I embraced it, and reveled in the utter simplicity of that very moment. I could’ve had nothing, at it would have been enough. It was a lack nothing state.  

     Two men came down the opposite side of the stream, steering cows across the river. I got up and waved. They smiled, but were clearly had a job to do. They were pleasant, but could piece my story together, and carried on without too much intrigue.

     Sufficiently cool, I pushed the bike across with the engine off. Compared to most western motorcycles, the scooter was very light and easily made it across the stream. I got dressed again and continued on, thoroughly refreshed. Quickly, the road tied into a comparatively major thoroughfare. A truck and two motorbikes whizzed by. I put my helmet back on and began to cruise. I soon came upon the only food stall I had seen all day. I stopped and joined a table of two Burmese men who were also passing through. One was a monk, and the other looked to be a businessman of some kind. They spoke a little English and ordered some food for me. They asked where I had come from, and were both shocked by my reply. They didn’t know Namshan was connected to Chow-Meh by road. They were somewhat right.

     They too were headed for Chow-Meh, and explained that it was two hours away. First would be the town of Ming-Ngo; from there an additional hour would take me to Chow-Meh. Assuming their information was correct, I would be arriving in Chow-Meh just before dark.

     After an ample lunch and another refill of the tiny 3 liter petrol tank, I resumed my happy ride. The road allowed for speedy travel, and within an hour I reached Ming-Ngo. It was a beautiful, charming, and authentic town of 10 to 15 thousand residents.  The town was built at the base of sloping hills, around a ridge of a sunken expanse filled with dry rice paddies. It looked like a lake had been emptied and covered in a bristly, living, quilt. The seams of each patch were delineated by short earthen walls. The center of each patch was colored by varying densities of dried stalks, weeds, sprouts, with grey-brown earth shading the bald areas.

     As I rode out of town, I got an eyeful of this splendid scenery. I could see other small villages across the dried lake, with the autumn colored hills in the background. The sunken farmland was immense, a mile or two across, and several miles in length. Small groups of cows and water buffalo roamed freely like it was a miniature Serengeti. In the center was a dramatic white pagoda with a golden prominence. The sun was beginning to set, which brought the colors to life. The browns remained muted, what little green there was shone emerald, and the whitewashed pagoda broadcast divine notions from its golden antenna. I had no choice in the matter. I had to find a way to stay in Ming-Ngo for the night.

     Though I knew that there were probably no guesthouses licensed to house foreigners in Ming-Ngo, it is not unheard of for people to take in travelers. I looked up the word for ‘guesthouse’ , marked the page, and headed back to town. I approached the first person I saw, and we exchanged pleasantries. I showed her the word, and she pronounced it for me. To my surprise, she nodded in the affirmative, and lead me to the only guesthouse in town.

     I was received by an older man who spoke good English, and said he could take me in. The price was $2.50 a night, which indicated that he didn’t have a government license, but was happy to have me say. He said a German traveler had wandered their the week before and stayed 5 nights. The room quality matched the price. The floor was earthen, the mattress was two inches thick and dusty, the pillow was lumpy and dustier. All six guestrooms he had were lit by the same overhead light. I was renting a bed in a chicken coop for humans. It wasn’t the worst place I’ve ever stayed, and the warm hospitality more than made up for it.

     As per his recommendation, I put my stuff down and went to bathe in the river which coursed through town. There were other children at play who giggled at my arrival. The river bank was a lined with trash, a common affliction in the developing world. With no garbage collection, what can you do with all the plastic wrappers?

     Cleaned, I took a ride into town. It was evident from both the stares and storefronts that tourism had yet to reach Ming-Ngo. I rode round the rim of the lake of rice paddies, and drove through the small villages I had seen form the other side. The residents were exuberant, and those who weren’t stunned with stupefaction waved enthusiastically. Returning to Ming-Ngo, I walked out to the white and gold pagoda for sunset, and reflected on the day. How did I get to where I was? How could one day have so many joyous occasions? Whatever life is made of, I felt I had had connected with many of its quintessential joys that day.