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.
