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.