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.