On The Trail

April 29th, 2013

I left Oudom Xai, deciding to take the less travelled route south. I would be cutting out the charming city of Luang Probang, but I had spent plenty of time there in ’09. I stayed a night in Nong Khiaw, a town I passed through in 2009 en route to the backpacker hang-out town of Muang Ngoi. Four years ago, Muang Ngoi was off the radar; it had little electricity and no road connections. I had heard that it was still a great spot, but there was a growing collection of ubiquitous ‘Reggae Bars’ and places advertising pizza. It had recently been connected by road too.

During the course of one week riding, I discovered something about the loathsome “Banana Pancake” which I hadn’t accounted for: it was useful. As much as I found it oxymoronic to see places in a foreign country where western culture already dominates, those places were convenient. The accommodations were always more to my liking, often cheaper, and easier to find. Internet access would be much easier to find as well, and restaurants tried their best to make supremely tasty food.

My night in Nong Khiaw was a welcome return to all of these amenities. I found a cheap bungalow which overlooked the river. I there were restaurants everywhere and other travellers to talk to. The substantial Nam Ou river bisected the town. A concrete bridge spanned high above the river, clearing it by 100 ft. The steep rise was due to the topography of the area; Nong Khiaw was pinned in by sheer limestone karsts.

I walked down to the river from my bungalow and felt like I was in a gorge. Due to burning fields, I hadn’t seen the blue sky all week. Though obscured, I finally felt the beauty and magnitude of nature while standing at the river’s edge. Gazing upriver, I saw moving mud-brown water guided by limestone monoliths on either side, disappearing around a bend. The giant walls were splotchy with grey and green - forest and rock -  shooting hundreds of feet into the air.

I walked out onto an off-white sand spit where two other backpackers were playing frisbee. They asked me if I wanted to join, and we tossed the frisbee as we exchanged philosophies on life. For hours we rambled and threw the spinning disk. Enclosed by nature, living on the cheap, we didn’t have a care in the world. In town, I ran into a group motorcycle travellers. Two older guys, one from the Bronx, and one from West Virginia, had ridden motorcycles all over Cambodia and into Laos. We talked lazily over coffee; mostly about life and travel. I read in my hammock until sunset, and gorged myself on Indian food at night. As much as I hate to admit it, the Banana Pancake trail does have its benefits after all.  

  

April 25th, 2013

I left Phongsali and the north of Laos after only one day. I didn’t feel like leaving the bike behind and going trekking with the Hmong people. The persistent grey overcast made sightseeing and nature watching into acts of futility. Everything seemed too pricey and I was already worried about the mounting cost of the trip.

Months earlier, I had planned on buying a simple 125cc scooter in Malaysia and riding it around SE Asia for as long as I pleased. The scooters could go just about anywhere the big bike could, were easier to handle, cheaper to maintain, and on the whole, they were less to worry about. However, my imagination got the best of me, and I ended up with a big bike and an ambitious plan.

Laos was more expensive that I had remember, and my motorcycle was devouring gas – at least compared to scooter. However, it was infinitely more comfortable, and could chew up anything in its path. I could ride for several hours without feeling too fatigued. It also handled like a dream, and came with large aluminum lock-boxes on the sides. However, motorcycle travel is inherently tiring. Being shaken and blown around all day takes a different sort of energy to combat. My tolerance was low, and I was nodding off into deep sleep every night around 9pm.

I spent a night in Oudom Xai, where I met a few local kids who were practicing their English. Without subtle of any kindly  they took turns asking me similar questions in more or less the same order (i.e. “What is your name?”, “Where are you from?”, “What do you do”, “Do you have any brothers or sisters” etc.). It was obvious that they were students and and been encouraged to talk to tourists; in fact they encouraged each other. I was happy to oblige, and answer them all individually, sounding off like a broken record.

One of the kids, a sixteen year old named Asah, was enthused as he spoke passable English. He asked if I would want to come to his village the following day, which I did. We made arrangements to meet the following day, and he showed up right on time. I rode my bulky bike and followed his scooter. We rode 30km or so before turning of onto dirt track. In 10 minutes we arrived to his village. The village was ethnically Hmong, with a nearby village that was ethnically Khmu. However, they were not traditional in any sense. There were primarily poor farmers, and only practical concerns were attended to.

The village was ramshackle, the people dirty, and the land no doubt hard to work. They smiled at seeing me; I was a bit of a curiosity. Despite comprising most of the country, villages like this one are very hard to tour. They are of utmost interest to me, and many other tourist too, yet they remain hidden.

Asah had asked that I bring a few fish and some rice with me, which he bought for me at the market earlier in the day. Asah contracted his nephews to take us on a hike up the mountains. They giggled at the prospect, but lead the way fearlessly. We had climbed about an hour before my bad knee began acting up. We had another hour to climb, and I didn’t want to push it so we turned back. We found a stream and his nephews tore down and washed off some banana fronds. We made a picnic, and shared the food.

Asah and I talked as much I possible. I knew he wanted to practice his English, and I wanted to know his thoughts on the world. He asked lots of questions about what it is like in my country.

“It’s a cold country?” he asked, as many locals I meet inevitably do.

It’s taken me years to even begin to understand the perspective and psychology of people in the developing countries. Unless they are very well educated, knowledge I take to be common is anything but. Asah had never left Laos. It is possible that he had neither seen pictures of America nor had any real instruction on world geography. Often, I’ve received stares of only vague comprehension when I mention places like South America, India, or Africa to foreign people. “America is in Europe?” I was once asked. Ideas like relative size and population between countries may not be well understood, if at all.  

I make efforts, if people are genuinely curious. I travel with a world map on my computer, and have striking examples of what people and geography look like in different countries. As to whether or not America is a ‘cold country’ I always say that it is very big country – “some places very cold, some places very hot”. I always mention that we have four seasons, and this is far better understood; seasons are relatable.

The photos and the map are generally well liked. Sometimes I run across people with an all too familiar thirst for knowledge. They see what I’m doing and they love it, though they often wear a pained expression which seems to say “I wish I knew this, I wish I knew this”. Most treat my playful picture gazing as what it is, a novelty. Knowledge that doesn’t put food on the table is a mere curiosity for many. At a certain age, and in certain circumstances, this is as it should be.

We walked back to town and he showed me his old elementary school. He had three brothers and one sisters. The all sacrificed what they could to keep Asah in school, mostly to learn English. He said he wanted to be a guide, and I asked him how many other tourist he had brought to his village. He said none; that I was the first. When I asked him why he brought me, he said to practice English, to show me Lao people, to show his family a westerner. It was all very innocent.

At the end of the day I took some photos of his village. I had purchased a Polaroid camera in Bangkok, and had used it all through Myanmar and Laos. It’s impossible to explain to people what I’m doing at first. The film is expensive and limited, so I try to take only good photos. Children are likely to cooperate, but older people will turn and hide at the sight of a camera. I usually take a picture of kids first, which earns adult trust and intrigue. The photo prints out and we all watch it come to life. It was the same on this occasion, in Asah’s village. A few adults obliged to have their photos taken with their kids, and Asah said the photos made them very happy.

I followed Asah back to Oudom Xai. It was near sunset, and he showed me to my guesthouse. I was clear that he was never going to ask for any money, not even a tip, not even dinner. He took me to the village because he wanted to, and that was enough. I insisted on dinner and I wrote a well thought out script for him. I explained that he should practice being a guide; he had been a great guide for me all day, but he should practice it every weekend with a foreigner.

The script was to translate Asah’s wonderful intentions into language which would hold sway over westerners. It cut to the chase and informed people that Asah was an aspiring guide, and wanted to practice his English. It then mentioned that there was no cost, but that food would need to be brought, and there would be a hike. At the end, I added what I wished Asah had said to me. “If you like, at the end of the day you may leave a donation.”

He liked the idea of guiding a westerner every weekend, and seemed to recognize that simply asking would probably work. I paid for dinner, a few dollars for the both of us, about which he made a fuss. I guessed a tip was out of the question, and so I let it be. I still think of him though. In my dreams, he’s doing very well.

Back to Laos

I left Huay Xai with a vague plan to tour parts of Laos I hadn’t seen on my last visit, as well as to become accustomed to the bike. I wanted to visit the northern regions, in particular the cities of Luang Nam Tha, which had access to a national park of the same name, and Phongsali, also known for trekking and hill tribes.

I arrived in Luang Nam Tha before noon, having left Huay Xai at 6:30am. The weather had been nice and cool in the morning, but the mercury was on the rise every minute. The road had been good the whole way and in town I ditched my jacket to parked and find some food.

Luang Nam Tha is a one lane town of empty trekking offices, lousy guesthouses, and deserted restaurants. I walked into a couple of them, but couldn’t find anyone home. I spoke with a British guy was working in the only café that had people in it, and told him of my trip to Laos in 2009. He marveled at what the town must have been like back then, and told him I wanted to come to Luang Nam Tha in 2009, but ran out of time.

“Ah, too bad.” He said. “The owners of this place said there was almost nothing here just two years ago. A dirt road, two trekking outfits, a few guesthouses, a few places to eat, and this café.”

I was floored. It was a well-developed town now, though it seemed to lack sufficient tourists or residents. I looked at the prices for trekking, and they all seemed absurdly high. I recalled that a four night trek would likely run somewhere between $100-$150, but the outfits in Laung Nam Tha were asking for three times that. In all honesty, good luck to them, I should have been there in ’09.

With no reason to hang around, I left the next day for Phongsali. The roads were said to be in great condition the whole way, thanks to Chinese labor and know how. I began to see the ethnically distinct Hmong people at the early morning at markets of the various villages I drove through. I stopped at one such market to eat some noodles and have a look around.

One of the best parts about motorcycle travel is that you often go where others don’t, and I make a point to do just that. I like to pop into people’s lives unexpectedly, to have a soup, to say hello, to fumble around a market place. The people are, understandable, very surprised to see me and act in a way which might produce feelings of awkwardness for some, but one gets used to it. I receive mostly smiles, especially from the children. Parents make an effort to alert young children to the presence of a foreigner. And I make an effort to be a child friendly diplomat, making funny faces and saying hello in their language. 

The whole way to Phongsali a few things bothered me: the smoke, and the visibly hard lives of those in the developing world – most people in the world. The slash and burn agriculture left a constant haze day and night. Only directly above my head were patches of blue sky visible. Tones were muted, vistas were distorted, and everything was cast in a grey pallor. The lack of light and vibrancy matched my mood. I wasn’t depressed, but I felt incredibly bland, and thought I should be more upbeat. I felt grey.

Then I thought about the lives of the people I passed. In the morning, groups of people young and old trudged along the roadside with tools and baskets. During the afternoons, I passed through village after village of people lazing about, dirty, bored, with limited options to do much else. As the day came to an end, I passed people returning from the fields. Some lit up at the sight of me, many didn’t. Laotian people are wonderful, hospitable, happy, and gracious. But they’re human too, and they’ve got rough lives. I felt guilty.

I knew that wasn’t the right response. What good could self-loathing do? It brought me into contemplation about the human experience. How can one person, fortunate enough to have an adventure riding across Asia, ever feel down? How could the local people, forced to make do with what they were born into, often enduring considerable discomfort just to manage, ever feel happy?

I felt compassion, and that felt right. I’m human, and as such I’m bound to feel less that perfectly happy every now and again. What I should never do is turn my back on humanity, woe my misery in private, ignoring the background against which I measure it. They are human too, and were bound to make happy lives for themselves as best they could. I’ve seen it. It’s inspiring. It was four years ago, in fact, that happy Laotians forced me to make a dramatic reassessment of my life. I saw people enduring the unendurable. They were kind to me, they were happy people, they were gods to me. I was glad to be back, I still have so much to learn from them. 

An Aside

April 23, 2013

About a week ago, I stepped out of the primary story and into another realm. This entry has nothing to do with the main story, which is more or less about my motorcycle ride across Asia. This is an aside, or, as many fellow long term travellers call it, a break from travel. In a way that’s true. It is a break. However I’m still in Cambodia, and I have been busy; very busy.

I’m far ahead of the story I’ve been blogging about. That was a decision I made months ago; back before I started the trip. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I’ve forgotten why I’ve made it. But that doesn’t matter here. I’m not writing this from inside the trip. I stepped out of the trip, and the story that goes with it, about a week ago, remember?

I usually decide to make such fleeting departures from the road when I’m either fatigued or have stumbled upon a place particularly to my liking. The latter has ensnared me this time. I seem to have checked into the Cambodian equivalent of Hotel California. At $12 per night, my bungalow is the most expensive place I’ve stayed since the trip began. It is also far and away the nicest. I’ve got a hardwood palace all to myself at The Treetop Eco lodge of Ban-lung, Cambodia. I don’t want to leave! But, the road beckons, and I intend to be on the move shortly.

So what do I do during such asides? I spend a bunch of time in hammocks. I generally read a lot. This time I have read a prodigious amount. I’ve spent some time writing too. Writing is skill I wouldn’t mind developing. I’ve observed innumerable things during the past several years of travel, and want to write them down someday soon. Many people have told me “keep a journal” or “write stuff down”. More recently, people have advised “You should start a blog” and so I have. You’re reading it right now! Sorry.  

Beyond the things I have seen, the things I’ve done, and the people I’ve met, is something universal; a perennial message that unites everything. I’ve seen the message personified in India, in the Middle East, in Europe, in Central and South America. I’ve seen the message acted out by my friends and family, and myself as well. It’s the universal song of humanity, and we all sway to its rhythm.
  

I’ve noticed that, despite the incomprehensible variation of lives being lived around the world, all humans are struggling to attain what is essentially the same thing. One problem is that the thing we are all after is not a thing, even though getting ahold of a lot of little things is currently a popular strategy for attaining ‘The One Big Mysterious Thing’ – which, again, is not a thing. Another problem is that very few people know what ‘The Perennial Message That Unites Us All’ is, or how to listen for it. I’ve yet to cipher the message, but I’m learning how to listen. However, try as I might, I may never find out. What can ya do?

I used think constantly about what I wanted out of life; about what would make me happy. I dreamt up great mountains of want. Things, experiences, romances, children, a good career, a Nobel Prize, an invitation to speak at TED, a new haircut, an Xbox 360 (with a 60 inch plasma TV, surround sound, and the entire Call of Duty series, obviously).

I was able to turn some dreams into reality, which was usually satisfying for a while. But the mountain of want loomed larger all the time, and satisfaction always slipped away like sand through a closing fist. After many years of extravagant fantasy making, of waning satisfaction even when the fantasy’s came true, I dreamt a paradoxical dream: I wanted to stop wanting. I didn’t what to annihilate all motivation or become emotionally dead. I simply wanted to become less determined by my wants, which were always about me, and which delivered contentment that crumbled in time.  

If long term travel has taught me anything it is this: I’m not fussy, and I adapt. Why, then, was I always worried about what would become of me? Perhaps I’m built to be happy with whatever is. That’s a good way to be built. I think I should embrace it more. 

Life has some practical concerns, though. Since I quit playing poker for a living almost two years ago, I’m always wondering what I am going to do for a living next. It’s not an immediate concern, but the future has a way of arriving ahead of schedule.

When deciding whether or not do ride a motorcycle across Asia, I was heavily influenced by a quote that is as cheesy as it was poignant:

“Don’t ask what you want out of life, ask what life wants out of you"

- Some lousy book I've forgotten the name of. 

I was having trouble making the decision. I actually didn’t feel like travelling. However, I had to admit to myself that for the first and only time in my life did it seem as if events were conspiring to move me in a particular direction. Life seemed to want me to travel, and by motorcycle this time.

“All the way across Asia” life said.

“Alright. I guess I’ll just have to adapt.” I responded.

Life may ask me to ride across Africa too. I secretly hope it does. By the time I have navigated across the whole of Africa, life may ask me to keep going.

“Around the world, you fool!” Life may say.

To which I will respond “Okay, but can I borrow some money now?”  

And hopefully life will say “Sure!”

It may not work out that way. I might get stuck in India and give up. I may run out of money sooner than expected. “Dammit Life!” I’ll think. “What the hell was that all about? Now I have to adapt to some other circumstance.”  You never can tell what’s going to happen next. The most important events in life are always the least predictable. 

There’s another thing I do during my little breaks. I ponder imponderables; all those big and seemingly unanswerable questions about life. I’m unsure whether there is sense in such a hopeless task, but I’m inclined to do it anyway. Meditation is helping me quit.

The goal of the meditation I practice is singular: to see things “as they are”. That’s what I practice doing. I observe reality “as it is”. The breath comes in, the breath goes out. I keep my attention on my breath, and bring it back whenever it wanders away (which is often). That’s about it. It has revolutionized my life.

Ain’t that the darndest thing you ever heard?

Whatever I could not dis-cover about life through deductive reasoning, is becoming un-covered through direct expertise during meditation - the continual practice of observing things as they are. It’s the ultimate adaptation, everything becomes okay just the way it is. I think I’m ready for it.

Slow Beginnings.

April 20th, 2013

I arrived in Huay Xai Laos, having nervously drifted across the Mekong on a slab of a ferry from Chaing Khong, Thailand. This was to be my first of many border crossings with a personal vehicle. Having been to 40-odd countries over the course of 6 or so years of nearly continuous travel, I had crossed my fair share of borders. This time, the familiar routine had been broken.   

The ferry dropped me a few kilometers away from immigration. The moment I arrived, I was a free man in Huay Xai, Laos. I could have ridden away without passing through customs or immigration if I pleased. Had I done so, I would certainly have trouble exiting the county. I would probably be thrown in jail if caught. I did not even consider doing such a thing, but I found the unfamiliarity disquieting. There were no signs telling me were to go, no obvious queues to wait in, nobody around to guide me.  

Exiting the ferry terminal, I decided to go looking for immigration.

Driving into town, I saw a group of travellers on large motorbikes having lunch. Gathered around a sumptuous feat were several Asian men dressed in gear similar to mine. Parked in the vicinity were several new BMW motorcycles, similar in size to mine, but newer, shinier, and fancier. 

I came to a stop and introduced myself the as the new guy. “So, what am I supposed to do? I haven’t a clue. I’m new.” I said. 

They explained that I should go to customs and officially bring the bike into the country. Then I’d have to buy insurance. Then I’d have to go to immigration, and officially bring myself into the country. It all seemed doable.

We talked briefly about our trips. They were all from Singapore and looked to me like they were in their mid to late thirties. Being that they were Asian, they might have been as old as sixty. I never could tell. Everything in their world looked orderly and top notch. They had ordered magnificent food. Their riding gear was clean, and looked to have numerous functions. Their bikes were “the best money could buy”. In the around-the-world motorcycle community, newer BMW’s are legendarily expensive and problematic. They are the preferred bikes of those who can afford them.

I’ve noticed that a lot of people who do adventure sports love gear. They love problems too, but they rarely say so directly. Only people who do “bouldering” say they love problems. That’s what they call particularly fun sections of a boulder climb: problems. They really like a good problem.  

I didn’t have much to say to my helpful Asian friends. It was my first day. I told them of my vague plans and proposed route. I told them how little I know about repairing motorcycles; how little I knew about motorcycles in general. I thought about my bike. It was too heavy, and seemed so big. I missed my scooter from Myanmar. My gear was making me sweat profusely. The things I bought were causing me problems. I do not like problems.

They were astonished when I revealed that I was travelling alone. 

“Oh, I love to travel alone” I said.

“You’re a hero” said one of the ageless Asian men. That was nice of him. He could have called me a lot of other things, and he would have been right.

I started up my mammoth motorcycle and went to the customs house. It was back at the ferry terminal. It was around two in the afternoon, and they were closed for lunch. Things are so relaxed in Laos. It’s one of the things I enjoy most about the county. It didn’t bother me that they were closed. I was hungry.

I went to a nearby restaurant and said hello to the lone patron. It was a ponytailed Frenchmen with jet black hair and a scruffy black beard. He was smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. I attempted to order some food for the prodigious menu. The kitchen was closed. I was elated. I quickly ordered a frosty Beer Lao and joined the Frenchman.

I was still a bit frazzled by mental and physical exhaustion. I had left Chaing Mai that morning at 5:30 am on little sleep. I was running on caffeine and cortisol. I seldom drink alcohol during the day. I seldom drink alcohol at all these days. This is a recent development. I used to be a heavy drinker, but temperance seems to have settled in over the past year or two.

Exhausted as I was, I was happy to be back in Laos, a land where nobody is in a rush and nothing is urgent. A frosty beer on an empty stomach sounded sublime, and very Lao. The beer would likely commit me to spend a night in the riverside border town, and that was fine by me. The Lao PDR, or Peoples Democratic Republic, is often jokingly referred to as Lao, Please Don’t Rush. People were never in a hurry. I needed a taste of such wisdom right then. I needed inoculation from the dis-ease of stress and worry caused by erroneous ideas of urgency. Stress and worry were problems I could do without.  

The beer was ice cold with optimal fizz. I drank it straight from the sweaty brown bottle. I could feel the coldness all the way to my stomach. I took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. I imagined ice in my veins as the next gulp slid down. Pure ecstasy. The alcohol hit me as instantly as I expected, and all my muscles relaxed. For me, the first beer is always the best. However, no longer leads me to want another, a hard won accomplishment. I brought myself further into relaxation through various breathing and mindfulness techniques. Soon, the alcohol would cloud my mind, but no matter, I was in Laos!

After a minute or so I opened my eyes and resumed normal breathing. It was a real homecoming for me. Laos was one of the first countries I ever visited, and remained the favorite country I’d ever been to. Remembrances of a laid back country with friendly people made me immensely happy to be back.

“Stressed?” the Frenchman asked with a furrowed brow as he leaned back in his chair and took a deep drag of his cigarette.

“Not anymore” I said, with a dramatic grin. “I’m in Laos.”

We quaked with belly laughter. He folded back inward from a stretch and coughed out smoke with each undulation. 

Silenced, we drank in the ambiance. We sat on a covered balcony overlooking the Mekong. Peering down one bank, we saw the town spilling out on the Lotion side. Across to the river was Thailand, a completely different world as far as we were concerned.

Sepia tones dominated. The decking and tables were wooden. The river was mud brown. The foliage was dry and russet. Smoke from slash and burn agriculture hung in the air and muted all colors. Even the sky was tinted amber.  

We languidly exchanged the typical travellers stories. It was a familiar dance. Travellers seem to have similar life philosophies, which has become one of the things I like least about travel. I’d like to be exposed to different life philosophies. I think I’ve finally reached a stage where I can actually handle it.

It’s hard enough to develop a comprehensive philosophy of life. It’s harder still to keep from projecting that philosophy on others. Viewing people objectively and not judging them is part of my comprehensive philosophy of life. With so many like-minded travellers around, it’s tough to practice non-judgment. Then again, not judging people at any level is one of the hardest things to do. With all the different cultures I will be navigating, I’m sure I’ll have ample opportunity to practice non-judgment.   

When the customs house open up, I check the bike it. There were some minor complications, but nothing crazy. They seemed to indicate that I didn’t have to purchase insurance, which was a plus. I drove to the immigration office, where the land passengers from Thailand were taken to. I had forgotten to stamp out of Thailand, and had to take a small passenger ferry across the river again. I was struggling to channel the essence of Lao. “Please, don’t rush” I told myself. I left the motorcycle with the graciously watchful ferrymen, and was back within 20 minutes. I had my Lao visa shortly thereafter.

I checked into a riverside guesthouse. The room was very clean. I was not. I was dirty, exhausted, but peaceful. I took a cold shower and put on clean close. My body pulsed with relaxation. I grabbed dinner with the Frenchmen and some other travellers. I was quiet, and could only parrot statements of universal appeal to those who travel. “Oh yes, it can be so cheap. Oh my, why don’t more people do it. My longest bus ride was thhhiiiiiiisss long. Wow. Etc.” It was blissfully easy. I was euphoric. I was happy to be in Laos, the land where people don’t rush and nothing is urgent.

“I rode buses for 72 hours to see the Rolling Stones in Buenos Aires”

James Westfall winner of “The Longest Bus Ride for the Best Reason” award.*

*All those who rode in the bus named ‘FURTHER’ are exempt from consideration… Because who can compete with that… 

The Story Begins

April 19th, 2013

Some months ago I had an idea to ride a motorcycle across Asia. I thought up plans, drew up logistics, and created reasons both for and against the trip. Some of those thoughts convinced me take certain actions. My brain continued to produce thoughts about the trip. I turned some of those thoughts into actions too. Eventually, a sufficient number of thoughts got converted into a sufficient number of actions. Suddenly, my idea existed in reality. It was tangible.

In late March I sat astride the motorcycle purchased for the trip for the first time. I had committed myself to an idea that had jumped out of my head and into reality. I was sitting on it.

I think the trip will take about a year. I have been blogging about my trip to Myanmar, which was not part of the overall trip. That was a test trip. I passed! After Myanmar, I returned to Thailand and bought a 2003 Honda Africa Twin to begin my larger trip. It is a big bike. Its heavy and powerful. It came with lockable aluminum boxes on either side to hold my stuff. I tied my existing suitcase to the back.

I bought all of the proper safety gear: gloves, a quality helmet, and padded riding gear made of textiles specially designed to prevent your skin from being peeled off by asphalt should you crash at high speed. I hope that doesn’t happen.

The pants and jacket are warm, which was helpful on my first day. I rode from Chaing Mai, Thailand to the Lao border. It was cold morning when I left the hills of northern Thailand. By the time I was on the ferry crossing the border into Laos it was 90 degrees and humid. I’ve been sweating a lot.

The ferry ride would be brief, about 15 minutes I was told. The ferry was a long plank, perhaps twenty by ten meters with knee high sides. I dropped the bike getting on the ferry, and an attendant helped me get it upright. I was parked at the rear, a mouse surrounded by elephantine 18-wheelers. Soon after leaving the riverbank of Thailand, I was bombarded by enormous realizations.

I was sweltering on the ferry, still recovering from picking up the bike. I realized had no clear idea of what I was getting myself into. I had hoped to do some sort of project on happiness across cultures during the trip. Happiness research intrigues me, and I wanted to help bring its findings to life. Involvement in larger projects fell through, though I still think about happiness all the time. Its why I named the blog what I did.

I wished for a concrete reason to dive a motorcycle so far. I racked my brain, and discovered that I didn’t seem to have one. My thoughts continued to swirl. I had never ridden a motorcycle so heavy, so cumbersome, so hard to control in tight spaces. The dry weight of the bike was 450 lbs. Full of gas and gear it weighed closer to 550 lbs. That could prove difficult at times. I was no mechanic either. Sooner or later something would go wrong, and I’d have to learn fast. There were numerous logistical hurdles to be dealt with too; things I would need to arrange soon.

I shed thin layers of worry only to arrive at a core of deep seeded fear. Whatever I uncovered was dense and dark. It gave me shivers. I imagined the future of my trip. The roads of India, Nepal, Pakistan, Kazakhstan, Turkey, and many other countries lay ahead. I was overcome with contemplation of death and serious injury.

Evidently, I was no pro on my bike. What if I ran it off a steep cliff, or got blindsided by a maniacal Nepali truck, or met a distracted Indian bus head on? My only comfort was that these incidents would mean instant annihilation. However, I could still get squished at low speed, or run into a scooter, or simply fall off and horribly injure myself. My most damning realization was still that l had no reason to do the trip.

I had already travelled around much of the world. Was I simply an addicted to travel? Had I really committed myself to spend a year, risk my life, and waste my money, for no particular reason? I became momentarily unhinged, blown around by a torrent of horrible thoughts. I felt dizzy. I decided to take my first photos of the trip.  

Safety is my number one priority, but that doesn’t mean mistakes and accidents won’t happen. There are real risks involved. Any accident is likely to be grave and ugly. I’m currently a month into the trip, and I’ve already had some uncomfortable moments. The roads in Laos and Cambodia are mild in comparison to what lies ahead. However, I’ve only been jostled by contemplating the enormity of this trip, and the direction in which I’m taking my life, on that one occasion.  

In the short month that has passed, most of my experiences have been richly rewarding. Maybe that’s reason enough for the whole trip. I’ve got no career path to speak of. I never graduated from college. Maybe all of that can wait. Maybe now is the perfect time for this trip. I love travelling. I love being lost is the great mystery. Life is so much more than career paths and a formal education. Life is brutal, wretched, crude, and utterly sublime. There are over seven thousand million people currently trying to manage the mystery. What a show! It’s such a beautiful struggle.

In the end, I’m doing what I love most. Travel yields frequent lessons on what it means to live a human life. Gradually, they’ve changed the way I view the world and how I approach life. Travel has shaped who I am, and I’m sure it will continue to do so. I’ve learned that there is no one right answer. Life is a song, and right now I’m dancing my dance. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Some Lessons From Meditation.

     When my trip to Myanmar was complete, I flew to Kuala Lumpur to attend and 10-day Vipassana Meditation retreat, of the fabled “ones where you can’t talk” variety. I had done a few of them beforehand so I knew what to expect, and in a way, I looked forward to it. They are challenging, but are by no means impossible. Eventually, they end.

     Before going to my first course I had never meditated before. I wasn’t interested in religion or anything mystical. I had red scientific studies on the benefits of meditation, and they were all promising. I did minimal research on the techniques of meditation available, and eventually settled on Vipassana, as taught by S.N. Goenka, for no other reasons than convenience of location, and admiration of their donation only model.

     There are many techniques of mediation, and I’ve primarily practiced Vipassana. Most meditation techniques have the practitioner focus their attention on one thing. I could be a phrase, or a visualization, or a bodily process such as the breath, or as in the case of Vipassana as taught by S.N. Goenka, the object of meditation are the bodily sensations. It’s a banal process. Yet it leads, without any religion or mysticism, to divine realizations. For me, meditation has been a been a means of logical inquiry. It has given me tremendous insight into how to behave as a human being, nothing more.

     The first thing I learned was how fleeting my attention was. In an hour of meditation, I may have been keeping my awareness where I was supposed to for a handful of minutes. The second thing I learned was how useless anger was. Sitting eyes closed for hours on end, trying to fix my attention to a particular place, my mind would wander. Over 10 days it often wandered into the land of imagined conflict. While there, my mind would have arguments with people. My mind was architect and director: ‘First: they will say this, and you will then throw a disparaging counter-argument at them, to which they would probably respond thusly, and you would outwit them with…’ and on it would go. Madness. Eventually, I would return to my practice, but could detect noticeably bad sensations. I concluded: ‘Being angry makes me feel bad, clouds my thinking, and causes me to treat others poorly. Anger, is useless.’ The power of simple observation.

     This realization did not rid me of my anger, not even close. It all has to be worked out properly. However, it was a helpful experience for me. Whenever I’m angry now, I know from both reason and experience that I’m making a bad decision in continuing to be angry.

     I talked to several people afterwards, and had talked to friends in the past about such imagined conflict. The vast majority of people are both aware of, and willing to tell me, that they have fantasy conflict. Many of my guy friends, including myself, talked about the standard ‘what if 10 gunmen suddenly entered this building’ daydreams. Women, particularly those I was dating, tended to argue with men, which was of course me in most cases, about personal relationship things that actual men are terrible discussing, which is to say we discuss them like men. They would often add that they are actually angry with the person, again often me, with whom they had an imagined argument when they saw them later that day. In all seriousness, this was how I found out all such ridiculousness was going on!  

     

     It’s a universal feature of mind’s to do have imagined conflict, but it’s a dangerous thing. The human brain processes about 12 million bits of information per second. Only 40 bits per second make up our awareness. That seems to fit well with long term meditators insistence that these imaginary fights are going on around the clock; wars are being waged in our capacious subconscious. Having jettisoned much of my fantasy anger, I am indeed a happier person. I quickly learned that all negative mental states are useless. Even basic worry is logically useless. Maintaining awareness of a situations if a good thing, but worrying about it is counter-productive. Like all else, the end of worry must be worked out.

I’ve learned that most, if not all, therapeutic traditions have different but effective ways of extracting the same basic flaws. I once spent several months living with a shaman in the Amazon rain-forest  and found the principal to be the same, though the symbols used were radically different. For me, the meditation has been the most powerful medicine, and the insights keep coming.

     As a strategy, it has taught me that there are two ways to solve life’s apparent problems: attain the apparent solution outside or dissolve the problem from within. I may be able to construct a life where I’m unlikely to encounter phenomena that cause me anger, but I’ll still stub my toe. It’s better to un-learn anger. If there are things I want to buy, then I can either do what it takes to buy them, or I can teach myself to un-want them. If one is skilled enough at un-wanting things, eventually they’ll want no-thing. Billionaires are not so content. One can attain the status of the person they want to be seen as, or they could get rid of an identity constructed by others, and be themselves.     

I Wish I Had Known That When…

April 12, 2013

Breakfasting by a waterfall somewhere in Laos, I’m contemplating the strangeness of the mind. I’m doing a bit of ‘trip-planning’. The logistics of conventional travel are nothing compared to traveling with your own vehicle. There are a bunch of bureaucratic hoops to jump through. Stupid laws!

I’m trying sort out my Carnet de Passage en Douane, an expensive and complicated piece of paper which acts like a passport for the motorcycle. It’s essentially a bank guarantee which prevents individuals from importing vehicles into countries without paying tax, which makes sense. Stupid reasons for the laws!

I also need to figure out how to ship the bike from Southeast Asia to India. China requires tourists entering with their own vehicle to hire a private guide costing over $200 a day. Myanmar does not let tourist enter or exit their country via the land borders. Bringing your own vehicle into Myanmar is a no-no. Stupid governments!

I also need to figure out how to get my visas for Pakistan, Tajikistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and a bunch of other weird countries. It would be helpful if I had known about concurrent passports about a year ago. Issued sparingly, they are valid for only a year or two. They function like an extra passport, which could spend time zooming from embassy to embassy in the US while I travel freely in India and Nepal. I lament that I didn't get one this summer. before I had any idea about the trip. Stupid mind!

Wishing the past were other than it was is a terrible affliction. It causes considerable dis-ease. Yet the mind loves to roll in the past, wanting the impossible. “Oh, wouldn’t it have been great if [ Event Stuck in The Past ] was more like [ Fantasy ]?”. A subtle but noticeable longing is felt; a smidgen of unease is created. Wanting what is not and could never be: a literal disease of the mind. 

You Went To Myanmar?!? A Retrospective on Safe Travel

April 9th, 2013

     I forget myself sometimes. I forget my humble beginnings as a traveller. I never thought I’d keep going this long. Currently, going to Myanmar does not evoke sentiments of exotic travel, or arouse images of a risky adventure. It simply means getting on a plane and going to a place called Myanmar. Buttons are clicked, payments are made, and before I know it I’m in Yangon International Airport with no plan, a guidebook I’ll end up despising, and enough cash to see me through. 

     I recall my first long trip. It was to Southeast Asia in January of 2009. Previously, I had travelled to Europe for a just over a week, Australia for a month, and both Mexico and Morocco for almost two months each. Yet I wondered, would Thailand be dangerous? The news, my parents, and concerned friends helped to reinforce thinking I now know to be absurd. As far as violent crime goes, I’m far safer in Thailand than the US.

     That the same is true for me in Myanmar, and I knew that when I booked my ticket. However, I was surprised to find that a friend of mine who studied world politics in college, who had travelled over much of the US and some of Europe, who is an exceedingly open minded, global, and incisive thinker, caution me several times on going to Myanmar. He never said don’t go, but it was clear that his perception of tourist safety in Myanmar was far from reality. I was very unsurprised at how safe I felt while there. I think he would have been astonished. 

     To me, this highlights the importance of travel. It is the difference between reading about the world, and knowing it. Moreover, there exists a literal world of difference in travel destinations. The developing world is quite distinct from the rest of the world, and there really is no way to know what that means unless you go.

St Augustine - "The world is a book, and those who don't travel only read one page.

     Travel has, for me, dispelled innumerable “truths” about the world, human nature, and most valuable to me, the aim of life. However, I find the most common misperception surrounds the relative safety of travel in certain parts of the world. The default consensus is often comically out of proportion. This is not to say that life, and by extension travel while alive, is not without risks. However, knowing relative risks is of prime importance.

     Statistically speaking, crossing the street, falling down, and motor-vehicle accidents are significantly more lethal to a traveller in a foreign country than violent crimes, military uprisings, or illness. Prudence is a good idea. Many traveller’s get carried and put themselves in dangerous situations. There are parts of the world where it is legitimately dangerous to travel. However Myanmar, Bolivia, Cambodia, Sri Lanka to name but a few, seemed to me to be safe countries (with the exception of the aforementioned traffic, which was insane in Phnom Penh, most of Sri Lanka, and much of Bolivia).

     I started travelling in 2008. Typically, I returned home for the summers, and took six to nine month trips during the spring and winter months. In all that time I’ve never been robbed. I can’t recall having anything stolen, though I’m sure I’m forgetting some small stuff. I’ve been ripped off innumerable times; sometimes courteously, sometimes not. I’ve been lied to repeatedly. Attempts at larger scams have been made on several occasions. I’ve been asked for money more than I’ve been lied to, but have thankfully learned to say a compassionate and courteous no. There have been a few sketchy moments, but always at times when I opted to push my comfort zones, generally with a clear conscience. I was with a friend who was robbed while we were in Barcelona. There were a lot of thieves there. I heard many reports of robberies in Guatemala, and I didn’t venture very far off the trail while there. I’m generally aware of my surroundings, I travel alone, I’m a guy, I try and blend in, I have few things, and I ALWAYS ACT like I know where I’m going and what I’m doing (statistically speaking, its one of the best ways to avoid being targeted by thieves).

     While traveling, I’ve never found security to be much of an issue (except in parts of the US, Europe, and Central America). However, I commonly find that safety concerns are a primary deterrent of travel, which is, empirically speaking, nonsense. Travel has taught me many things, and it has taught me this: more of life is jeopardized by the fear of living than all else.

Reflections on Myanmar

April 8th, 2013

     Myanmar is a vast country with a large population. It shares borders with Bangladesh, India, China, Laos, and Thailand. The northern regions are a stone throw away from the Himalayas. The Golden Land of Burma is a sweeping land of transition. Islam and the colorful culture of India crash into Myanmar’s western borders, and slowly fade into the Theravada Buddhism at the eastern Thai border. Populous, communist, and dominant China bears down along the entire northern border, with Chinese influence diminishing as you travel further south. Myanmar is the buffer to Southeast Asia; it is the zone of transition.

     In my four weeks there I saw an infinitesimal fraction of Myanmar’s entirety. Due to difficulties in transit and military restrictions, getting to know contemporary Myanmar is a challenge for anyone over any length of time. I enjoyed my trip immensely. It was nice to feel like I was really travelling again. The first thing I noticed about Myanmar was that it was more developed than I had expected, although I’m comparing it with places like Laos, Bolivia, and India. There were a handful luxury cars frozen in Yangon’s gridlock: Hummers, Mercedes, and Porches. The city itself was a bona-fide metropolis of over five million people. There was Wi-Fi at Yangon’s famous Shwedagon Pagoda. In a country that has no working ATM’s, I found the country-wide prevalence of internet surprising (Note: it was rumored that there were ATM’s coming online very soon).

     Before arriving, I had heard that the people were very kind and sweet to tourists. I had been to Asia before, and had an idea of what these reports were referring to. Southeast Asia is customarily nice to is tourists. However, I was still surprised by how generous and kind the Burmese were. Myanmar is superlative in this sense; they treat foreigners better than any of the forty-odd countries I have been to. The memories of how people treated me were are most valuable souvenirs, and the most enjoyed part of my trip. They responded with such kindness at the mere presence of a foreigner. Watching fellow human beings behave in such a magnanimous way bolstered my faith in humanity.

     Myanmar is a poor country, yet I’ve never had so many things purchased on my behalf. Food was regularly offered or shared, a custom I learned to mimic. On one occasion, a very poor Burmese woman saw me eyeing a snack and bought it for me instantly. I was, am, and will be forever moved by her gesture. It has made me a better person. What better gift can one give? Thankfully, I was able to repay her kindness at a later time, keeping the essence of her gift and her finances intact.

Only now do I realize how infrequently I was asked for money, which only happened in Bagan. If you’ve travelled to countries that are poor and accustomed to tourists, you’d know how exceedingly rare this is. The people in Myanmar didn’t want anything from me. They were simply happy to have me around. I owe a heartfelt thank you to the people of Myanmar.

     I had gone to Myanmar with a goal in mind: to make a decision. A month and a half after my arrival, I was scheduled to purchase a motorcycle to ride across Asia to Portugal. I know far more about travel than I do about motorcycles. Given the size of the bike, I had my reservations. It was an incredible undertaking, yet I had no clear idea why I should do it. I felt I had traveled enough for the sake of travel. Last year I found my path, and travel wasn’t a part of it. I’ve been around the world a few times. Though I have yet to set foot in many parts of the world, including all of sub-Saharan Africa, I deduced that I got the general idea of travel.

     Yet, all during my trip in Myanmar I was contemplating the most extreme trip of my life. I had no burning desire to do it. I was not even sure that I wanted to do it at all. When I imagined it, I thought about how much more of the same old routine I’d encounter. I thought, too, about the risks. Traffic is almost always the most dangerous part of travel. Now, I was planning on piloting a powerful motorcycle across Asia. Through Indian traffic, Turkish traffic, across Nepali roads, through Pakistan, across Kazakhstan, and everything in between. Madness.

     There were images of excitement in my thoughts as well. Daydreams about adventure and difficulties yet to come. But, the aim of my life is to come out of all that craving; all of that vain grasping. All experienced things are, in the end, disappointing. I was already seeing the truth of that in my current travels. I was getting accustomed to “exotic” travel. Was I just upping my dose of excitement, adventure, and experience to get my fix, I wondered? It seemed unabashedly selfish.

     I wanted my next endeavor in life to give something back to the world which I have learned to enjoy so much. There have been eternities of despair in my life, contemplating the apparent meaninglessness of the human condition. My mind was all that was needed to produce such suffering. Its beyond explanation here, but suffice it to say: what an innocent fool I was. Having climbed out of that, by luck and by effort, I enjoyed the finer things in life. I really did enjoy them for a time. And, I travelled. Luckily I travelled. It was this process turned all the symbols I was chasing on their heads: wealth, success, and a well lived life all meant different things in different places. Life wasn’t meaningless, it was meaning-free. What I was trying to grasp about life was beyond name and form; no symbol could possibly contain it.

Nietzsche said “He who has a strong enough why can bear almost any how”

     And that was my problem with The Happy Ride. I didn’t have a very strong why; or one that I could see anyhow. Myanmar was my test run. Could I travel differently? Could I travel with a purpose? Could I at least write about it? I was unsure; still am. However, after the epiphany I had on my ride back from Ming-Ngo, I put the issue to rest.

     Somehow, I saw through the decision. Debate was rendered useless. I began to see how a meaning-free world compels one towards creative play. Asia was beginning to look like a blank canvas; my travels and interactions with people were the colors. How splendid. I was smilingly resigned to my fate. I was going to do it.

     I enjoyed every stage of my brief trip in Myanmar. If I could do it over again, I think I would come in on a 90 day meditation visa, buy a scooter, learn some Burmese, and drive as far and wide as the military allowed. It is a terrific country to travel, but to really extract its treasures it must be seen independently.  

     And so stood another successful trip; another country visited. The list may be close to fifty now. Woo.  Travel has nothing to do with countries visited, or even time spent travelling. However, there is a skill to it, and that does take time to craft. In my opinion, travelling solo is a must. Staying solo while travelling is a must. You have to get lost in the moment, you have to become each and every moment. The only time Myanmar made sense to me was when I wasn’t thinking about what I came there to think about. My trip was perfect in that way, and the question answered itself from a place other than reason.

     Amazing. 

Exploring Bagan: An Anticlimactic Event

April 8th, 2013

     The temples of Bagan are spread over a large swath of land covering over one hundred square kilometers. The tourists abuzz about Bagan’s temples can opt for lodging in either Old Bagan, New Bagan, or Nyaung Oo. I opted for the less expensive, but ever so out of the way Nyaung Oo. 

Having arrived by bus in the middle of the night, a few hours rest in the room provided a both physical rest and a psychological break. I recognized my second awakening as the beginning of a new day. It was nice to be up early, but by the looks of things I had already missed the start of the day for the locals. By 7:30 a.m. evidence of the passage of time was everywhere. The tea shop tables were covered in dirty cups and platters, trash was strewn about the inactive sections of the market , and few shops remained closed.

     I was sharing the room with an Italian fellow named Marcio. We both reawakened at the same time, and were both saddened to have missed prime people watching time in the tea shops. We grabbed a simple breakfast.  I had a noodle soup and milk tea, while Marcio preferred the instant coffee and donuts. We talked about our prospective plans for the day. They were similar in nature, but the time-tables were different.

     We had both allotted a couple of days to Bagan, and did not plan on seeing all the temples on the first day. We independently arrived with the plan to get a feel for things on the first day, and engage in militant tourism the next. However, Marcio wanted to first find an internet cafe and talk to his girlfriend before she went to bed, and I wanted to ride a bike before the heat came. We parted ways happily, and made allusions to the possibility of grabbing lunch or dinner later in the day, if that is what happened to work out. These are the kinds of people I like to travel with, gregarious yet independent. It takes a bit of effort to stick to your plan, but learning how to do it gracefully is a skill I’ve applied countless times in life, much to satisfaction of everyone involved. 

     I rented a bike, looked at a map, and planned a general route. Before heading to the temples, I took some time to check out Nyaung Oo and found that I quite liked the town. There were numerous hotels and guesthouses, but the town had sacrificed very little in the way of authenticity. Most of the people in the streets were Burmese, as were most of the diners in its numerous restaurants. As with most tourist towns, the eateries were defacto segregated. Tourists tended to eat in more upscale restaurants which claim to serve local food. The locals eat in places that actually serve local food. It was still a town with a predominantly local presence, who tended to operate in the background as much as possible.

     The market had its genuine appeals too, but it was often plagued by the outlandish locust of pricey tour groups. These swarms are generally conducted by a local born man who was the first of his countrymen to become fluent in English, German, and French. In honor of his considerable achievement, he is awarded a tan vest that had the phrase ‘Tour Guide’ sewn on the back in block red lettering. Trailing him would be a cloud of cybernetic tourists from the future. Humans mated to unnecessarily large cameras whirl through the market emitting a collective clicking sound that can be heard a mile away. Any semblance of an authentic cultural ambiance is momentarily obliterated. 

     It is a transient occurrence, but they too are part of the show. I often take pictures of the people taking pictures. Not to be mean, for out of habit I try and exercise discretion, but simply because these scenes are a carnival unto themselves. There is a cultural significance to tour group behavior that, if thought about dispassionately, is very interesting in its own right. In many respects, they are doing the same thing I am, but in a different way. On a positive note, the tour groups seem to smile often, and they certainly bring more tourist dollars to the country. However, they may also justify fears that being photographed steals your soul.

     By 9 a.m. most market shops were beginning to shut up for the day. I rode down to the riverbank a few kilometers outside of town. There were countless signs in English pointing the way to the ferry, and advertising sunset cruises. A few rustic eateries lined the shore, and my arrival activated the customary song of the tourist town proprietor.

“Hello, my friend, you want some cold drink? Food? Beer?” they cried.

“No thank you” I successively informed them.

     I rode back to town taking the earthen side roads. I was surprised to find an genuine Burmese housing situation in the background of a major tourist town. The lanes were dirt, the houses were wooden, and small fires smoldered in random places. The kids played in the streets as they do everywhere in Myanmar, except for here they are far less gleeful when a foreigner came around. Unlike everywhere else I had been, some asked for money.

     Returning to the pavement in Nyaung Oo, I made my way towards Old Bagan. Ahead of me was a bone straight two lane road in good condition and well-manicured. Five minutes out of town temples began appearing to my left, and I recollected the map which indicated that the majority of temples lay in that direction. On the right was a lengthy row of restaurants catering to the western pallet, perhaps twenty in all. I was certain they all shared precisely the same menu, though I never did find out.

I soon passed an impressive building hiding behind a large iron gate on my right hand side. The exterior was ornate; palatial in the style of traditional Myanmar and three stories tall. I saw a sign indicating that it was the official museum of Bagan and decided to take a look. The gardens inside exceeded the grandeur of the façade. Several fountains and a thoughtful arrangement colorful flower pots wove a circular walking path, paved in brick. Several gardeners were tending to the various plants. It was mostly locals who flitted in and out of the museums entrance, which for some reason made me happy on several different levels.

     I parked my bike and was given a locker for my bag. I passed through the metal detector and into the main hall. Save for a few nice looking but historically irrelevant modern statues and some fancy furniture, the three story high main hall was devoid of artifacts of any kind. The grandiose exterior accentuated the vacuous feel of the essentially empty main hall that comprised the majority of the museum. What a splendid parody for despotic governments, I thought.

     The exhibits were in rooms off the giant hall. The first few I entered displayed gargantuan dioramas of ancient Bagan. It did give me some idea of proportion and scale, but the craftsmanship was something I felt even I could have had a hand in making. In fact, I wish I could have participated as I imagined that it must have been a very fun project.  

     Half of the second floor was dedicated to a hundred or so nearly identical stone statues of Buddha. The other half was a comparatively interesting collection of weapons, clothing, and curios. As most signs were not duplicated in English, I amused by playing amateur archeologist. I assigned considerable import to the objects I fancied most; usually the swords and clothing I wished to possess. The entire third floor was closed off and there was no sign explaining why. My spirits, were crushed.

I enjoyed my hour or so in the museum. For the traveller with a schedule to keep to, the museum would most certainly be deemed “not worth it”. For the vagabond, however, this particular museum would be well worth a trip, if for no other reason than to understand why and to what extent the museum is unworthy. The official museum in Bagan is spectacularly crappy, but I have seen worse. I know people whose living rooms outshine the worst of the museums I have been to. However, each lousy museum has been entertaining in its own way, and this one had air-conditioning!

     I left with a smile, happy to have an addition to my cherished list of hilariously bad museums. I continued on, and reached Old Bagan with little effort. Seven kilometers sounds like a long way, but it hardly takes 20 minutes to ride a bike that far. Not wanting to see too many temples on the first day, I pointed my bike in the direction of the largest temple I could see and rode towards it.

Turning off the pavement, I headed down the entryway to a large and discernibly ancient temple built of matte brown blocks. Surrounding the exterior wall were stands selling t-shirts, refreshments, and post cards. It was past mid-day, and there were few if any other tourists present. Most of the souvenir stands were unmanned. I parked the bike and was immediately offered post-cards, trinkets, and t-shirts by individual hawkers standing at the entrance. The pressure to make a sale wasn’t excessive by any means, but two people followed my into the temple. One was selling post cards, and the other began the opening sequence: “where you from, my friend” etc.

     I was in no hurry, and could have tried, against all vanity, to make a genuine encounter. Instead, I answered her questions more or less by rote. There is a culturally constructed compulsion to respond to basic niceties of conversation, even when it is obvious that the soul’s involved not wish to converse. When there is no virtue in the exchange of words, the body knows it.

     While traveling, I’ve applied numerous strategies to these everyday encounters. The first lesson I learned is never be angry. As Buddha supposedly said “Being angry is like drinking poison and expecting someone else to die”. I’ve felt the effect of harboring negative thoughts while traveling. It didn’t take long to realize that I was the one at fault; they were my thoughts! The second lesson I learned is to be direct, but sympathetic. Don’t ever be rude or negative in any way; both inwardly and outwardly. Third, I’ve learned to drop the fear embarrassment or awkwardness. I’m continually astonished that honest action is never embarrassing or awkward.

     My current strategy for extricating myself from unnecessary banter is elegant in its simplicity. It was genuine from the first time I field tested it. Sadly it took me years of travel to figure it out, but it worked flawlessly on a person who was certain that he could get me to need something. Gazing earnestly at the person, with a broad smile and warm gesticulations, I said something approximating “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m thinking about something very important and can’t talk right now. Thank you, but I’m alright by myself. I really must be going my own way now. Thank you for your time” and graciously lead them to their exit. I’ve had to repeat myself on occasion. Once, this reveal has led to a genuine but brief conversation. This time, however, I forgot it was within my right to say such a thing.

     The price of postcards fell precipitously with successive refusals, and her companion automatically began a guided tour, telling me relevant information about the temple and even conducting me into the adjacent room. I was impressed with both her knowledge and command of English. I had considerable regard for the fact that she was willing and able to provide a service, even if it was unsolicited. However, I came out of my stupor and delivered my honest message. I complemented her English, and wished her luck that one day she could become a guide. “Thank you. I hope so.” she said.  

     I ambled back to town on a road which paralleled the one on which I came. In between the two lanes I saw the variety of Bagan’s temples. There seemed to be a natural ratio of large and restored ones to tiny ones in total disrepair. There were a handful of large and impressive temples, a couple dozen of respectable size and restoration, but the majority appeared not very ancient yet nevertheless were crumbling.

     I made it back to town before sunset, and contemplated riding back to The Temple Everyone Goes To For Sunset, but gave it a pass. A short while later I saw Marcio having more coffee and donuts in a tea shop and joined him. He was happy to see me, as I was he. We exchanged notes on the day, and both concluded that although it sounded like a large area, with an active day of peddling Bagan could be canvased within a day. He had ridden farther than I had, all the way to New Bagan, but hadn’t check out many temples either. Day turned into night, and talk of dinner came up. We decided to make an effort to find a proper hole-in-the-wall; to make our own luck at finding an authentic place to eat. He too felt that Nyaung Oo had its charms.

     After a few minutes of peddling, we spotted an establishment that looked promising. It was full of Burmese and each table seemed to be sharing several small dishes. I had seen this before but had neither figured it our nor had been able to try it. We walked through the open façade into a periwinkle dining area. There were five or so wooden tables inside, and a few plastic ones outside. Our presence stole the attention of most patrons for a moment. We nodded hello and made rapid assessments of the food displayed on their tables.

     We found some empty seats and our table was tidied up by the matriarch, who uttered a few happy words of Burmese to us. One of her shy descendants came over and handed us a menu in English. They seemed to have only the one. It was filthy, but functional. Still, it left us a bit in the dark. Would I prefer a Pennywort salad, or a Lemon-nut salad? There was only one way to find out.

We pointed to some things on the tables near us, ordered a couple of salads, and some beef. The salads were excellent, and went well with the rice. The orders of beef were by the piece. Their outstanding quality was a welcome surprise to both Marcio and I. The beef seemed to me like tougher cut of beef, perhaps shoulder, brisket, or ‘London Broil’. However, it was clearly roasted for hours, which made it succulent and tender. It was then pan fried when ordered. The beef came as a cube, crispy, black, and flavorful on the outside. With the touch of a fork, it cleaved into slabs and strands of slightly rouge meat, moistened and warmed by the recent frying.

     Glassy eyed with gluttony, we ordered piece after piece until we were humbly warned about the price. Each piece was 500 Kyats or about 65 cents. The meat was as good as I’ve had in high end restaurants, but when it cost’s as much as an entire noodle soup, you’re right to warn your gluttonous foreign patrons. I, for one, was moved by her words of caution. We were looking fairly raggedy, and for some backpackers (usually the one’s having the best trips, I’ve noticed throughout the years) 65 cents per piece adds up. Her facial expression was mind bogglingly universal and genuine; it told a story beyond the words. With a smile caused by restrained laughter, exigent nods of the head, and wide eyes the short statement “500 Kyats” was extended to a more familiar dialogue: “You know this stuff is 500 Kyats a piece right...? Just making sure, ha-ha”.

     Indeed, we did laugh at ourselves out loud. It was true, we were spending more than we intended, and were stuffing ourselves merrily with comparatively pricy food. If for no other reason than to fit in, it felt right to laugh at our gaffe, and put an end to our extravagant ordering. I was happy to be on common ground with fellow human beings.

     The following morning, up at 5 A.M., I joined Marcio for his sunrise mission. He had picked out a decent temple from which to watch the sun come up, and I trusted his judgment. We breakfasted in a busy tea-shop for a half hour or so before we began our biking. He led me to one of the smaller temples, and showed me how they worked. With our headlamps on, we climbed inside and found a narrow stairway. Winding our way to the roof, we had a view over a considerable swath of the plain, and were in close proximity to one of the larger temples. As daylight came, we saw other tourist perched atop the nearby smaller temples. Eventually we were joined by an older Frenchman who’s horse cart driver had recommended this temple for sunrise.

     Soon after, the balloons took flight. Hot air balloons are a popular way to see the temples, which makes sense. The temples are spread over a large an area and I would imagine are more magnificent seen from the air. The balloons themselves were majestic. I had never seen one in action before, let alone a dozen. They took off sequentially and flew at different heights; some just meters above the temple tops. It was impressed at how well they maneuver with respect to changes in height.

Sun beams shot across the parched land, skewed by the curvature of Earth. This stretched the colors of the monotone landscape into more pleasing and distinct spectrums. Uniform brown glowed amber and yellow. Scant evergreens shined emerald in places. As fantastic as the light show was, I couldn’t helping thinking about Mandalay’s enchanting bus station, the hills of Namshan,  the pagoda of Mingo-Ngo, the tea shops of Katha, and my breathtaking $9 cruise. Bagan held a claim to fame, but I just didn’t see it. Was I becoming a jaded traveller or was I simply seeing things as they are? I was by no means disliking Bagan, but I didn’t seem any better or worse than most of the places I’d been.  

     I went to take my very first picture of Bagan only to realize that I had forgotten the memory card for the camera. I would leave Bagan the following afternoon without having taken a single photo. The memories were there and, if necessary, I could always look up spectacular photos of the wonderful temples. Bagan wasn’t of any particular importance to my trip. All the small interactions I had with people far outweighed the importance of inanimate and irrelevant ancient temples. The temples can inspire awesome wonder, and there is merit to that. But, ever increasingly for me, the ‘Must See’s’ of a place are generally the places to avoid. Rather, there is a paradox. Once a place becomes a Must See, considerable authenticity is lost. The qualities that make a place a Must See are lost in an instant. What one comes to see is no longer there by virtue of the fact that too many people have proclaimed it to be a Must See. The essence that made it special often, but not always, gets killed. So it goes.

     After sunrise, I bade Marcio farewell. He was to be on a bus at noon. I took a look at most of the temples. I enjoyed myself, the temples, and bike riding. My last bus ride in Myanmar was scheduled for the following day. I would leave Bagan around 7pm and arrive in Yangon around 9am. I had a flight the same day for Kuala Lumpur at 5PM. The trip was at an end, and the timing seemed right. I had one a full day to reflect on it, and many more days to look forward to.