Before I even finished writing the last blog entry, the adventures had already begun. While somewhere very high up, trying to doze on the long flight, I felt a thud; the sort of thud one hears when a large bag falls on a hard surface. In this case, it was followed by a little murmuring - enough to make me hesitantly remove my complimentary eye shade and ear plugs. Looking in the direction I'd sensed the thud, I saw a pair of feet lying in the alley.
I'll tell you from the outset that this isn't an exciting medical emergency - a middle aged man with a history of vasovagal syncope who has a syncopal episode after standing up for a pee, after 4 glasses of wine and 7 hours into a night flight, with no significant clinical findings is hardly noteworthy... but what IS noteworthy was the implication. I decided that to play on the safe side I would check the guy's blood pressure before sending him off to sober up. Other medics beware - the minute you use any of the flight medical equipment, even if just a blood pressure check - you are declaring a medical emergency. All the medical boxes (and there is an impressive checklist of medical gear on an A380) were brought from the front to the rear of the plane by a hoard of in-flight crew. Contact was made with the international aviation medical emergency control room in Kansas USA, where some shmuck doctor was on hand to thank me for my assistance, and I had to spend my shut-eye time writing a report and explaining to a charming Singaporean lady with crap English what vasovagal syncope was. Of course, after that the lid was off - I was no longer simply a human being - no no. From then on, all staff called me Doctor Albert, and most came by, one at a time, to thank me for 'saving the day', and 'keeping us all safe' (and on one occasion, to ask me what the long term side effects would be of continued zolpidem use on an intermittent basis) - all I'd done was check a guys pulse, check he wasn't post ictal, and stuck an automatic BP machine on his wrist. AND ALL I WANTED WAS A BUSINESS CLASS UPGRADE. But no - now an eternal point of contention between me and Debs, they could not upgrade both of us, so I missed out, instead settling for the consolation prize of a duty free voucher. Words are cheap. I wanted a fully reclining bed and soft slippers.
Thanks to a late departure, we missed our connection at Singapore - which was fine with us - after a lavish complimentary meal at a vegetarian Indian restaurant in Changi Airport and a quick tour of the cactus garden on the rooftop there, we boarded the next plane, 2 hours later. Nowhere near the quality of the A380 (seriously, it felt like business class - from the incredible menu to the legroom, to the attentive staff, to the mouthwash in the bathroom, and the huge amount of storage in the cupboard between the chair and the window), not sure I ever want to fly anything else ever again.
Bangkok
Landing in the metropolis, we took a long hard look at the map and decided that the directions to our first night's accommodation - a simple room for ten quid a night courtesy of Air B'n'B were complete trollop. So we set off instead on what seemed to be a much shorter and cheaper journey on Bangkok's skyrail and underground to arrive somewhat smug in the required neighbourhood not much later than we expected to from our missed earlier flight.
Unfortunately, finding the building was another issue. In the poorly lit backalleys of Bangkok, where perhaps one in ten buildings has a number on it, and they use the Israeli system of number ordering (start at one, then two, then 17, then the age of your first cat when you were six, then divide your least favourite number by 4.28 and round up until you get to an integer divisible by 17 etc), the system is made even more complicated by the fact that we didn't know that a side street apartment has at least three numbers. So we were in room B, apartment 19, building 34, on the side street closest to 55 Soi Sri Bumphen / So Si Bumpen / Soi Sri Brumphen (depending on whether you're using Google maps, Lonely Planet, or offical directions. Naturally, the very first person we spoke to in Thailand turned out to be an Israeli expat - but even with his ten years in Bangkok, he didn't know the road numbers on the street where he lived. With the help of a Thai lady who sent us in the wrong direction, then realised her mistake and came running after us to apologise and correct herself, we found the room - let out by two guys, one Thai, one Russian - who seem to make their living by renting some rooms, doing some laundry, selling some underwear, and plying the blackmarket with small mammals such as the baby squirrel that disappeared during our stay. I like to think that all these trades are independent of one another. But I cannot be sure.
Tuesday 19/02
Our first morning - and I was now officialy thirty years old - we headed out of our room to be hit by the wall - less of heat, but of humidity - that summarises life in this city - breathing feels like effort, everything rubs, and getting on to a packed train is sheer bliss thanks to air conditioning.
One of the big dilemmas of our trip planning was whether or not to go to Myanmar. On the one hand, this fascinating and unique country would be an amazing place to see, especially now that it looks like the military regime may be loosening its grip on the population; as international trade sanctions start to fall, and foreign investment rises, this could be the last chance to see the old Burma. On the other hand, the foreign office warnings, border fighting, interrogation of visitors, not to mention the difficulty in getting a visa, make it a little less comfortable than shuffling through Thai customs with a thousand other tourists waiting for a free and inevitable visa.
So, naturally our first stop was the Myanmar embassy in Bangkok. Form filling, lots of queueing surrounded by the other folk trying to get off the beaten track, and a big wad of Thai Baht later, and it was off to rejoin the trail of the masses - boat up the Chao Phraya river to Wat Po to look at the giant reclining Buddha, lots of smaller Buddhas, and then onwards in a Tuk-Tuk to a giant standing Buddha, a big Buddha on a hill, and at the request of the Tuk-Tuk driver, to a couple of tour and travel operators where people woud try to sell us overpriced bus tickets,. and in the case of a Welsh ex-pat called Steve, tell us that all our travel plans for South-East Asia were crap and we should pay him a lot of money to arrange for us a trip that he would like to do which takes in to account none of the things we came to see.
A Tuk-Tuk, if you were wondering, is an incredibly fun and hilariously dangerous way to get around - effectively the front half of a motorbike attached to the back half of a cart, these very light vehicles, driven by a driver often sitting on a plastic seat, and naturally devoid of walls, doors or other luxuries like seatbelts. They re fast, cheap, and seemingly exempt from both the highway code, and the laws of physics as they drive on the wrong side, swerve to avoid oncoming lorries, and squeeze through gaps that an average human wouldn't get through.
Food was an interesting subject from day one in Thailand.
Firstly - if you like fresh food, keep away - artificial preservatives may be frowned upon in the UK but here they seem unavoidable in most foods - the most repulsive example that springs to mind is that, in the 30 degree heat, one can buy in almost any corner shop a tuna sandwich sitting on a none-refridgerated shelf, with a use-before date 5 days in the future.
Second - veggie food is easy to come by. Vegetarian delicacies here include chcken, sausage, and ham. Many shellfish are vegetarian. Rice must always be seasoned with oyster sauce, and even the carrot sticks we tried to buy were seasoned with shrimp powder.
Third - the Thai diet is incredibly unhealthy. If living here on a shoestring, street-eating is the way to go. The smell of grease, fat, and burning scum at the bottom of a vat of an unclassifiable cooking animal permeates all clothes, and giving the lack of a breeze and high humidity, sits on the street throughout the night. Every few metres on every busy street, someone wil be selling something 'edible' - from tiny omlette things, to pad thai rice, pigs trotters, or soup. If you go to the tourist ghetto, you can add beetles, crickets and scorpions to that list. But as you can also find Bangkok's only kosher restaurant on the same street, it's not too tempting to put a scorpion in my mouth when I'm used to treating their venom.
That all said, if you are prepared to risk requiring a lot of imodium - which you have to be if you wish to eat - there are veggies, fruits, and inoffensive rice and noodles to be found on many a corner.
The next day or two of wandering in Bangkok flew by as we used the time to prepare to our last minute trip to Myanmar (Burma). In this country that only changes money from crisp, unused US dollars dated 2006 or later with no pencil markings or other defacements, and runs a strict policy of internal currency, we had to make the most inefficient money deal ever - change our Sterling travellers cheques to Thai Baht, take the Thai Baht to another changer who provides US dollars meeting Myanmar's rules, so that we can get to Myanmar and change them again into Kyat (pronounced Chat). Combined with flight bookings, trying to find accommodation (Welsh Steve assured us that we couldn't find accommodation in Burma without booking in advance so we got scared into booking- of course, he was talking crap), and making a tentative itinerary, the time blurred by until we were on a taxi to Don Mueang Airport - the diddy one in North Bangkok - the Luton to London's Heathrow.
A short flght later on Air Asia (basically Ryanair with a different colour scheme and more noodles), we were in Burmese airspace. As we descended towards Yangon, we passed the mountainous Eastern border region and the arable plains - at the end of the dry season, an expanse of straw and brown fields.
I may be pretty clued up on my Israeli history, but I'm very lacking in Myanmar knowledge - I'm going to write my interpretation of the brief history of the region because it is very relevant to our experiences there. I apologise for any misinformation, lies or bias. Any claims of damage as a result of this information, or lost marks if someone plagiarises to write a history project, will be disregarded with cheerful disinterest.
Burma gained independence in 1948 from the British, spearheaded by General Aung San. In 1962 General Ne Win led a military coup and gained power. With extreme socialist ideals he isolated the country and decimating the economy over a period of decades when the rest of Asia advanced, suppressing peaceful protest, arresting opponents and imprisoning Aung San Su Kyi, the daughter of the General of the same name, who became a prominent face in the democracy campaign, and later the leader of the National League for Democracy - which in the last elections before she was put under house arrest, gained 82% of the vote - which the military junta decided to totally ignore.
The leadership decided to change fundamental features of the country - the name was changed from Burma to Myanmar even though most locals, the US and UK, and even the NLD continue to use its former name. The capital Rangoon is now Yangon - and is no longer the capital (now Nay Pyi Daw).
Gradually things are starting to change - the country has opened its doors to foreigners in the past couple of years, and while still limiting movement in the country, deciding where you can go, no longer restricts them to plane and train - as long as you declare your passport number and where you're staying, you can take a bus too. Yay.
Based on the impressions all this gives, we were somewhat disappointed to land and step into an airconditioned jetty leading right into a shiny airport fit for any modern city. A billboard proudly announced that for the first time in history, one bank will allow use of Mastercard in the country. There is still no international mobile phone roaming there, but it surely isn't far behind.
Changing our crisp, unused US dollars for local Kyat, our $100 bill wass exchanged for 85500 Kyat - the largest note of which is 1000. Leaving the airport with the fat brown envelope, I felt rather wealthy. Despite the customs decaration regarding bringing gold into the country, we successfully managed to smuggle our wedding rings in without even taking them off.
Entering Yangon, the feeling was a world apart from Bangkok - dotted with the occasional new car, lorries from the 1950s, buses with people literally hanging out of the doors and on the roofs, and masses of old motorbikes and bicycles filled the cramped streets. At the same time, adverts for smartphones, construction of new lanes and flyovers, and large digital displays promoting local business created a bizarre paradox of new pushing in and covering the old.
We arrived at our guesthouse in the late evening as the streets were dying down. In Myanmar, your money will not get you anything like in Thailand or (we hope) the rest of Asia. Our $25/night room did have air conditioning, but no windows.. and plenty of mosquitoes. Having settled in, we set out to see a stupa just around the corner. The feel of Yangon was so relaxed - so quaint and quiet compared to any other (until recently) capital city. Locals would curiously look at us, unsure what to make of these rare foreigners, while children would just stare; but a quick smile and a hello (mengel-abba) would without exception break even the most sceptical glare into a big smile and a hello. Arriving at the stupa in early evening, people were praying in peace, the incense settling on the still air, and the quiet buzz of the electric pylons powering the LED lights around the buddhas' heads drowned out the mantras of the monks. The modest little place, even with its grand golden stupa, felt a hundred times more real and significant than being herded past the far bigger and ornate temples of Thailand with a thousand other tourists.
The complimentary breakfast consisted of two pieces of toast, one boiled egg, one banana, and one cup of instant coffee, and we headed off to explore again - deep in the Muslim market just west of the centre of town, down a narrow street filled with traders sitting on the floor selling only fresh natural fruit, veg, nuts, fish and meat (and decapitating the living fish only when bought), we came across Myanmar's only synagogue - home to the 25-strong community who 100 years ago numbered 3000. Mostly Iraqi Jews who moved over the last couple of centuries, this beautiful building was just like any other Sephardi synagogue, with its stunning silver torah scroll cases, and a mikveh next door, 4 metres from being full at the end of the dry season. Pictures of David Ben Gurion, Israel's first prime minister, visiting and meeting the Burmese Prime Minister, and multiple other photos of dignitaries throught the decades consituted a tiny museum of Burmese Jewish life, and the man who now heads the community gave us some shabbat candles as a little memento.
Onwards to the waterfront, where we paid $2 for the ferry ride across the river. Cheap, you might think? No. Well, yes, but not when you know that it costs 50 kyats (about 6 pence) for a local. Between the two of us and a single other tourist on the boat, the government made about as much money as from all the other passengers put together.
This ferry 'cross the Mersey took us to Dalla, a very simpe township of bamboo huts, many without electricity, and the occasional wealthy person who has made his money by fishing in the right areas who may have built a solid house, even with a car. Just a week before we arrived, the municipality had replaced some of the dirt tracks with concrete roads - a sign perhaps of the change taking place here. We hired a rickshaw to cycle us round, and it was rare for people not to wave and shout 'hello' and laugh as these two fat westerners were pulled round on a cycle rickshaw around their beautifully kept village.
That evening we took an overnight bus to Inle lake - 13 hours drive up in the North of the country. Once again, the government's $5 entrance tax to this area is a nice way to fund their regime, but unless willing to risk the consequence of sneaking past the booth - not easy in a taxi - unavoidable.
Having arrived at 0500, we were delighted to find one of the last remaining rooms anywhere in the town of Nyaung Shwe very quickly and headed out to try and see sunrise. As we walked along a canal, we were invited to hire a boat with an English-speaking driver, and ten minutes later were speeding down the miles of canal to the lake itself, not realising that the miles of marshland between the town the the lake are marked as water on the map. As fishermen stood on the very tips of their boats, balancing on one leg while pedaling with the other on the utterly still water, a beautiful sun rose over the mountains, and we headed over the lake to find breakfast in a small market, devoid of tourists - so much so that once again WE were the attraction. As we sipped coffee and ate some sort of samosas and mashed beans from another vegetarian street seller, we sat on the tiny chairs that toddlers use - this being the norm in most eateries in the country.
As the day broke, the lake showed its true colurs - a place that is much more developed for tourism than most of the rest of the country, but still small enough to feel special. We sped over the lake to villages built entirely on stilts in the lake, to see silk workshops, cigar 'factories' (two women sitting on the floor with pots of tobacco, aniseed, tamarind and coconut, rolling them up in fresh leaves with some bamboo as a filter, before sticking them shut with sticky rice), a monastry, and a posh floating restaurant where the boat pulled up at a bambo pier, and we were welcomed with cold face towels and a balcony seat before homecooked rice and noodles - for about $3 each. We added our own fresh tofu, bought that morning in the market.
The next day was no less beautiful as we hired two bikes to travel around the lake, visiting a winery, watching the farmers ploughing their fieds with oxes, and harvesting the corn with scythes, and found in one miniscule remote village, where children ran about with a wheel and stick, a bamboo hut with just four chairs, selling just one single meal - a vegetarian traditional Shan province meal. $1.50 each bought a freshly cooked tofu curry, potato curry, tomato salad, rice, and an avocado milkshake.
We were very sad to leave Inle lake when we climbed aboard the night bus to Mandalay. In contrast to the last bus we took with ample leg room and air-con, this one was sheer hell. For the 9 hour journey, we sat in seats so tightly packed that even Deborah's knees were flat against the seat in front. The aisle was lined with fold up chairs so that there was no aisle at all, and therefore not even a place to stand or to stretch one leg out. And to top it off, they decided to play a Burmese karaoke TV show, where one after another, video remakes were played. I stopped counting and entered a traumatic coma after the tenth consecutive 'Gangnam style' video. Honestly.
When we arrived in the unsigned wasteland outside Mandalay that is considered a bus-stop, at 3am, a quick taxi ride took us to the 'hotel district' - a sprawling grid-system of roads where packs of dogs exploit the cool night air to wake up from the hot day's moping around panting and terrorize unsuspecting tourists wandering the deserted streets looking for a bed. A lot of barking and thoughts about rabies post-exposure prophylaxis later, we had found one of the few unoccupied rooms in the city, courtesy of a brand new hotel that just opened its doors. Treated like royalty by staff who stop and bow when they pass, we were escorted to our room - with all the mod cons, even television, fridge and wi-fi. When asked for coffee to go with the kettle, it took four staff - one to go out at 4 am to buy coffee (they had just run out / never had a coffee drinker before), one to bring it to the room, one to hold the door to the room open, and one to run off and find a silver tray to pass the coffee over the threshold. Plus the manager to oversee the important transaction. Shame they bought tea by mistake. I decided not to tell them.
Mandalay is a city of contrast - big and covered in smog, with the same small-town feel of the capital. An economic and cultural hub with massive Chinese investment meant that the next day we went out to streets full of cars, in particular Chinese jeeps which pumped out masses of smoke and noise. Large buildings, smart phones, and LED adverts adorn the streets, as do the multiiple Chinese language signs and shops catering for the expats cashing in on Myanmar's impending boom.
Exploring the city on foot revealed the slums, just an alley or two away from luxury banks and businesses, where running water, sewers and surfaced roads have not been installed in the wood and corrugated iron shacks. Alongside the jeeps, impossibly old bicycles and horse-drawn carts negotiate the hectic junctions.
A guide to Burmese highway code.
1. Drive on the right.
2. Do so in a right-hand drive vehicle. Don't ask why - no one seems to know.
3. Drive with no shoes.
4. If red light shows, go.
5. If amber light shows, go.
6. If green light shows, judge situation before proceeding cautiously as other people may be on red.
7. If turning left, drive on wrong side of road before junction for up to 200m. Don't worry, everyone accepts this as normal. Once turned, drive through oncoming traffic at your leisure to regain your place on the right side of the road.
8. If turning right, traffic lights do not apply.
9. When crossing a junction, give-way laws do not exist. DO NOT STOP. Proceed at a steady consistent pace aiming for gaps between crossing vehicles and adjusting your speed accordingly. He who beeps first (or rings his bicycle bell) first or for longest and with the most enthusiasm is deemed to be the next person to cut through.
10. Helmets are for losers. So are lights, chain oil, brake lights, indicators, and brakes.
Debs and I cycled through a huge chunk of the city to reach a temple in the South; I raced a young monk en route. I felt it only fair to let him win. He was in sandals and robe carrying his alms. I was on a bike. Amazingly, the driving system works. Cutting corners, moving at steady speed and exploiting gaps between other vehicles means that the traffic keeps moving, even though the roads are wholly inadequate. We didn't see a single accident, which really defies probability. There were very few damaged vehicles around, and not too many damaged people either. One or two glasses of cool, crisp Mandalay beer the the roads were much less scary.
We had just 36 hours in the smog of Mandalay, so extreme that when we climbed Mandalay hill to watch sunset (apparently with every other tourist in the city - it was heaving up there), the sun set about ten minutes early - as it disappeared behind the smog long before it reached the horizon. It was time for what I expect will remain one of the epic experiences of our whole trip - the train from Mandalay to Yangon.
The dated, decrepit, dangerous Burmese rail network, built by the British in the imperial days, is even more like a time warp than the rest of the country. Known for delays, derailments and probably some other 'D', we boarded at a station where the platform overflowed with well wishers, porters, cargo, old leather trunks and livestock.
Seating options varied between 'ordinary class' which would get you a wooden bench in a packed carriage with a single toilet between around 100 people with holes for windows and no lights, to 'upper class' featuring reclining soft seats, and for real luxury, a sleeper carriage - a four-person en-suite berth complete with closeable windows, metal toilet with hole down to track, running water, and a ceiling fan. Windows and metal shutters could be lowered, but in the absence of air conditioning, was not recommended.
Given the 15 hour planned journey, we invested in sleeper tickets for the overnight ride. At $33 each (obviously, government foreigner tax - locals pay something in the region of $2 for a sleeper - which few can afford), it was worth every single cent.
As a guard escorted us to our carriage, we took in the art-deco surrounds of the ornate railway station. [Translation: As some guy in a sweaty shirt pointed us to our 50 year old filthy door, we looked at the crumbing remnants of a once beautiful station]. We found our two plush seats, each as wide as any business class flight and ready to be collapsed into a full size bed, and relaxed by the window to take in the sounds and sights of the platform. [Translation: The threadbare seats, not upholstered since the train was moved to Burma from India in 1990 (too old for the Indian network), collapsed as we sat on them, as their slide rail has broken over the years, meaning the running wheels on one side hung loose. Not, we hoped, a metaphor for the rails of the train. People popped up at the window to inspect the white folk, and the children of the train found immense joy in being photoghraphed and shown themselves on the little TV screen on the back of the camera.]
A waiter came to ask our orders for the evening meal in the restaurant car, where we could transfer when the train arrived into Thazi 4 hours later. [Translation: Noodle or rice? No chicken. OK. Beer?]
Some 12 carriages away from the engine - also an Indian retiree - we neither heard nor felt the train ever so slowly move off. As children ran down the track to race the train, or hung off the side to hitch a ride downtown, we passed into the poorer and poorer suburbs until green broke through and the fields, lakes and hills of Burma passed by as the train happily threw us from side to side. A peep out of the window revealed dozens of heads leaning out, ducking as a tree, fence or pylon reached them. The gaps between carriages were filled with people escaping the crowding of 'O Class'. People in the villages aside the track would eat, wash, defecate and undress as we passed, seemingly unaware that for a few seconds they had become a peep show. Children would almost unanimously stop and wave, faces lighting up when we in the carriages waved back.
Sun set, the train chugged on, and at Thazi when the train slowed, a man ran alongside our window with a plastic bag with two polystyrene pots of noodles and rice, a bottle of beer, and a glass beer mug. Payment was made through the window, as the man apologised that the restaurant car was not opening. Some 12 hours later, the same man would run alongside the window to politely request we return the beer mug and to take a breakfast order which we declined.
I am often a little unsympathetic to beggars - I am more inclined to give money to someone trying to sell a piece of straw than to someone who expects money or nothing. But when grown men and children came to the window to beg not for money, but for food, the guilt of travelling in this relative luxury became ever more acute. We quickly made up some parcels of food from the fruit and snacks we had bought along the way, and passed through the barbed wire designed to keep the poor away from the rich folk what we could before the train gained too much speed.
Deb got bottom bunk, I got top - a hard, narrow piece of wood with a thin mattress and a lumpy pillow which would have done nicely except that when the train reached top speed - which felt like 100mph and was probably more like 40mph - the jolts of the carriage literally made my entire body leave the bed. Each landing created a new point of discomfort, especially when the metal side railing was involved.
The journey ran smoothly, and we pulled in right on time at 0615. When we gathered our things together, the platform guard confusedly pointed out that we had a long way to go - about 3 hours. No particular reason - the train just went slower that night.
Some 18 hours after departing, we arrived at Yangon, not one person surprised or rushing after a three hour delay. A much needed shower later, we set off to Shwe Dagon, the largest pagoda in the city, where 8 hairs of the Buddha are said to be buried. Lunch at a little street stall - more delicious noodles, vegetable soup, and a long chat with a drill-engineer-cum-monk who had travelled 450 miles to see the pagoda, and invited us to sit with him, before trying to pay for our meal.
If other countries on our trip are half as special as Myanmar, I'll be very happy. Good, honest people, devout yet modest, happy yet impoverished, proud of their country despite oppression and intimidation. A country so far all but untouched by Western commercialism, yet so welcoming of Westerners - even if that is in part due to stickers in public places ordering, "Take care and warmly welcome tourists".
Words and even the many hundreds of photos we took will not do this one week justice. If Bangkok is anything to go by, South East Asia is already first world and tourism has made it a homogeneous lump of tourist experiences. Burma still feels real.
