A Slow Boat through Myanmar

Eureka!

When we arrived at breakfast on the second day of our Myanmar river cruise, a member of the crew approached to inform Dad and Nadine that their luggage had finally arrived. It was not a moment too soon.

After that morning’s scheduled activity—a visit to one of Bagan’s food and crafts markets—our boat would be setting sail up the Ayeyarwady River and wouldn’t return for another six days. I could tell Nadine was relieved that she could wear her own wardrobe again and wouldn’t have to keep washing various clothing essentials each night in the sink! While Dad always had faith that the bags would arrive, he had the good manners not to throw in a well-warranted “I told you so.”

Opening her bag, Nadine dug around and tossed me and Holly the precious items we’d requested from home—some new clothes, a huge stack of glossy magazines (my crack!), a massive Ziploc filled to the bursting point with Splenda and two boxes of Fiber One cereal.

The two of us squealed like kids who’d just hit the Halloween jackpot and ran to our cabins to divvy up the loot. Sure, it probably seems a little strange that we got so excited over gossip magazines, fake sugar and high-fiber cereal but those are the things that we’ve come to miss!

Younger than most of the other cruise passengers (by about 30 years!), Holly and I didn’t exactly find “strolling through a village” and “shopping at a local market” to be the strenuous activity listed in the ship’s brochure. We wanted to stretch our legs, so instead of taking the tour bus into town, we opted instead to rent bikes and ride the six miles to the Bagan market.

The lady behind the activities desk had warned us that the bikes we’d be getting were pretty beat up, and she hadn’t overstated the situation at all.

Holly and I both stared for a moment at the dusty, rust riddled frames that clung to sad and deflated looking tires and didn’t know what to say. Luckily, I thought of something first.

“I’ll take the girl bike!” gesturing towards the shorter and more manageable of the two we’d been presented with. Thinking better of it, I generously offered to switch with her on the way back (which I never ended up doing!)

Together, we pushed off and realized almost immediately how difficult it was going to be to ride six miles in powder soft sand, especially on bikes that might have been older than we were. Fortunately, we didn’t have a lot of time to think about our burning muscles. A small group of kids, also on bikes, had formed in a pack around us and began firing off questions in near perfect English.

Holly and I knew they’d probably want to be tipped just for hanging out with us, but it was actually nice to have the company as we peddled along.

Nearly 45 minutes later—far longer than we’d anticipated—we arrived at the Bagan market and realized that we only had about 15 minutes to look around before we’d have to get back on our bikes again. Poor planning, but at least Holly and I got that “vigorous activity” we’d been hoping for!

Here are a few photos from our market mini-tour…

































Returning to the boat just in the nick of time, we tipped our little biker buddies a few coins and ran across the gangway. Ten minutes later, our ship had sailed.

Over the course of the next two days, we traveled a lazy, meandering path up the river, catching glimpses of life along the sandy banks. Some of the settlements seemed almost other-worldly, as if the locals were trying to colonize the moon.

On the flat, treeless banks, families had erected tiny shelters made of sticks, plastic tarpaulins and corrugated tin. Women had smeared their faces with a chalky yellow cream and coated their babies in the same paste—made by grinding the bark of a thanakha tree against a stone and adding a splash of water.








Spreading the salve not only helps cool the skin and prevent it from burning, but it makes the skin appear paler, a quality valued by women in Myanmar—and indeed throughout Southeast Asia (visit any drugstore in Thailand or Vietnam and you’ll find shelves stuffed with cosmetics and soaps that contain “whitening” agents).

Already Holly and I had been approached by Burmese women who’d gestured to our faces and our pale skin and simply said, “Beautiful…beautiful.” At first, I was flattered by the compliment, but then grew a little sad that these naturally gorgeous women seemed to be most impressed by a Western standard of beauty.

I was also surprised to learn that while we were technically on a “cruise,” our destination—Mandalay—was only about 100 miles or so upriver from Bagan! Because the river bottom has become so shallow in places, it’s necessary for big boats like ours to take their time. Certainly, no one could accuse our captain of rushing.

Dad, Nadine, Holly and I enjoyed our third day “at sea” by topping it off with yet another sumptuous dinner prepared by two gorgeous French chefs (in retrospect, the fact that they were the only unattached men under 60 on the entire boat probably made them seem more attractive than they really were).

As usual, Hol and I tested the patience of our nightly waiter by ordering dishes of our own design (“can I have a mixed green salad with goat cheese and a balsamic dressing on the side?”) and completely ignoring the concept of a prix-fix menu (“is it possible to order two appetizers and skip the entrée?). Trying to ignore my inner glutton for once, I decided against the white-chocolate bon-bon dessert and bugged our waiter for a fruit plate instead. The rest of our table decided to indulge their sweet teeth, a move which they couldn’t have known would severely alter the next week of their lives.

Late that night, my Dad and Nadine became violently ill with food poisoning, as did Holly the next morning after she joined me for an omelet at breakfast. It quickly became clear when 80 percent of the passengers on our boat had holed up in their cabins to evacuate their food from both ends that something was desperately wrong.

For some reason, I managed to escape the agony of puking in a bathroom the size of a hatbox (and further, sharing that bathroom with a romantic partner who needs it for other medical reasons) so I did my best to attend to my family and fellow Lost Girl.

After the ship’s doctor—who was literally sweating from running between every cabin on the ship—visited my poor traveling companions, he told me that there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the illness that nearly everyone had. It could have been anything from food poisoning to an airborne virus, but the only cure was to drink lots of fluids and stay in bed. Duh.

Dad and Nadine, ashen and looking very unhappy beneath their damp sheets, insisted that I go on that day’s tour because “at least one of us should be enjoying ourselves.”

I decided to take their advice and joined the five other passengers who’d managed to escape the illness for a bus tour to the Son U Pon Nya Sin Pagoda, a religious complex that offered one of the most spectacular views in all of Mandalay.

After taking off our shoes (an essential thing to do when entering a Buddhist temple or holy site), our group strolled through the entry massive doors started exploring. Almost immediately, I decided that I loved the place: it was decorated in a profusion of crazy Crayola colors, frosted floor to ceiling in shimmering disco ball tiles and over-the-top in a way only Baz Lurman fans can truly appreciate.

It’s probably sacrilegious to write, but even the Buddha statutes seemed cooler and funkier than the ones I’d seen in Bagan. Check this guy out…is the big guy wearing fire-engine red lipstick, or what?!



Trying get into a more religious and respectful state of mind, I bought a strand of prayer beads from a monk—and subsequently learned the he wasn’t a monk at all, but a dude dressed up like one to make some cash.



“Very naughty of him,” said my guide, who seemed to find the situation more humorous than troublesome. As I’d only spent a dollar on my new wooden bracelet, I decided against chasing the faux holy man down the hill and instead, strolled to the edge to take in the view---a spiritual sight, indeed.




Over the next couple of days, the ship collectively started to heal and Dad, Nadine and Holly felt well enough to participate in a few group activities. Here’s just a few of the highlights:

1. Getting (thee) to a Nunnery: Holly and I loved visiting with these little girls, who were all studying to become Buddhist nuns. At first, they were incredibly shy but grew bold enough to practice their chanting in front of us. Like all little ladies, they loved getting their photo taken and giggled when we showed them the result on our camera’s playback screen. Holly and I then visited another nunnery, where we learned that women cannot earn the title of monk. While some experts claim that this is because the original bloodline from Buddha has been broken, many locals believe it’s because women aren’t strong enough to follow all 227 rules required of an ordained monk. The greatest responsibility and position a nun can reach is a “keeper of morality.” And you thought your job was hard.









2. Popa Taung Kalat: In order to reach the summit of this extinct volcano and the monastery at its peak, we had to remove our shoes and climb 777 stairs. That’s right….about nearly 80 flights of vertical fun! Adding to the drama and excitement of the ordeal, er, adventure was the fact that the entire stairwell was overrun with shrieking monkeys desperate to defend their babies against the dogs who were also running around. I’m less than enthused to report that we actually had to step over animal poo and questionable fluids in order to reach the top, but we made it. The four of us took turned ringing the enormous bell (for good luck!) and posing against a truly stunning backdrop.




3. Offering of Alms to the Monks: Holy s%$#@! You might have gathered from earlier entries on this blog that The Lost Girls are not morning people, but Hol and I joined Dad and Nadine for this 6:00am activity. Getting four hours less sleep than normal turned out to be totally worth it…watching little boys lining up to get their daily ration of food from generous townspeople helped me to grasp the meaning of true dedication.





4. Taking a horse-drawn carriage through the streets of Maymyo: Back in New York, I was opposed to horse drawn transportation on the grounds that it’s a little cheesy, but here in Myanmar, you realize that it a perfectly valid (and rather cool) way to get around. After talking Holly out of buying some “precious gems” from a hoodwinker at the local market, we jumped into the carriage and took of for a tour of the local botanical garden.







5. Cocktails on the Top Deck: Okay, so it’s not exactly a “local” experience, but we were all so relieved that Dad, Nadine and Holly felt better that we figured some serious champagne was in order. Fortunately, the staff of the ship kept the bubbly flowing and we used our cocktail hour to make friends with the new passengers who’d boarded the ship at Mandalay. Maybe it was the hooch or maybe we were just in great spirits, but all four of us tried on the Longyi skirt worn traditionally by men in Myanmar. Now we’ll never know who wears the pants in the family!

As if you haven't had enough, here are a few more pix from our trip!

Way Down Upon the Ayeyarwady River

Another crack-of-dawn morning for Dad, Nadine, Holly and me.

After scarfing another quick buffet breakfast (I limited myself to a single plate this time), we flagged down a rusted-out taxicab with no shocks, cushioning or seatbelts but four working wheels and headed to the Yangon airport. Since Dad and Nadine were still without luggage, we were traveling lightly enough to make the 20 minute ride together.

As we chugged back to the airport, the four of us caught a glimpse of “public transportation” in Myanmar: trucks so stuffed to the gills with locals, people were hanging onto the sides, out the back and even riding the roof.

Things were just as friendly in the domestic side of the Yangon Airport, where passengers were standing close enough to smell each other’s deodorant (or lack thereof) as they waited for outbound flights. Hol and I handed our backpacks to the uniformed dudes underneath the “Air Mandalay” sign and crossed our fingers that they would make it to our final destination.

We got lucky. Not only did our beat-up bags make it to the ship on time, we learned that Dad and Nadine’s stuff would likely follow ours at the same time the next day.

After a quick inspection of our cabins (even smaller than our NYC bedrooms but somehow outfitted with every imaginable amenity) we headed topside to join the first activity of the week--a tour of the beautiful pagodas and stupas lining the banks of the Ayeyarwady River.

We learned that Bagan, or “The Golden City,” was the capital of the first Burmese Empire which thrived from the 11th through the 13th century. The city once boasted 13,000 Buddhist pagodas and monasteries, dotted across the 42 square kilometres of dry, sunbaked earth stretching back from the banks of the river.


Now, only about 2,000 religious monuments and temples remain (that's plenty!), and most have been rebuilt by Burmese families hoping to gain merit towards their next life on earth.

Our guide brought us to three of the most significant religious sites—Ananda Temple, Htilominlo Pagoda and Myinkaba Gubyaugyi Temple—and gave us a bit of the backstory of Buddhism in Myanmar.

Initially, I tried to absorb everything that the guide shared with us, but my old grade-school ADD started to kick in. After a few minutes, I stopped tuning into what the teacher was saying and instead, focused on the spiritual beauty of the shrines, sculptures and religious figures that had been so painstakingly restored. Pale light played over the Buddha statues carved into the walls, making each one seem to come alive.

Unlike most Western religions, where hundreds of religious figures share the artistic spotlight, Buddhism seemed dominated by the image of one guy—and one guy only.

The Buddha—in all four of his incarnations—was everywhere. He showed up relief paintings, frescos, carvings, small metal figures and four-story, gold-plated statues. He was standing up, sitting down, lying on his side, smiling and not smiling. I was surprised to learn that Buddha is not actually considered a god, but a man who had become fully and enlightened and achieved the arduous task of reaching Nirvana on his own. According to the Buddhist teachers, any person on earth can reach this blissful state, but I suspected that it would take more than a week learning about the religion (and possibly giving up my favourite vice!) to make the journey.

Next on the itinerary: A stroll through a “traditional” village, something I wasn’t excited about on the grounds that such experiences are staged and tend to disrupt the lives of the locals.

Well we might have been a disruption but we certainly weren’t unwelcome!

Almost as soon as we arrived, it became that our little tour group was responsible for providing that evening’s entertainment. As we walked past the bamboo houses and small front yards, kids came bolting out to greet us, men smiled or waved and mothers held up their babies for us to see.

While most kids didn’t ask for coins or candy like the children we’d encountered in other countries, a few cheeky ones did approach and plead for us to give them lipstick, shampoo, face powder and other beauty products.

I was baffled---did they really need shaving cream and moisturizer? When I asked, the guide quietly explained that in Myanmar, there’s a burgeoning black market for Western toiletries. Kids can make far more money by “dealing” in cosmetics than they could from selling trinkets or begging for money.

Who would have thought?

Our day of religious, cultural and social exploration wrapped up with a view of the sunset from the Damayazaka Temple, an ornately built structure topped with a huge gold- structure that reminded me of a massive Hershey’s Kiss (filled with precious religious artifacts instead of chocolate).



As we watched, the sun—more ruddy and gorgeous than I’d ever seen it—set fire to the pagoda spotted landscape that stretched out below us.



Here's a few additional pix from our first day of crusin' in Myanmar

That's (Not) the Ticket!

ADP: The morning of our flight to Myanmar dawned very, very early. We were all bleary eyed and exhausted, having stayed up most of the night trying to track down Dad and Nadine’s missing baggage (a quick call to the Bangkok airport revealed that their suitcases were still half a world away). According to the airline experts, there was a good chance the bags might not make it from Vegas to Seoul to Bangkok to Yangon to Bagan in time to meet us before our seven-day cruise up the Ayeyarwady River in Myanmar. I felt horrible for Dad and Nadine…they’d been anticipating this trip for months, and now, there was a very real possibility that they’d be touring Myanmar in some overpriced gear purchased at the hotel gift shop.

Our troubles, apparently, were just beginning. After arriving at Bangkok’s jam packed international airport and making our way to the front of the Air Asia ticket counter, we were all shocked to learn that through an internet error, Holly had booked her tickets to Yangon for the wrong month.

“I’m sorry, miss, but you’ll have to buy a new outgoing and return ticket, as both legs were reserved incorrectly,” said the guy behind the counter with genuine sympathy. “Please hurry to the sale counter…we only have two seats left on the plane.”

I could hear my Dad instructing the agent to reserve one of those last seats for Holly as she and I hauled ass across the massive check-in floor, dodging and weaving our way through towers of suitcases and tight clusters of passengers. We pulled up to halt at the front of the sales counter and breathlessly told the woman that we needed a single ticket for that morning.

“I’m so sorry, but the last two tickets to Yangon have just been taken.”

“What?! That can’t be right,” I remember saying in a panic. “We just reserved a ticket for her!”

Just as the woman started to shrug her shoulders and give us one of those grating “there-is-nothing-I-can-do” speeches, the other Air Asia ticket agent hung up the phone he’d been using and instructed his colleague to sell Holly the seat.

Her smile never budged as she looked back and forth between her co-worker and Holly, then wordlessly carried out the transaction.

Inside, I did a little handspring and silently thanked the travel gods for giving us yet another break. Turing to Hol, I could see she was struggling to deal with spending another $200 on a ticket that she’d already bought a month ago—for half the price.

“At least the cruise is already paid for,” I reminded her. “We’ve got free breakfasts, lunches and dinners coming our way for a whole week.”

Those words might not have consoled her, but I couldn’t wait to chow down. Doing anything while I’m exhausted—especially traveling—turns me from a normal girl into a ravenous she-beast who can (and will!) eat anything in sight.

Good thing that Nadine and Dad had remembered to ask the hotel for a boxed breakfast.

Together we nibbled muffins and bananas as we passed through security and waited to board our little red and white plane.



*****

We had a day to recuperate at in Yangon before taking our next short flight to Bagan, where we’d meet our ship.

I made the most of my exhaustion and wacked-out blood sugar levels by vacuuming up half the contents of the hotel’s enormous breakfast buffet, then consequently feeling sick to my stomach.

Across the table, my Dad was explaining to Nadine that he’d checked in with the airline once again and that if all went according to plan, they’d receive their luggage the next day before the ship departed.

Nadine, now outfitted in my faded (and probably slightly stinky) backpacker gear, was just starting to get concerned that their luggage might not make it.

“But Bob, what should we do if the suitcases don’t get here? Don’t you think we should go out today and at least try to buy some clothes? I don’t even soap or a change of underwear.”

“Don’t worry. I know that our stuff will get here,” he tried to assure her.

“Okay, but just in case they don’t, I’d really like to get a few things.”

“Honey, I know that the bags will meet us at the ship. Everything will be fine.”

This went on for a few minutes and eventually, Dad agreed to accompany Nadine to the hotel’s small gift shop.

Hol and I decided that this would be an ideal time to check our email and perhaps, post a blog entry.

She went ahead to reserve us a computer while I ran up to the room to grab my daypack. When I returned, she was already walking out of the business center with a strange look on her face.

“There’s no internet,” she said flatly. “No email.”

“No email in the hotel?” I asked, about to suggest that we leave the hotel to find an internet cafe to do our work.

“No. There’s no email in the whole country.”

Holly would later tell me that this was the only time on the entire trip that she’d seen me rendered completely speechless. I could feel my own jaw flapping in the wind, trying to come up with a good suggestion or solution to our web-less situation, but I couldn’t think of any.

Incredulity gave way to utter disbelief. Myanmar had to have internet. Every country in the world did. To me, saying that a place didn’t have internet was like saying that it didn’t have air to breathe or water to drink. How could locals survive without Gmail? Yahoo? Skype?!?

We quickly learned that the militaristic government, well known for repressing the rights of its citizens, had all but banned web-based email in an effort to control the flow of information in and out of the country. The internet itself wasn’t illegal (there were plenty of cafes which offered online services), but email was strictly monitored by the government.

While I wasn’t sure if this was the whole truth (who could I ask without stirring up trouble?), I did know that this was my opportunity to accomplish the very thing I’d set out to do eight months ago…

Unplug. Disconnect. Log OFF.

For the first time on our entire trip, Holly and I would have no cell phones and no computers and no communications devices. We’d be forced to just hang out, absorb some culture and not check in with anyone for an entire week and a half. 10 days. 240 hours. 14,400 minutes.

Once the shocked wore off, I felt excited and up to the challenge. But, like a dieter who starts cutting calories after one “last supper” or a smoker who quits cold turkey after that last cigarette, I needed to go online one final time.

I had to find someone in Yangon capable of logging me on to my email so I could, um, turn on my “away” message.

Rest assured, the irony of this task didn’t escape me.

Holly and I were just about to dash out of the hotel when we bumped into Dad and Nadine. Almost immediately, I could see that after days of flying and no sleep, both of them were about to collapse, so we offered to pick up a few supplies like makeup, a sun hat and a pair of sandals for Nadine. Dad, still convinced that the bags would show, insisted that we not buy him anything.

Out we went into a midday so sun-scorched, we might as well have been walking on another planet—Mercury, to be exact. Having forgotten my own hat and sunglasses, I wrapped my long-sleeve shirt around my head and stumbled out in to the heat.

Looking for web-based email in a country that has banned it can only be compared to looking for drugs in a nice, upscale suburb (I’m guessing). You know it's there, and someone has the inside scoop on where to find it, but no one really wants to ‘fess up to two complete strangers. We were basically asking strangers, “Hey man, you know where I can get some Gmail? Some Yahoo?”

We finally got our fix at an upstanding internet and long-distance calling shop outside the center of town. By asking the right guy the right questions, we were able to sneak into our respective email accounts without alerting the suspicions of the internet police.

That was the last time either of us logged on for two weeks.