I want to ride my bicycle

One of Mike’s first tasks when we arrived here was to buy a bike for himself.  It didn’t take him long to explore the city. In fact, we- my teaching partner Shawn and I- give him a list of tasks to do most every day when we’re at school. Get some toilet paper, look for a pharmacy, find me an English print newspaper—soon enough, he got to know the city pretty well.

Even though Mandalay is a pretty big city (population 1.2 million) it doesn’t feel huge. It’s mostly laid out on a grid system with the large palace area in the center surrounded by a moat. It's also relatively flat except for a couple of flyovers near the rail station.

We’ve noticed some distinct neighborhoods. We’re in a largely Muslim area- there are two mosques within a block. The other families in our apartment building are Muslim and this sign is over our door-

A few blocks away is a Hindu neighborhood with a beautiful temple and some good Indian restaurants. Across town is a quieter tree-lined neighborhood, clearly more affluent. Down by the river the buildings are older and it’s a little more hectic and crowded.

We live in an apartment in what is considered the downtown of Mandalay. We’re 3 blocks from the western wall of the palace and 3 blocks from the clock tower and the largest market- Zeygo Market. The school is next to the market in the Zeygo Plaza Building. 

While it might seem that everything is very close, it is quite a chore to walk in this town. First of all, the sidewalks aren’t always clear for walking. Many times the sidewalk in front of a building will be filled with scooters or the contents of a shop spilled out  onto the street.  And then there are the legendary “hell holes” I so dread (cracked sidewalks leading down to the open sewer that threaten to break your ankle or suck you down to oblivion.) Walking in this town means a lot of time in the street looking over your shoulder and trying not to get run over. Crossing the street is another lesson in trying to stay alive.

I’m a little embarrassed to say we have a driver take us to school even though it’s only a little over 3 blocks away. At first I thought it was a ridiculous idea. I saw the distance on the map and thought “we can walk.” Mike and I even walked down there on the Sunday before I started school. Then Monday morning came and our faithful driver, Soe Naing, was at the door at 8:30am. I soon realized how nice it is to show up at school sweat free in my clean neatly pressed white lab coat. The school is in the most hectic area of town during the weekdays. Getting there by walking would not be very fun or relaxing.

Mike learned early on that the best way to get around (besides a scooter) is by bike so he spent the first few weeks trying to convince me to get on a bike. I had been a little intimidated by the traffic so I was reluctant. I finally agreed to try on a Sunday, figuring the traffic would be lightest. I went down the street and rented a bike from Mr. Jerry and his wife, Miss YiYi.

We ventured out towards Mandalay Hill, which is on the north side of the palace. It ends up that Mike is right: riding a bike is the best way to get around. The traffic consists mostly of trucks, cars, buses, (which are small trucks crammed with people) scooters and fellow bikers. The roads on the moat are the easiest because it’s a divided road and it’s wide enough for a designated bike/scooter lane. Now this definitely comes with some caveats. First, it’s very likely that some vehicle will be traveling the wrong way down the road. Next, there are many vehicles parked in the bike lane, so going around them can be a little risky if they pull out or the door suddenly opens. Finally, there is always the chance that you could be spit on with a big mouthful of Betel juice.  And I mean big.  

My method of not getting run over and or spit on is to talk the whole time I’m riding. I head down the road saying “Hello, Mingalaba, do you see me, I’m right here.” People will glance out the window and usually take a wide berth around me. I think part of it is fear of running over the blond lady. The people here are very kind and considerate, especially to tourists, and I’m guessing it would be in bad form to run one over.

I got a little tired of renting crappy bikes from our neighbors so Mike struck a deal with a guy down the road who sells and rents bikes. In exchange for me riding one of his bikes for the last month or so, Mike will leave his beloved Hero bike with him. Solves the problem of how Mike will get rid of his bike. I also got to choose a nice bike and insisted on a bell to add to my strategies for not getting run over.

I’m learning all of the little intricacies of riding a bike here. For instance, when making a left turn you don’t ride to the middle of the intersection then take a left. Instead you cut the corner to the left before the intersection. Everybody does this, including cars and trucks. It requires a lot of vigilance about what other drivers are doing but it seems to work well. Also- if there is no sign or signal at an intersection you just slow down and weave your way through the traffic coming from each side- it’s always the best when you have a car next to you. The most important thing is to not hesitate.  Never.  One must act with conviction!

I was very surprised to find that there are a number of traffic signals in this town, and we do try to make our major turns at those signals. Now, mind you, on the streets between those signals it’s a free for all. In spite of the lack of rules in most intersections, when there is a traffic signal people seem to wait for the light to turn green to go. 

This is my favorite part about riding here: Waiting at the signal. The anticipation of the light turning. Everybody checking each other out a little. There is more than a little staring- it’s not super common to see a blondie on a bike.  I’ll make eye contact, nod and smile- say Mingalaba and next thing I know everyone is grinning.

So, I’ll say it again- Mike was right. Riding a bike is the best way to get around. It has expanded my horizons a lot in this town. We’ve been to neighborhoods I never would have gotten to otherwise and it’s a nice speed for checking things out. People also seem pretty delighted to see us out there. Many times we’ll be riding a long and someone will bike or scooter up to have a chat.

Here’s a few pics from the ‘hood-

We live on 83 between 24 and 25. This is how all directions are given.

Our apartment building. We're on the 2nd floor on the left. The business on the lower right is a full service medical clinic.

No 155. That's my beautiful bike. The basket hanging in the doorway on the left is where they leave the milk in the morning (for our upstairs neighbors.)

A really cool vacant building next door. A couple of vintage jeeps out front that don't run. This is also where Mike's favorite old neighborhood dude hangs out.

Last week a little carnival popped up down the block.

Bouncy room

Slide

Lots of cheap plastic stuff to buy

Yummy street food

Carnival games. Knock over the bottle- 12 balls for 1000 kyat  (75cents)

Mike was trying for the whiskey but won two bottles of orange soda

Our local gas station. Liters of petrol in those colored bottles. I especially love the bottles around the light bulb.

Slow Ride

My tricycle tattoo turns out to be a big hit around here.  People nod and smile, point to it and say, “bicycle!”  Then give a big thumbs up.  Doesn’t matter if they’re on a bike themselves.  In fact, typically they’ll be on a scooter, but I’m thinking the brotherhood is around all things two wheeled.  (The fact that my tat is of the three-wheeled variety of bicycle bothers them not at all.)

When I’m riding the Hero, the effect is multiplied somewhat.  Cool bike; white dude riding the bike, sometimes fast; tattoo celebrating two-wheeled transportation on arm of white dude on cool bike.  What’s not to like about that?

Though I will confess to a recent narrowing of appreciation for my bike’s poetic charms.  I’d fallen into a functional view of my bike driven by my need to get from point to point.  The store, the pool, the school, a restaurant; the various and sundry things on a house-husband’s to-do list.  No life or death stuff, just things to take care of which require physical movement, and the bike has been my steed.  

Then something shifted.  Yesterday I set off to check on a cooking school I’d heard about on the north side of the city palace, maybe ten minutes from our apartment if I pedaled hard.  But when I located the place, I saw the gate was padlocked, so I swung the Hero around with the intention of heading back to the apartment.  All good, I pedaled south on 80th—a well-worn path for the Hero— until I came to 26th, a street I normally whiz past as it’s not my usual route and tends to be a bit busier than I like.  But something struck my sensibilities, and I swung into a wide, arcing turn onto this different path. It occurred to me this was a stretch of road I had never travelled before.  Close to our place, but somehow off the chart.  So I stopped pedaling and simply glided for a bit, taking in the occasional teak house and looking at the nature of businesses along this unspied strip.  

It was a rare slight downhill stretch, which meant I didn’t have to pedal for quite a while, and was suddenly struck with the notion of not touching the pedals until I hit our cross road, three blocks hence, just to see if I could.  Just to see. Cross streets were the obvious challenge, and sure enough, one block before my street (83rd) I ghosted along into what quickly shaped up as the certain path of the local trash man and his great blue Mastodon of a truck.  My choice was to either hit the brakes and mess with my goal of slow-riding to the next street or to pedal hard and shoot past his nose—also a break from my goal. Let me say this: I’ve come to appreciate the value of certitude when it comes to intersections.  One must act with confidence and faith in both one’s own reflexes and those of his fellow commuters, not to mention a higher power which—hopefully— has deemed that this is not your day to die.  But even then, a ready thumb on the bike bell and a forceful push of the pedals tends to bolster one’s chances significantly.  

Further, beyond the world of chance, I think there are lines of communication that erupt with the brevity and force  of a neutrino.  They might not be there at all, but something tells me they are, and can be best understood outside of rational experience.  Like at that point when one is ghosting in front of a garbage truck and willing the driver to understand your need to not shift or alter in any way your constant state of velocity. Or, rather, not to understand so much as to know.  Each part of the drama is as a fossilized bit of life that has been bound by time and circumstance into this perfect moment.  The challenge, as I see it, is to accept the whole rather than allow a rational digression of curb weight, velocity, and braking power to challenge the poetry of the moment. 

Which is not to say my passage before said truck at the intersection of 26th and 82nd was a challenge.  I’d rather think of it as a calculated and necessary risk.  A stretching of my comfort zone in the service of climbing inner walls.  Confronting the barriers we occupy under the many thumbs of perception, habit, and fear.  For me to shoot the gap between truck and death without the benefit of pedal power required an only slight brake on his part and, of course, a willingness to apply it. Certainly, had I just applied a modicum of pressure to pedal this whole mess could have been avoided and I would have passed unscathed—and even unnoticed—before big blue. Who would know?  What was the pull of this challenge in which I’d become so entwined?  To make the next block without pedaling?  Really?  Well, yes.  So I went for it.  Which is to say, stayed the course!

Technically, what I did was wrong.  It violated an elemental code of conduct in which we strive to avoid contact if at all possible.  From our earliest tribal swamp of suffering there was—I’m sure—a primal reach for survival which placed the practice of non-confrontation above the violence of impact.  Be it club to head or truck to Hero.  My insistence that trash man bear all responsibility for avoiding impact was selfish in the extreme—an adolescent-tinged tug of war  between the ethical and whimsical played out on the seat of a hero bicycle.  Shameful. But I made it!  And continued my wobbly-wheeled glide for the duration of twenty-sixth street and even for a bit of 83rd following my turn.  Hah! 

I’m not going to pretend.  I won’t suggest this foolhardy bit of folly brought about a seismic shift in how I read the world.  But I will say this:  For the next two hours, there followed an extremely slow ride over the bumpy streets of eastern Mandalay with no real goal other than the taking in of the world as it opened before me, which happened with startling clarity and beauty.

There’s a fellow by the name of John Kitchin who goes by the name SloMo.  He gave up a successful profession as a psychiatrist and neurologist to simply skate along the bike paths of southern California.  He’s featured in a New York Times Doc Op which goes a long way to helping the average bear understand his path.  A big part of his awakening is based on the physiology of lateral acceleration as a means of achieving a meditative state of higher consciousness.  Skateboarders know it.  Surfers know it.  In-line skaters, too.  Certainly the effect could be rendered via any form of locomotion, including walking.  

SloMo’s conscious effort is to find a mind equivalent to that of a child at roughly the age of eleven, before the burden of puberty and life’s demands set in.  Not so easy!  

Just now I’m kind of putting off getting on the bike and riding to a wine store I know of to pick up a couple of bottles for tonight’s dinner.  It’s kind of a long way, along a dusty, busy road.  There’s sure to be much honking and jostling.  Exhaust to the face.  I’m wondering how my eleven year old self would face such a trip, but I know the answer.  Time to go!

More about SloMo-

http://www.nytimes.com/video/opinion/100000002796999/slomo.html

I drinks a bit

Our neighborhood watering hole

A true sportsman's bar

Sign at the Mann Bar- Warmly Welcome and Take Care of Tourists

I have an odd relationship with the dude runs the little store at the bottom of our stairs.  He scowls most of the time and falls deep into the task of cleaning his nails whenever I walk by. On those occasions when I do step into his shop, it takes a bit of effort to get him to acknowledge my presence. I’ll clear my throat, poke around the displays of laundry detergent, and generally make myself a pain until he finally gives me a look not unlike the look one gives to pus. Or ticks. There’s any number of possibilities for this avoidance: he might have Aspergers syndrome.  I mean, just because we’re in a developing country doesn’t free someone from psychological/neurological challenges. And/or he might be jealous.  If that’s his cross, I can see why. 

Dude’s wife is a regular ray of sunshine.  I’ll catch her eye from behind the counter, give her a big smile and ask how she’s doing.  She clearly enjoys the company of others, and is quick to spread joy in ever-increasing ripples from her little shop on the corner to the clinic and school next door and—one imagines—outward and upward in messianic tones to warm the hearts and souls of even the most destitute and forsaken round not just our small neighborhood but indeed all of Mandalay and beyond. I think she’s swell! And the bonus here is that she speaks very good English, which, unfortunately, is not the case with her husband.  Mind you, his language skills easily top my pitiful butchering of Burmese, but he clearly draws from a shallower well than that enjoyed by his wife. Sadly, she’s not there much.  

It could be that dude’s lack of bonhomie began back in early October.  It was stupid hot and I needed a beer. (I’ve since learned just how easy it is to make that happen in these parts, but at the time I was new to the neighborhood and unclear on my options.)  I knew the bar down the street—appropriately named Mann Bar—was one option, but wasn’t feeling like dealing with Mann Bar just then. Mind you, it’s not that it’s a particularly unpleasant place.  It’s just that it has a kind of pitiful, alcoholic air about it.  Guys sit around the green-painted tables drinking from pints of whiskey and rum with the obvious purpose of losing themselves.  Stray dogs wander in and out, and a woman behind the counter holding a baby on her hips discretely tells the wait staff to get off their duffs and see to the needs of the people.  The concrete floor and tile walls give it an industrial, almost institutional feel— this only slightly mitigated by the smoke-stained animal heads mounted on an overhead beam. I’ve seen guys come in and grab a bottle from the counter, take it to their table, and call out for service.  One of the guys working the place will bring a glass with ice, into which the patron pours a few ounces, rounding it off with water.  A T.V. plays Burmese soap operas, and everyone stares.

That particular October evening found me standing on the street out front of our apartment building, eyes stinging with the dust and the smoke, considering my options. The constant honking of scooters and cars was particularly grating, and led to my decision to get some beer to go, which I could chug lovingly in the relatively cool comfort of our apartment.  I began the walk down to Mann Bar to negotiate my options, but for some reason stopped in front of the little shop on the corner—dude’s place.  I looked at the small, glass-front cooler and saw the usual supply of soft drinks, red bull knock-offs, and sweetened milk.  No beer, which wasn’t a huge surprise, given the largely Muslim make-up of the immediate neighborhood.  Both dude and his wife were behind the counter.  Mingelabar! I said.  Then, more slowly, and with an almost conspiratorial air, I leaned in and asked, Do you have beer?  

I might be wrong, but it seemed his wife gave dude a slight nod, as if to say, The infidel would never alert the Imam…  

At any rate, he slipped out from behind the counter and indicated with a slight nod that I was to follow.  Yes, indeed!  Behind a half wall made by a display rack and the same cooler that held soft drinks was a small refrigerator, which dude opened to reveal a rack of canned beer and, below that, a second rack with the larger (640 ml) bottles of Myanmar beer.  Oh, yeah.  I reached in with one sticky paw to determine the coolness of the bottles and, finding them sufficiently cold, held up two fingers.

“Four thousand kyat.”  Dude wasn’t giving them away, but I was in no mood to barter.  The thought of dealing with the squalor of Mann Bar found me reaching for a fistful of crumpled bills and, beer safely wrapped in an old powdered milk bag, made my way up to our second floor den.

Since then I’ve certainly expanded my horizons.  There was the predictable early flurry of hitting up dude for the evening dose—So convenient! So close! Until there finally came the day when he informed me he was out of bottles.  Only cans remained, which turn out to be slightly less of a bargain.  I frowned to indicate my displeasure, and he assured me (in so many words and gestures) that he would have bottles in stock by the following week. No big deal. However, by the time he’d replenished his stock I’d sniffed around the neighborhood and discovered some other options, including the convenience store just beyond Mann Bar known as  Free 2 Buy.  Not making this up.  It’s like a mini 7-11, with a small cooler of beer and soft drinks that happen to be a lot cheaper than those found at either corner dude or Mann Bar.  

The only down side would be the flimsy little plastic bags they tuck my beer into, resulting in the bottles poking their brown necks out the top like a couple of rambunctious puppies wanting to play.  Walking past corner dude’s place is like parading around my hot new girlfriend at the church bazaar.  Little bit of guilt.  Little shame.  I mean, we had a thing for a while there, but darnit, we’d grown apart. Moved on.  

Meantime, I figured I’d throw dude a bone and get my top-up card for the phone at his place.  The deal is you buy a card for 5000 or 10,000 kyat, and scratch it like an instant lottery ticket, revealing a code which you then puch into your phone, something we use as both a phone and an internet hotspot, which burns the kyat at a pretty high rate.  Every little shop stocks these top-up cards. Usually I get my card in the morning, while the kids are pouring into school and Rebecca’s getting ready for her nursing gig. 

A couple of weeks ago I went down to dump the trash and pick up a card.  Dude was there, but not his wife.  Bummer.  “I’ll take the 10,000 top up card.”  He eased over to the counter and pulled out the little plastic container he kept the cards in, flipped one out onto the counter.  I handed him a couple of 5000 kyat notes and, as he was taking the money, he kind of leaned in.  

“I have bottle beer.”  

This felt like a big deal.  I wondered briefly whether he had been practicing that line in anticipation of my arrival—something I do all the time with Burmese phrases.  I looked a bit more closely at dude the man—a father, a husband, a guy with certain limitations.  His brown, liquid eyes were reflecting pools of the hopes and fears shared by us all.

“I’ll take a couple,”  then, at his look of confusion, I put on a big smile, held up two fingers, and said as clearly as I could, “Two, please!”  He nodded and worked his way around the narrow counter, into the land of hidden pleasures.

I’d like to report a change in our relationship.  An easing of tensions, as it were, But I can’t do that, and the reason is simple—it wouldn’t be true.  If this were, say, literature (or politics) and not a historical reporting of events, than sure!  Why not? But the truth is vastly less poetic.  It turns out dude is still very much dude-like in his cleaning of nails and turning away when I walk by.  He’s not—and probably never will be—one to make the first move.  Further, I’d imagine this would be the case whether or not I forsook him back in October. He is who he is, shaped by a world that is vastly more constrained than the one I was fortunate enough to land in.  But one that is becoming less so by the minute.

I’m not sure what the story is around here with beer—and alcohol in general.  I do know that quite a few restaurants don’t feature anything alcoholic on their menus, but if you ask, they’ll produce beer.  My buddy who’s family runs the little neighborhood joint around the corner (in which that very circumstance plays out) tells me it has to do with people just not thinking to place it on the menu, though he concedes that alcohol consumption has been on the rise over the last few years.

“I have a couple of guys who work for me at the water bottling plant (his other gig.) They grew up in the village, and would never think to drink a beer, but if I buy them one, they’ll totally be all over it.  It’s a great prize!”

Certainly there are those who abstain for religious reasons—the Muslims in my hood being a prime example.  Those places run by Muslims will often loudly proclaim on their menus: Never serve alcoholic drink!  The sub-text being: So don’t ask.  

Probably corner dude falls into the latter, religious category.  Could be that he sees a chance to make a buck by stocking a bit of hooch, but feels a tiny betrayal of his God, even though he’s not allowing it past his lips.  Aiding and abetting, as it were.  

I would be remiss were I not to mention the Beer Stations.  Great name, great concept, great fun.  Just thinking about these fine places brings on a thirst.  The typical set-up involves cold—as in, freaking brilliant ice cold—beer on draft.  Out front will often be a big ol’ charcoal pit with a display of meat on skewers which you can pick out and have them serve to you sizzling off the coal.  And not just meat—there’s various veggies, whole fish, quail eggs.  Typically a kitchen will whip up noodle dishes as well, and they’ll bring out nuts or roasted beans to chew on while drinking. The few I’ve been to are some of the very few places who employ women as servers, and they’re typically done up in a half-tarty way.  They don’t look like hookers or anything, but they make for a pleasant visual diversion.  Trump would approve.  

A beer goes for anywhere from 750 kyat (60 cents) to a thousand at the nicer locations, like on the moat across from the palace (85-90 cents.)  Amazingly, I get a bit incensed paying eighty cents for a beer, which doesn’t bode well for my return to the land of five dolla beers.  

The days are cooling off, with clear, blue skies and afternoon tempertaures hovering someplace around eighty-five degrees.  Lows at night drop to something around the mid-sixties.  I realize these numbers feel high by Marquette standards, but here there are folks wearing fleece and wool pullovers with winter caps on their heads.  No shit.  And I, too, have acclimated, I suppose.  Not sweating so much.  The days of ninety-five to one hundred degrees with 99% humidity are behind us.  But I’ll still drink a beer—just not so needfully.

  

Election Madness...

I just finished reading an editorial by Frank Bruni in which he lamented the fate of America, regardless of the election’s outcome.  Particularly painful to him was the deep-seated distrust and hatred the whole election cycle has laid bare—on both sides of the political spectrum.

When I was done with the article (published Sunday, but here in Myanmar it’s already Monday morning) I heard the sound of bells through the living room window.  When I looked for their source, I was met by the sight of a single file line of barefoot monks walking past our flat.  There must have been eighty or ninety of them, each carrying the covered bowl meant to hold their daily ration of rice and vegetables.  

Somehow, I was given over to a feeling of hope.  While Bruni laments a loss of civility and order, I saw below my window those very ideals incarnate.  And I’m reminded of a simple truth which transcends cultures and borders alike: mostly, people are interested in the welfare of other people.  

It can certainly seem otherwise at times, especially when one considers the rhetoric of politics. But here in one of the poorest countries on earth walks a significant number of souls who, where it not for the kindness of strangers, would dry up and blow away. The only thing separating them from their God are the various hands reaching out to drop a bit of sustenance into their bowls.    

The Dalai Lama recently reflected on circumstances politic as they apply to so much of the first world: a pulling back from engagement with other countries, tightening of borders, limits on trade, and he offered up a solution which we all hold dear—though we may lose sight of it now and again.  His was a reminder of the power inherent in selfless acts of giving.  Finding one’s way through each day not by focusing on those things we lack, but on the essential needs of all people, and our role in helping to bring those needs to rest.  

The Buddha famously rose above earthly need and desire.  Which is good work if you can get it.   Most of us fall somewhat short of that ideal.  Like, way short.  Yet we rightfully emulate the effort.  Here in South East Asia, there’s a common practice of leaving money at temples, and even applying gold leaf to the images of the Buddha.  My first impression was one of slight disgust, in which I questioned how the Man himself would regard all that gold piled on his likeness while children shook with hunger.  

But I’ve come to see the offerings in a different light, one which serves as a reminder of the larger mission: to freely dispense of those items which represent self aggrandizement in the service of a higher calling, especially as it applies to the needs of the living.

I don’t think it takes a religion to bring about good.  It’s as much a part of us as our recognition of beauty.  (Truth remains a bit more slippery.)  Still, we sure do like to suit up for battle and test our mettle against the dual threats of otherness and unknown.  And even though they’re essentially ghosts, the power they wield is significant.  Especially when we focus so hard on them.  

Rolla Costa...

Our VIP bus

Our driver taking a well-earned rest...

                                                                     
                                                 


“I’m becoming a slug.”

“Becoming?”

“Very funny…”

We’re sitting in the airport at Bagan, waiting for our plane to Yangon.  Our boarding tickets have the word Free written next to the spot indicating our seat number, suggesting a first come, first served arrangement.  Its bright green color and scrawled black lettering indicating flight number and destination give it a look like something a middle school student council might put together for entry into the talent show.  I like it.  A cursory glance around the waiting area suggests a full plane, and I’m hoping whoever is in charge of the seat-to-butt ratio was circumspect in their morning dosage of betel nut. 

Our exit from the hotel this morning involved waiting for a cab which I had arranged with a guy the night before.  He took a picture of my tattoo (Bicycle…is good!) by way of alerting his driver to who I am, which found me wandering around the hotel lobby after breakfast kind of holding my arm out flag-like in the direction of likely drivers.  Are you my guy? Hello! Taxi man? Anyone?

In the news is word of a cyclone (serious tropical depression) in the Bay of Bengal making its way toward Myanmar, and especially Yangon—our destination.  Big winds!  Heavy rain! Which might explain my whale-esque headache last night.  Of late I’m given to serious head pain when the barometer drops precipitously, which found me eating ibuprofen like salted nuts and thinking about how far I’d go for it to simply go away.  What kind of Faustian deal might I strike?  I can make it go away, but a child in India will die…   Only one? This some kind of a trick? 

There’s a Chinese curse that goes something like this: may you have an interesting life.  Remember, it’s a curse, so the idea is that interesting (unpredictable) is bad.  Interesting might seem romantic to the young and naive, but a seasoned (as in: jaundiced) eye knows otherwise. I’ll take the hurly burly of plague, pestilence, and war as long as it’s happening in some dusty country far from here (as depicted on the pages of The New York Times or The Washington Post—preferably over coffee and scones.)  And as much as the unflagging routine of work, eat, sleep can erode one’s sanity with the patience of water cutting inexorably through stone, it is nevertheless central to our sense of purpose and place.

Which is not to say travel is on a par with war, but it can mess with productivity, I think.  To wit: When the kids were young we often drove downstate for holidays and to visit family.  On the way home, there developed something of a ritual in which Grant, on seeing the outline of the Superior Dome looming across the waters of Lake Superior like the shores of Ithaca to a travel-weary Odysseus, would loudly exclaim, I have to Poop! Sure enough, he’d jam for the toilet before the car stopped its roll up the driveway.  Bombs away!  A bit of sleuthing revealed the sordid truth of his constipation: the poor lad couldn’t poop anywhere but the soft, cocoon like comfort of home, sweet home.  In fact, Quinn and Grant would bargain over who got the upstairs toilet and who got the ground floor, the later being preferable for its proximity to the door. 

And not just that.  Habit is a good thing when it comes to a regular exercise routine.  (Or a daily blog entry…)  When moving about, giving thought and energy to where one will lay one’s head (and whether that grey, flesh-like object on one’s plate ever had feathers on it) there develops a certain triage of activities.   A jettisoning of the extraneous.  Arranging transportation from Yangon to Kalaw takes precedent over down dog. (And, anyway, down dog loses its draw when one is experiencing explosive diarrhea.  Sorry.)   

(Case in point: The preceding six paragraphs were written over a ten day period.  I’m now seated in my comfy arm chair in Mandalay.  Coffee cup in hand, the sound of children’s voices wafting through the open window.  Peace.  Tranquillity.  Productivity!)

Speaking of transportation.  We settled on an overnight bus from Yangon north to Kalaw, a small town in the hills around Inle Lake.  We splurged for VIP which, like everything, is a relative term.  A couple of hours into the trip the heavens opened and dropped an impossible load of rain.  Inside the bus we were pounded with the sounds of water chiseling away at every possible surface.  That, coupled with the bouncing, swaying motion induced by potholed, narrow roads and a suspension system that should have been retired with the Eisenhower administration left us experiencing something like the agitation cycle of a Maytag industrial washing machine.  There was an older monk seated across the aisle from Rebecca and I.  Round glasses, shaved head, swaddled in yards and yards of burgundy-red cloth, I looked to him for a sense of calm, but mostly I watched through the buses’ windshield as our driver whipped the old girl ever-harder in his quest to dispel some childhood slight which left him with the need to prove his manhood by driving right to the edge of damnation’s gaping maw, the tender lives of his trusted passengers be damned!  Or something like that.   

Probably less imagination would help.  But, as in all things, there’s an irony at play.  Were it not for an over-abundance of imagination, one would never push into parts unknown.  That damned need to see how what one imagines jibes with what is can sure swing itself around the caverns of one’s consciousness with wrecking ball-like force.  Not to mention the drug-like pull of exotica—which, again, takes its marching orders from that dog called imagination. 

Icarus knew this plight.  Or, at least, came to know it as he constructed wings of feather and wax, seeking the light of heaven.  I contemplated his ultimate fall from grace while watching the wet world fly by from my exalted VIP seat, cognizant of my own crime of hubris while chasing a vision of the noble innocence of un-westernized society. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but reflect on an article in The Myanmar Times which reported the countries’ alarming increase in traffic fatalities resulting in the second highest rate of death by said fatalities in Southeast Asia. The life expectancy hereabouts is roughly sixty-four years, below that of Laos and Cambodia, and in far left field relative to the US, with a life expectancy crowding seventy-nine. Those numbers land with the gauzy force butterfly kisses when considered between sips of coffee in the air conditioned comfort of one’s chambers, but deliver piston-like jolts of white hot clarity when flying through the night on the coat tails of one man’s thread-like tie to sanity. 

“If you had some kind of a serious episode here, you’d be screwed.  Period.”  This from nurse Rebecca, who has a way of dismissing my neurotic nature as child-like and unworthy of hand holding and/or foot rubs.  Preferably the latter.  Back in Bagan we were chatting over breakfast about pain, sickness, and death by trauma. 

“Basically, everyone here is in the same boat.  Anything could happen at any time, and if you’re unlucky enough to have it happen here (as in Myanmar) you’re most likely going home in a body bag.  Pass the salt.”   

I looked around the room and registered that “everyone here” were white-skinned first world types like us.  People who have grown accustomed to medical miracles within easy reach (though, admittedly, at a rather steep financial cost.)  Rebecca’s comment laid bare our almost voyeuristic adventure into that part of our planet peopled with less fortunate souls who routinely succumb to such preventable maladies as dehydration, polio, and an absence of tire tread.  Which is to say, most of the planet.  A distinction that gives comfort, I suppose, in a most irrational way.  We carry around with us an immutable faith in tomorrow—and our place in said tomorrow.  Which is necessary if the human race is going to keep on racing, but not so strong a shield against the twisted metal and broken glass of highway carnage.

Maybe I’m getting old.  Correction: I am getting old.  Rather, maybe I’m getting into a different place of understanding.  One marked by equal parts caution and cavalier.  Wisdom?  I don’t think so.  A long life is in no way equal to a good life.  The task as I see it is to allow full reign of all aspects of the imagination and to act on their subsequent impulses.  Or, rather, to embrace their attendant impulses, holding them close while keeping their hold on us at bay. A willingness to place one foot in front of the next while keeping both eyes alert and open can take one far in this life.

Time to get outside.  

Inle Lake

The last part of our little holiday was to Inle Lake- one of the biggest tourist destinations in this country. We loved it there. Quite touristic but also a bit quieter, more pastoral and cooler than the other places we visited.

Our original intention was to trek from one of the hill towns to the lake and stay overnight in a village, but heavy rain and a little case of Burma Belly (Mike's belly) made us change our mind and instead head to Nyaung Shwe for the comfort of a nice guest house with A/C, TV and good wifi. The town is the staging point for trips out on the lake and also has many nice restaurants, a good museum, and some nice bike riding, including a trip to a really honest to goodness winery. Luckily Mike's gut discomfort only lasted a day so we were able to bike around and enjoy the sights.

The highlight was probably the boat trip. Lots of interesting things on the lake. We were lucky to see the final day of a festival and see dozens of boats coming in to the Pagoda with some famous Buddha images.  A boat trip also involves visits to a bunch of little villages (all on stilts) where local people are making (and selling) all kinds of traditional handicrafts.

After 4 days, we flew back to Mandalay and I went back to school yesterday.  We were excited to get back "home" to our little neighborhood.

Young monks on their alms rounds

Lake Inle in the distance

Beautiful vineyard

Red Mountain Winery

Boat Ride

Boat making- Mike was pretty fascinated

Smaller boats

Cheroot rolling

Floating tomato fields

A beautiful wooden monastery 

Lots of teak and Buddha images

Traditional fisherman- the Inle Lake fish was so delicious!

More fishing

A woman selling lotus flowers to take to the Pagoda

The long necked Padaung women weaving

Boats arriving at the Pagoda

Dozens of boats

Monk puppets

This little guy kept shouting Mingalaba (Hello!)

Weaving lotus strands

Blacksmith