chugging along...

I've been privy to many-a-train ride in my day but the most memorable, the most heart pounding, and easily the most enjoyable ride I have ever had the pleasure to experience was a short 7 hour journey between the tiny Burmese towns of Pyin Oo Lwin and Hsipaw.

The former Chinese carriages, built for a different gauge than the tracks they currently move on, chug along the hilly countryside, past tiny villages, at a maximum of 40 kilometers (25 miles) an hour.

The carriages jolt and shake across the entire journey, causing passengers walking down the aisles to grapple for any solid object to keep them from losing their balance. The overly plush $6 US dollar first class seats rock back and forth, at times involuntarily ejecting its tenant into the seat in front of them.

The more stable wooden benches in the $2 USD ordinary class seating provides a more authentic experience with the opportunity to interact with the locals as your butt bounces along the hard surface.

It's inconceivable the consequences that would incur if the train sped along any faster before toppling onto its side.

But the slow chug is slowed even further, at a comfortable walking pace, to inch its way across the Goktiek viaduct. Built in 1901, the viaduct, which hovers over a 300 meter (985 foot) gorge, was the 2nd tallest in the world upon completion.  Since then, little maintenance has been done on its upkeep.

Thus, by crossing the viaduct, you potentially sign your life away with two different options:

A) the train could jump the tracks of its own volition, sending you plummeting to your imminent death.
B) the viaduct could collapse, causing the train to free fall 300 meters as it twists and turns, carriages banging against each other, with no better an ending than the first option.

But the views are worth the risk.

Pushing and Shoving

We were caught in a washing machine of people. As much as I towered over the Burmese, crowds of them still managed to lift me from the ground as they churned this way and that. Esther and I grabbed each other's hand and squeezed them together as tight as we could, afraid if we let go we'd be carried off in different directions, forever lost amongst the crowds.

We were three miles north of Pyin Oo Lwin, a tiny colonial town where the altitude is higher and the air a bit crisper. Our arrival occurred on a weekend when the sleepy hamlet came alive with visitors from all across the country to attend the culminating week-long lantern festival events, to which we joined along in frequenting.

Having stood far enough back in the expansive field to feel safe when the firework spitting, hot air balloon sized, Chinese lanterns were released into the night sky, the anticipation we held was shot down - the balloon being filled having collapsed to the ground before it was even off it. Instead of standing around waiting for the next one to inflate, we decided to take a wander around the market stalls.

Unbeknownst to us, everyone else decided to, too.

Having approached an intercross, we stopped to assess the stalls, trying to determine which route to wander down.

It happened in a millisecond. The crowd. They came running from all four directions, colliding in the center. Bodies slammed against me, crushing me in my spot. The noise from their loud voices accentuating the intensity of the situation.

"Claire!" Esther yelled as she was being carried away.

"Grab my hand!" I yelled back as I threw my left hand towards her while my body was being pulled to the right.

We held tight, yet our hands still slipped until only our fingertips were linked. And then even they were broken apart.

It couldn't have been more than 30 seconds, but it felt like ages. Stories of prior news-worthy stampedes flashed through my mind. I knew I had to keep myself upright to not be pulled under, becoming the next statistic.

Then it was over as quickly as it had begun. The crowds dissipated in an instant, and we were left standing in the intersection as if nothing had ever happened. I hurried over to Esther and we turned down a path before the next wave came crashing.

The crowds thickened and thinned as we made our way past food stalls, admiring what was on offer. Hands were strategically placed on my butt during the indeterminable moments of whether it was intentional or not. Though my glaring eyes pierced through the person behind me each time I whipped my head around to see who it was.

We heard the next stampede before we saw it, and darted under the tent of a restaurant stall just before bodies collided with an audible smack.  The woman behind the table we stood near was pan frying meat and noodles on gas-flamed hot plates. Bodies brushed up against the table amidst the commotion, threatening to topple it and all its contents. Each time the table shook, she picked up a small 2x4 piece of wood and whacked it repeatedly on the tabletop while simultaneously yelling things we didn't understand at the crowd.

Minutes later, gaps were visible between individuals that grew wider and wider each passing second. Then the world stopped as another sound was heard, and everyone outside the quickly formulated circle immediately stood in their tracks.

The sound of fist hitting face reverberated in my ear, even at the near 20 foot distance.

"Stop!" I uncontrollably yelled. "Stop!"

My voice was the only other sound heard.

Once the friends of the assailant saw the near lifeless body of his victim on the ground, having given up the fight numerous seconds prior, they encouraged him to walk away.

All bystanders began walking away too, stepping over and around the body laying motionless on the ground.

I rushed over to help. When he began to pick himself up, I petitioned the remaining idyll bystanders to help him over to a seat near the stall where Esther still stood.

Three men were already seated at the spot we placed him.

"Tell him to drink this," we requested the men while pressing the mouth of a water bottle to the wounded boy's lips.

We stood by for a number of minutes, until he regained enough consciousness to explain he was more embarrassed than anything else.

Not wanting to embarrass him further, and ready to move on, we urged the guys next to him to make sure he doesn't fall asleep.

"But we're not his friends," they said. "We don't know him."  Like that was justification enough to let him be.

We walked away, having explained the importance of making sure he stays awake - friend of theirs or not.

"Well that was enough excitement for me," I half-heartedly joked to Esther while climbing atop a cement-walled fence we had to jump over in order to avoid the pedestrian trafficked paths.

"Yeah, I'm ready to go back to the hotel too," she agreed.

I took one last glance around me from the wall I sat upon, watching the flow of people wander up and down the pathways in one direction and a balloon expanding in the other.  Oh, Myanmar, I thought.

I turned my head forward and hopped off the wall, landing face first into a pool of thick, fresh mud.

Inle Lake

Taunggyi lantern festival

During the November full moon each year, the Burmese hold a lantern festival to trump all lantern festivals - at least in size and ammunition.

Giant hot air balloon-sized lanterns carry gondolas filled with enough massive fireworks to put on a 20 minute show. The lanterns, painted with images of Buddha, are sent off with symbolic intentions requesting him to shower the people with blessings.  In actuality, the people are showered with firework debris.

The thing about Myanmar, though, is this: as a third world country, all things are done manually. Take ferris wheels for instance.  The majority of the world is accustomed to power operated ferris wheels.  The ones in Myanmar are 'man'-ually operated. Sprite young men jump up the wheel like monkeys, climb to the top and hang down making the wheel spin.

The balloons aren't far off. Once the fireworks filled gondola is attached to the floating lantern, the fuse is ignited.  And from the amount of fireworks that go off as soon as the balloon is released in the air, that fuse is not a long one.

up to our ears

Lha Sow, our trekking guide, is a sprite 26 year old family man. He sees his wife and son in incremental spurts, on his occasional day off and on the first night of a three day trek; as the top floor of his house is designated for overnight guests.

The second night's stay is in a house quite similar to his. The upstairs is an open floor plan. Laid out on the wooden planks are enough single 2-inch thick sleeping mats to accommodate the whole of us, feet always facing away from the Buddha wall shrine.

The outdoor toilet is strategically placed next to the pig-pen. Both have outdoor showers, Lha Sow's containing tarp walls for the common westerner who doesn't wrap themselves in a sarong as they shower.

And the hospitality is bar-none.

Bonding with Lha Sow's family came naturally, as he was the binding link. Plus his wife spoke bits of English. It was the second family that took a bit of effort to find something to bond over. The effort came as I walked down the stairs from our temporary room into the common area. There a few of the girls in the family sat on a massive pile of dried corn shucking them with their bare hands. I was intrigued. So I sat down beside them, picked up an ear and with hand gestures and English words they didn't understand, asked if I could help. They laughed and I took it as approval.

Within minutes, the lot of us sat atop the corn laughing with the host family as our thumbs hurt from popping out kernel after kernel.

views from the wayside

a wait in Kalaw

The Burmese government holds a monopoly over its people in regards to tourism. What that means is the following: taxes imposed on hotels and guesthouses are astronomical. Think above 150%. Rooms that in other South East Asian countries would cost between $5-8 US dollars a night, cost $25-35 USD.  And home or monastery-stays are strictly prohibited. All but in one 30-mile narrow stretch of land, that is.

That stretch of land covers vast green rolling hills, tiny villages, and fields as far as the eye can see.  And we thought there would be nothing better than to walk every last inch of it.

So together with Matt and Ruth, a couple we met in Bagan, we hopped a bus bound for Kalaw. Greeting us at the bus stop in the early morning hours of 1:30 was a little energetic old man nick-named Dance. He jumped and skipped as he spoke, excited to lead us to the hotel of our choice, and did a little jig every time we said his name. He said he was a trekking guide, and we wanted him to be ours.

"Dance? No. You don't want Dance to guide you," was the response we got from nearly every person we spoke to in the tiny town.

He's a drunk. An observation we failed to recognize on first encounter. However, his intoxicated state was easy to see every subsequent encounter.

"He'd have been fun for one hour," we all agreed after he approached us a second time asking an unintelligible question with slurred speech. But the other 50+ hours may have taken their toll.

Instead we hunkered down, waiting for the return of the most reputable guide country wide. And in so doing, came across gems easily missed in an otherwise sleepy town.

Take this mammoth grasshopper for example:

Or the super-sized tea they serve in soup bowls:

Then there's the random parade jam session:

And cave temples in which to worship:

But most especially these women, who have garnered our full respect... and then some: