From tribal villages to ancient temples

´No way, you’re moving where??’

‘Myanmar. For two years. Most probably, I haven’t seen any contract yet but it looks likely.’

‘Wow. If you’re really going I’ll be the first to visit you.’

That was Utrecht, March 2016. After 9 weeks in London I had a week-long training at HQ before heading back to Ireland; an opportunity I made the most of by visiting my friends in the area. As Karine and I were catching up over a drink, I told her about the opportunity of a lifetime that was changing all existing plans. As we all know, that opportunity became reality as I moved from Dublin via the Netherlands to Myanmar, a mere two months after the above conversation took place. And Karine’s promise turned out not to be an empty one, as we’ve just completed a wonderful trip covering Myanmar’s main attractions. It’s been a journey that allowed me to see a different side of Myanmar, as the tourist magnets of Bagan and Inle Lake have a completely different vibe than the remote villages that I usually visit for work purposes. Yet I also got to see more of the fertile Shan countryside during our three day hike, and got a glimpse of what life must be like for people who spend their life in a hut above the water at Inle Lake. All in all it’s been a very diverse, rewarding and most welcome (first) break from work since starting 5 months ago. This blog post is to cherish those happy memories.

Pick nine people, completely at random, and put them together on a three day, 65 km hike. Have them share a room for the night where they sleep next to one another on mats on the floor, and serve them the same food for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Put them through modestly challenging exercise. Let them use squat toilets. Provide them with a bucket and cold water for a shower. And observe. You get to know complete strangers rather well in a short time span when traveling with them. Moreover, you get to know good friends even better. When faced with discomfort, with situations that require flexibility, with making do with the means available, people show their true self. The naked personality emerges from underneath pretence and flashy cover-up smiles. To me, people who are cheerful despite (or even because of!) the required adaptations on such a hike, are generally people I tend to get along with. Lucky me. Our group of nine was a nigh perfect composition to walk from Kalaw to Inle Lake.

It was just after 5 am on Saturday morning when Karine and I stumbled out of our night bus, having just been put through the ordeal of traveling from Yangon to Kalaw. My previous experiences with night buses in Myanmar had been remarkably positive, compared with their uncomfortable and dangerous peers in the likes of India (hard chairs, poor roads, drunk bus drivers) and Latin America (dangerous cliff sides, bandit holdups, and suicidal drivers). Versus the latter benchmarks our trip was still a very innocent one, yet not to the level of comfort I had secretly grown accustomed to. Driving from Yangon to Mandalay and back had proven a very pleasant experience just a few weeks ago, with the key being not only the comfortable bus but also the straight road linking Myanmar’s two main cities. Kalaw, tucked away in the Shan mountains, does not quite have straight roads leading to it. In fact, I doubt whether there’s any stretch of road lasting more than 100 meters without a curve of sorts around the place. Add poor suspension and two seats in the very back and you have the recipe for a poor night’s sleep, as at times both our bodies entirely left the seating when a particularly big bump in the road brutally interrupted my doze and had me land back into my seat wide awake. Little surprise that the thin mat on the wooden floor that night felt like the softest bed, and I slept like a baby.

Skipping a night’s sleep helps to make one sleep well on the floor of a bamboo hut. What also helps is hiking 25 km through the mountains, with a dysfunctional Achilles tendon that makes the right leg do twice the work. My sole reliance whenever backpacking (the LP) as well as friends’ opinions (Laurien) had been fabulously wrong when downplaying the rewards of the hike, as both suggested that it wasn’t that much spectacular. Well, it indeed doesn’t compare to trekking in the Himalayas, yet it is still very much worth your while. I guess we’ve been lucky with our guide, Mary, in multiple ways. Apart from getting us superb food and being pleasant company, she also picked a route that I suspect is more beautiful (and longer!) than the ‘standard’ one. We walked through mountains and paddy fields, through tribal villages and forest. The scenery was nothing short of spectacular at times, and despite my annoying injury I had the time of my life. Walking through such a diverse landscape, witnessing local people do their day to day work, gazing at water buffalos chilling out in the fields or taking a bath, soaking up the sun in the land of eternal summer… it all made for a wonderful combination and I enjoyed every step of it.

Except for the bees. Never run through a swarm of angrily buzzing bees, even (or especially!) when Matthew goes first. Next time, let the bees have him, and don’t make a fool of yourself running and screaming while waving frantically to get rid of the little bastards.

The third and final component to the recipe of sleeping soundly on the floor is a few bottles of lukewarm Myanmar (or 8% Dagon) beer, along with a smoke and a sip of whiskey. The first night we got to take part in the villagers’ celebration of a full moon day, amid live music and dancing. After another day of trekking the second night featured less dancing but was all the more hilarious. Rachel introduced us to Celeste, Matthew gave us a hint of his profession and had me cry from laughing, and we discussed EPL players in quite some detail. Too bad no quotes survive. Or well… maybe for the better.

‘Oh you bastard! You’re staying here? I’m sleeping in a 16 bed male dorm tonight!’ Our little boat had just turned a corner and the fairy-talelike image of Sanctum Resort emerged. Amid a week of night busses, mats on the floor, and budget hotels, Karine and I had decided that our stay at Inle Lake was worth a splurge and Sanctum lived up to its near-perfect online references. From the deck chairs at the swimming pool you could see the sun set on the mountains behind the lake, while the resort’s quarters included cosy library-like rooms and classy bars to spend time after dark. It was a welcome reward amid luxury I am not accustomed to, so I enjoyed it all the more. Bar some ancient Italians the hotel was rather quiet, which meant I had the pool for myself every morning at 7 am to start yet another awesome day. Breakfast was lovely and the staff even lovelier, and I hope I’ll get to return to this paradise at least once more during my stint in Myanmar.

Okay, enough resort kudos. Inle Lake. Well, Inle Lake is a pretty fascinating place. It features villages built on poles, floating markets that regularly change location, locals who have built their livelihoods around fishing and cultivating crops on man-made islands, and an entire infrastructure designed around water-going vessels. Like in the backwaters of Kerala, the main transport is by boat. People to go temple by boat, children go to school by boat… it is a mesmerising society that is unfortunately at risk of being overly exposed to tourism.

I guess that by some standards tourism at Inle Lake is still rather confined. Yet with Myanmar opening up, and more and more people deciding to come visit here, Inle Lake being the country’s main attraction appears at risk of becoming a victim of its own beauty. I haven’t done any research on the matter, but it is not hard to imagine what the consequences can be of ever more people flocking to the lake and disturbing local life and customs with their tourist money. It is a somewhat hypocritical analysis I am portraying here, as I am myself very much one of those foreigners doing exactly the things that I fear will negatively impact the existing ecosystem. Being toured around by our very kind and able driver, I frown upon flocks of fat Americans being shepherded from souvenir shop to souvenir shop. Observing particularly callous characters showing no or too little respect for locals, I detest their inability or unwillingness to make an effort and respect the Myanmar population who are still so very much unspoilt by mass tourism. The more uncouth and ignorant foreigners will descend upon the lake and its surroundings, the more the genuinely helpful and kind character of the people here will be eroded. Locals will become attractions, tourists will become sources of income. I can imagine that the lake to date has been a closed ecosystem of sorts, with its inhabitants living off the fish and grown vegetables and the lake maintaining a sort of balance (don’t say The Circle of Life lads, this is a serious topic now for a change). Yet all these tourists bring with them more waste and may use up more of the ecosystem’s capacity than it can handle. All those temporary visitors eating, drinking, going to the toilet, going on boat rides; what will this do to the likes of food availability, waste water management, and the negative externalities of fuel consumption? The hypocrisy, as you have no doubt already recognised, lies in the fact that I am very much one of those people I am frowning upon in all this tourist-bashing. And to be honest, some of the people on the lake will very much welcome the increased economic activity which leaves them better off in terms of income and (some) standards of welfare. For me to avoid the place altogether wouldn’t be an option – rather I make sure I am very much aware of the huge privilege of visiting this magical place, and treat locals with the same courtesy that they lavish on me. Moreover, I hope that the government takes the messages on display around the lake (‘responsible tourism development’ etc.) seriously.

Leaving Inle Lake also meant saying our goodbyes to the last people of our trekking crowd, which we did in style over a gorgeous Indian ‘palak paneer’. Another night bus later we arrived in Mandalay, where we swapped our newly acquired resort standards back to a twin room in a midrange hotel. Renting the same bike at the same place (thanks so much Zar Ni for giving the address!) as a few weeks ago, our day in Mandalay featured riding our scooters to the famous teak-wooden bridge, climbing Mandalay Hill, and having gorgeous Shan noodles for breakfast (too spicy for some of us).

From Mandalay we took a boat to Bagan, where we woke up the next day (or night, technically) at 4:30 am to watch the sunrise from the top of a temple. Arriving there while it was still dark we were temporarily under the illusion that we might have the place to ourselves, yet this wishful thinking was quickly disturbed by a caravan of cars, vans and motor cycles dropping off a seemingly infinite stream of tourists. Hence, 10 minutes into our peace and quiet we were surrounded by loudly squeaking Chinese, boisterous Argentines, and overly excited Americans. Imagine that the high season hasn’t even started, and Bagan is already flooded with tourists. Yes, I know, hypocrisy abound. After the sunrise, which was quite nice to watch despite being in the middle of a camera-snapping crowd, I decided to leave the tourists to the temples and the temples to the tourists and finally started reading the book I had been carrying around for a week. A relaxing end to a very rewarding week, during which I met great people and got to show Karine some of Myanmar’s most famous treasures. A great thank you for all of you who’ve made this trip so enjoyable and a particular one to Karine to being the first one to make the journey from the Netherlands to visit me here. 

And of course, as always, a few quotes to finish the story with:

Me: ‘Could you refill this water bottle for me please’

Staff at the resort: ‘Let me get you a new bottle’ (obviously thinking, what a backpacker)

A few of Karine’s observations during the week:

‘Het is hier net Burgers Zoo (during the 3 day hike)

‘Giethoorn is er niets bij (Inle Lake)

‘Please meet Tony and Celeste’

‘Everyone in this village waves back to me except that kid. Well you know, that kid can fuck off.’

‘Het is een hele groep zeg’

‘Ja god’

‘Een groep Italiaanse bejaarden’

‘Mja Italianen trek ik meestal nog wel’

‘Ja ik ook wel’

(Watching the sunrise at the temple, already quite bright)

‘Als je nu pas komt aankakken dan heb je het echt niet begrepen’

‘Nee inderdaad’

‘He, dat is Laurien!’

Mandalay to Pyin Oo Lwin

Three months into my new Burmese adventure, and I had barely left the city. Being honest, that is largely attributable to all that Yangon has to offer. It is my perfect mixture of adventure, leisure, foreignness, comfort and a homely feeling that is indispensable to happily living somewhere for a prolonged period of time. Strolling the streets downtown I am in the middle of a concoction of sounds, scents and treats to the eyes, all exotic and intense, all so very Asian while imperatively Myanmar. Any evening the streets are filled with life, with people enjoying dinner over a cup of tea or a few glasses of beer, everyone outside, walking and talking and smiling. And amid this bustling and addictively exotic place, I have found myself new friends with whom to share all these novelties, new compatriots who make my new home truly feel like a new home. Almost as lucky as I have been with them, I have been with my apartment; brightly lit and comfortable in my favourite township. Bar getting rid of the cockroaches and putting some newly acquired art on the walls, it needed little work. Along with my most recent purchase, Jack (a big leather lounge chair), it has truly become a comfortable home. Hence I had put off seeking new adventures beyond Yangon’s borders, as I simply didn’t feel the urge. Of course there were the leisurely trips to Singapore, to Bago and Dala, and the work trip to Pakkoku and Bagan. But it wasn’t until last Friday evening that I felt the travel vibe again. It came to me when our taxi entered the sprawling bus station in the northern part of the city, after two hours of wrestling through rush hour traffic. It is the thrilling sense of not knowing what lies ahead, of having your backpack strapped on, about to board a vehicle to a new destination. That feeling tells you that the only certainty you have is that it is going to be another memorable experience, it opens your mind, it lets go of the safety of comfort and familiarity, and embraces the unknown with arms wide open.

My knowledge and expectations of the Adventure Group that Laurien introduced me to were still rather modest that Friday evening. I wasn’t quite sure where we were going for the weekend, and I had packed for rain and sunshine alike. In the end the trip exceeded all expectations, mainly thanks to Zar Ni, who did a tremendous job putting the itinerary together. Even the unforeseen was quickly dealt with, such as when the engine of our rickshaw sputtered and stopped altogether, when climbing a modest hill after we had swum below a thundering tropical waterfall. But wait, that is only Sunday afternoon. Let’s stick to the chronology. Friday evening. Night bus to Mandalay.

Night buses in developing countries generally prompt imagines of suicidal drivers, pothole-filled roads, and twice as many people as can reasonably be expected stuffed onto a dirty and ramshackle vehicle deemed no longer fit for purpose by its previous first world owner. Hence I was pleasantly surprised by my big reclining chair, the stewardess who handed out snacks and blankets, the little screen in front of me (that I didn’t use), reasonably good quality roads, and a driver whose only concern wasn’t to get to Mandalay as quickly as possible but also to get there in one piece. As such I actually slept on the night bus, from about midnight to 4 am, which for some (a small royal minority but still) qualifies as a full night’s sleep. To me, it was enough to keep me going full strength until collapsing in my bed the next evening in Pyin Oo Lwin at around 11 pm.

It is rather amazing what can be done in a day when one starts at 4 am. After taking a taxi to downtown Mandalay, we settled in a tea house in order to change clothes and nourish an energising breakfast. Ready to go, we proceeded to rent four motor bikes that would become our means of transport for the weekend. It was generally assumed that the four men in our group of eight were capable of riding a bike in general and one with manual gears in particular. Learning about this plan, my mind drifted back to the three prior occasions in my life that I had ridden a motor bike (none manual). There was my trip with Marieke in Goa, where I almost rode into a ditch because I was too thrilled by our surroundings to keep my eyes on the road. Then there was the attempted trip around Naxos with Anna, when we crashed somewhere in the mountains and Anna had to be taken to hospital to be treated for the injuries sustained (although she was driving when we fell). And lastly there’s the trip with Johan and two French girls in Rajasthan, India, where we got stuck in the middle of nowhere with a punctured tube. ‘Could someone give me a crash course in how to ride this thing?’ Some patient explanations by Johnny as well as the shop’s owner got me good to go, and after an awkward first 30 minutes I managed reasonably well for the remainder of the journey. Had someone told me that Sunday evening I would be riding the bike through the mountains, in the dark, in the rain, for two hours back to Mandalay, I wouldn’t have been so keen. Luckily, I was still blissfully unaware.

Fully fuelled we set off towards a mountain whose name I forgot, parked the bikes at the bottom, and started our hike all the way to the monastery perched on the top. I am arguably happiest when I can walk uphill in an environment of stunning natural beauty, so you can imagine how I felt striding through verdant green jungle, past small houses and the occasional school. The lush vegetation at times gave way to spectacular views over the surrounding countryside, while sprawling Mandalay could be spotted in the distance. When finally reaching the top we were awaited by stunning vistas, and we took our time chilling out at the monastery and taking in all the natural bounty beneath us. We had had breakfast in Mandalay, seen the suburbs of Myanmar’s second city give way to paddy fields and water buffaloes, hiked uphill for a good few hours, and were now enjoying the visual fruits of our labour. And it was only noon.

The ride from the mountain whose name I forgot to Pyin Oo Lwin was one of contrasts and extremes. The first bit was one of my happiest moments to date in Myanmar. The ride took us along a canal, with green paddy fields stretching all the way to the mountains on our left. Bulky water buffaloes could be spotted next to thatched houses, while farmers in the fields spread fertiliser, their faces protected against the sun by wide straw hats. On our right was a line of massive trees, their branches stretching over the road, intermittently letting beams of sunshine through their leafy cover. The sensation of being so mobile, so free, to ride from the scene of a spectacular hike to wherever you’re going to spend the night, while crossing such breathtakingly gorgeous countryside, in a country so exotic yet slowly becoming familiar, that feeling was so intense that I couldn’t help but smile and yelp out to Laurien behind me how much I enjoyed it all. It was like playing frisbee at the beach, when you’re running through ankle-deep water in pursuit of your flying target. It’s like the child inside gets free rein to enjoy life in a way so pure that it’s usually the prerogative of those young enough to be unaware of all the responsibilities that come with age. If I wasn’t riding a bike I would have spread my arms and closed my eyes. 

This happy sensation was quite a contrast with the where we found ourselves a mere half an hour later. Pyin Oo Lwin lies at 3,445 feet altitude, compared with Mandalay at 244 feet, so we had to climb quite a bit to get there. The road snaking around the mountains was dusty and filled with potholes. Massive lorries were crawling their way up, leaving a trail of dust that got into oureyes and our lunges. Overtaking these bulky units wasn’t easy as the next bend in the road was always imminent, and the free spaces between these monsters were filled with other motor bikes trying to get past them. It took a while, but in the end we got there. Relieved to park the bikes for the night we checked into the hotel, took a well-deserved shower, watched the Manchester derby in the lobby, and enjoyed dinner and life music at a pretty restaurant. By then everyone was yearning for their beds, and we all tucked in for a sound eight hour night’s sleep. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

The next day was more leisurely, as Sundays are supposed to be, as we were driven by tuck-tuck from sight to sight. These included a golden temple (what else), a pretty waterfall that we swam next to (amazing), and a superb lunch overlooking a green valley (also amazing). After we had swapped our defunct tuck-tuck for a sturdier vehicle we set off towards yet another sight, having stuffed our wet clothing into bags and pockets. Except for Laurien. Whereas the driver had questioned the wisdom of hanging the pieces of clothing on the handle of a moving vehicle, the temptation to let it dry in the wind rather than stink in a bag was apparently too big. So indeed, ten minutes into the journey the clothing trembled loose of the handle, dropped onto the road, and induced excited screams for the driver to stop from all of us in the back of the truck. Surely thinking ‘I told them so’, the guy reversed the few hundred meters back, while passing cars elegantly avoided the bright yellow t-shirt and blue shorts lying helplessly on the road. Being close enough, I got out of the car to fetch Laurien’s clothes. To everyone’s amusement however, an exceptionally large lorry made me wait a little longer to pursue my rescue mission, and six pairs of muddy, massive wheels thundered over the hitherto cleanish pieces of fabric. ‘That actually hurt’, Laurien confided, as I handed her over what now more resembled some filthy rags. Lesson learnt?

The motor ride back to Mandalay wasn’t as daunting as we had imagined setting off, when dusk and rain made the journey through the mountains seem quite hazardous. We stuck to our formation; myself and Laurien up front, followed by Benjamin and Zar Ni while Johnny and Elena completed our little caravan. We delivered the bikes back to their owners, expressed our thanks, picked up our luggage that Greg had so kindly brought to Mandalay, had some dinner, and got onto the bus for the journey back to Yangon. Another comfortable bus allowed me to catch some hours of sleep, albeit that I could have done without the forced break at half 1 in the morning. In order to make sure that everyone actually woke up and left the bus into the pouring rain, we were mercilessly pulled from our dreams by agonising music blasting from poor quality speakers. 30 disgruntled minutes passed and we were let on again, back to sleep, only to wake up when we pulled into Yangon’s bus station at half six in the morning. I bade my new friends goodbye, got into a taxi, had a shower and some breakfast at home, and sat behind my desk at half eight in the morning. Apart from the bags below my eyes and my at times dreamy expression, one wouldn’t have been able to tell that in a mere weekend I had travelled and experienced adventures that felt like they had lasted a fortnight. Zar Ni, thanks again for making this magnificent experience possible! I’ll be a regular on your future trips. Elena, Laurien, Kyi Khine, Henry, Johnny, and Ben, thanks for the great trip. That many more may follow.  

'It's so sweet that you will like it'

A new adventure

After studying in Katowice, Poland, volunteering at the Kalakar Trust slum school in New Delhi, India, teaching English at Sanmenxia Foreign Language Middle School in Henan province, China, two short stints in London, England, and almost turning Irish while working in various banking roles in Dublin, Ireland, my sixth (and for the foreseeable future, last) foreign place of residence has become Yangon, Myanmar. While it’s been well over three months since I started my new life here, so far I’ve put off starting a new blog. Writing should be an urge that cannot be suppressed, rather than an obligation one has to fulfil. And while the urge has been lingering close to the surface ever since I set foot on Burmese soil, the past weekend has been the trigger that made it burst to the surface. As ever, writing for me is the key to storing memories of my foreign adventures, so I can keep on reliving them even after years have come to pass. As a positive externality, you might find this blog an interesting read.