Burmese kid see an iPhone

So I was gonna take the train from Hsipaw to Mandalay, a train ride that some tourists take for part of the way cause it goes over a bridge that will fall thousands of feet down into a rocky abyss any day now and then they can say that they went over it.  As a result there is a nice tourist coach with padded seats but I was all like fuck those soft seats I'm gonna go full Christopher Columbus mode here and kick it old school with the locals on the hard seats cause I'm hardcore like that.  And forget getting off after the famous bridge and then taking a taxi to Mandalay making the whole thing a simple seven hour affair, I'm seeing this twelve hour journey through to the end.

I get on my car and it's clear I'm the only person with an assigned seat, which the conductor insists I take even though doing so means temporarily displacing a large family. They quickly re-congregated around me and bombarded me with strange fruits and gel like substances made from red peanuts for the next hour.

The family got off and I was stuffed, ready for a little nap action when this kid starts batting the back of my head from the bench behind me. This happens on and off for a few hours with the kid ducking down behind the seat whenever I turn around and smile.  At some point either he gets up the courage or his parents fell asleep, so he comes over and plops down next to me.

Now one thing you should know about the Burmese railways is that it literally cuts through the jungle. I mean why would you cut away the bushes on either side of the track when the train does a fine job of it an you can just sweep it at the end of the line?  So frequently, 75% of the time all the time, branches smack against the open windows and leaves, sticks, the occasional berry and a small bug or two come flying in.  So here this kid is siting between me and the window getting pelted by shit without a care in the world.  His brother comes over and tries to pull him to the backwards facing bench opposite of me which was recently vacated and offers protection from all the debris.  But no way was this kid not gonna sit by the foreigner so he wedges himself behind my arm and shoulder and latches his arms around mine.

That's when I thought it would be a good idea to bust out the phone and really blow his mind.  An hour or so later he got bored of holding on to my arm and went back to sleep with his family, around that time I lost feeling in my butt.  The train stopped, the tourists got off and the conductor came on without explanation and brought me to first class.  The rest of the ride was comfortable.  Comfortably boring. Nobody ever talks about the crazy ride they had sitting up in first other than to say that it was 'Nice'.

Slow Boat to Bagan

You hop on the back of motorbike before any light is in the sky and ride through the streets of Mandalay, the headlight illuminating a pre-dawn market spread out in the middle of the street.  Reaching the dock, you sit down at the ticket table, passport in hand and pay with perfectly crisp American dollars.  On the boat there are plastic chairs for you and the other foreigners while families spread out on the floor around you.    

The sun rises pale over the Irrawaddy and the night chill lingers. To warm up you head to the back to eat.  Rice with a fried egg, thinly shaven crispy garlic and on the side a jar of pickled shallots with a little chili.  The bench is low and too close to the bar to be comfortable. You are the only one not squatting on it.  On the bar is the ever present thermos of green tea and nearby small teacups in a bowl of water.  The sun, food and tea do their parts to warm you and you're ready for the next thirteen hours.

Later you met a couple from New Zealand, Malaysian by birth.  Probably your parents age but still loving to rough it with the backpackers yet they are a far cuter couple than you'll ever see backpacking.  Perfectly comfortable in the moment.  You don't know it then but you'll end up running into them several times in the coming weeks.

You talk on the steps between the decks, avoiding the sun for sometime.  She goes to ask the captain something about the voyage but comes back without an answer.  He was napping with his head on his wife's lap getting his stubble plucked.  A kid very actively steers the boat with his foot while sitting on a  ledge behind the helm.

The three of you go sit up in front of him to watch the river go by and the loading of massive baskets of bananas carried on the shoulders of spindly legged men.  It takes three to hoist the baskets on to one back and then the carrier scampers to the boat up a narrow board, sarong tucked up to the crotch and a long towel draped over his head and shoulders to keep the dirt off.  The only other upfront is a Burmese man  wearing a button up shirt and a navy blue sarong.  He is a spitting image of Robert Mitchum and just a talkative.

The day drifts along and at major stops women and girls come aboard balancing stainless steel trays of fried snacks, quail eggs, corn and watermelon.  One carries chicken and you are tempted to get some until you observe an old lady meticulously handle every piece before buying none.   You go back up top to grab something to drink, leaving your bag unattended on the bow.  No one steals in Burma, the government doesn't like competition a comedian told you the night before. To avoid another prison term he can only perform in English.

Sitting on the bench is an American girl.  You can't remember the last time you talked to an American.  She is playing with the little girl whose parents do the food and drinks.  She has given her a quail egg and the child  is trying to tear the shell off.  The child refuses help and eventually throws it hard into a basket.  She'll be a handful some day, the girl says.

While this unfolds the boat has stopped and is off loading a surprising amount of cargo and people onto a two story tall river bank in the middle of nowhere.  Carts drawn by horses are loaded down with drab colored sacks of goods. On top of one is perched a bright orange  inflated animal. Probably a goat.  Little kids sit and bounce around on these. The girl laughs and tells you of how she once saw a little kid bouncing insistently on one and when he stopped and got off, his grandmother stood up and gave it a proper kick in the opposite direction.

Later the two of you sit up front, the bag hasn't moved an inch and neither has Robert Mitchum.  A coconut with an orchid growing out of it hangs from the second story on one side of the bow.  The steering boy deftly guides the boat with his foot, taking advice from the captain and flashing a smile of betel nut stained red teeth.  You have a conversation that has nothing to do with traveling and it feels good.  The crew drinks from a clay pot hung near the side and women fill bottles of water from it.  The girl comments that she is thirsty and is tempted to fill hers.

The rest of the boat is sweltering beneath its tin roof but the bow remains cool on the bottom.  More stops are made and the New Zealand couple discreetly takes a few pictures with the maturity of those who have seen enough respect less tourists to know how it should be done.

Something floats by off to the port side, you think it's a log.  Is that a pig she asks?  It is indeed the bloated carcass of a young pig. Must have fallen off of the crumbling banks.  Soon a man goes for water and finds it lacking.  He sticks his hand in, swirls it around and then dumps the contents over the side.  Producing a bucket tethered with rope he drops it into the silty brown water and refills the clay pot.  Turning to her you ask - still want that drink?

Inle Lake, Myanmar

To get off the beaten path in Inle, Barbara, Heather and I rented bikes and headed east.  The roads are good, |(until they aren't good and then they're violent, but I'll get to that soon) unmarked and save for the occasional truck or motorbike, populated by young kids enjoying the end of the Buddhist Lent.  We raced with them and traded shouts of  HELLO  and sometimes GOODBYE when one of us pulled away.  Around one turn, three boys stood in the middle of the road and waved, after Barbara and Heather road past they kept their hands still in the air so I high-fived the three.  Pretty sure it's a global gesture.

After a bit we turned off the main way and headed up a rocky, rutted road to a monastery that over looks the lake.  This was still a fairly well travelled tourist path and we met some middle aged ladies from the northeast huffing and puffing their way down.  The ideal time to climb up this hill would be in the morning but Barb and I had been up before the sun the previous two days and not even the four AM chanting monks and singing nuns were gonna get either of us out of bed.  Our Irish friend Erica calls it morning karaoke and I can not think of a more fitting description.

Ditching the bikes about halfway up at a mom and pop shop, we continued on foot through a monastery too a gold clad pagoda with a loud speaker perched on it's side and one monk inside chanting while another slept.  We napped, staring up at the gold pagoda silhouetted against the bright blue sky with clouds mingling overhead and the monk lulling us to sleep.

Eventually we made our way down and continued south along the eastern side of the lake. The day before we had tried some great cigars that are only made here and Barb was determined to get some and I was down for the adventure.  After a bit, the good, paved road ended and the violent one took over.  Hard packed earth with sharp rocks sticking out for several inches.  There were narrow motorbike paths from time to time on either side but they proved hard to navigate.  The handle bars on the bike were very narrow, amplifying every movement.  Heather wisely turned back but the two stubborn people pressed on.  I was not about to give up and the cigars really are very good.  About the size of a cigarette, rolled with tobacco and aniseed, very sweet to the tongue and mild on the throat.

So the smart one turned back and we two idiots pressed on.  Seemingly none of the road was flat.  Leg burning climbs and bone jarring down hills that turned one into a human jack hammer pounding away at ungiving stones.  Finally, after a hill that nearly threw me from the bike, I hit a rock at the wrong angel and my tire popped.  Completely deflated, inner tube blown.  In most of this part of the world it would not have been a huge deal.  Motorbike shops would be frequent and the fix would cost next to nothing.  But this is Inle lake, a place where life is lived on the water.  Houses are built on stilts and the main transportation is via boat. Canals are carved out of the weeds between towns and navigated by people who can perfectly balance on the bow with one foot, while the other leg is wrapped around a paddle propelling the skiff forwards.   Naked kids jump off front porches into the shallow waters too cool off and the shore town people rarely leave the area except to deliver sugarcane to market.

The first village we came across could offer nothing but fingers pointing on to the next, so Barb rode ahead while I haphazardly dragged the bike onwards.  By the time I reached the next village a small crowd had gathered and Barbara was doing her best to mime the recent turn of events.  A pump was brought out and an attempt was made to re-inflate the tire but air just blew out of the busted rubber.  Now we were at an impasse.  Using hand gestures and a few words gleaned from the back of the lonely planet we tried to communicate that maybe someone with a motorbike could drive me back while I held on to the bicycle along side it.  I had my doubts about this plan as I wasn't sure how I would manage to hold on to the motorcycle myself over that terrain.

Sometime later, two heavily bearded men came along on a bike and the driver spoke enough English to explain that the town we were looking for was about a a thirty minute walk away.  We were about to head off  when the villagers erupted into to conversation led by  a loud, large woman who believed that we should take a different route, go directly to the lake and then take a boat from there.  This route would only take fifteen minuets and so with day light disappearing, we choose this way and headed off the main road down a narrow, sometimes muddy track with the occasional rut that could have swallowed a large dog.

Passing between fields of sugar cane that stretched over our heads we rounded one corner to come face to face  with two pairs of huge water buffalo pulling carts.  Gargantuan would be a better word for them.  Most that you see are rather thin and the size of your average cow.  These beasts each had the build of two Clydesdale's strapped together and pulled carts with the floor space of  Hummers.  They stared at us idly as we scooted around them.  At the village we found the men in the middle of a card game and they did not seem to want to be bothered so they  brought out a young girl who spoke a little English.  She was advising us to go back the way we had come when a man from the previous village showed up along with the loud lady and their child.  They had a boat not far from here and were going to take us onwards.

We made our way down to the boat, clambered in with the bikes and a reed mat was laid on the floor.  The engine wasn't working and so with the wife working the paddle on the bow and the husband with a bamboo pole on the stern  we set off down the waterway lined with bushes.  I reckon the boat was about three feet wide and thirty feet long and steering was haphazard.  Several times we passed and were passed by small, single handed fishing boats that were making their way home for the evening.  The nearly full moon  rose behind us and the sunset was fading into the waterway.  Barb tucked an orchid behind her ear and I commented that this was like the Louis Vuitton print add with Angelina Jolie floating down the river in Laos.

By night the boat had entered the lanes of the village.  Music blasted from several houses and the young boy, standing near the bow against the night sang on full heartily.  Once at the house we were ushered into a large room where a pot of tea was waiting and bundles of cigars rested against one wall.  Off to one side a grandmother nursed a cigar  and a cat lurked.   Tea was poured and it became apparent that these were not the cigars we were looking for.  They asked us to wait and so we did.  In time a young girl showed up.  She was in high school and spoke good English so our situation was made clear and plans were made to take us to the cigar shop and then across the lake back to our guesthouse.

Then we sat and waited for a very long time.  The young boy rough housed with the cat, snacks were brought out and the grandmother took puffs of her cigar.  At first the story was that they had gone to get diesel but then there was the sound of wood being sawed and the lady started bellowing at someone across the lake.  we asked the girl what she was saying.  She was yelling at her husband to hurry up, it's getting late and he can't be out all night.  After twenty minuets of an engine starting and then failing to catch it roared to life and we were off.

We swung by the cigar shop which was reopened for us and were rewarded with handfuls of free cigars in addition to the ones we purchased.  Mission accomplished we set out across the lake, navigating by the light of the moon which was now high in the sky with the lights of the distant stilt towns on our horizons.  Giving wide berths to the solitary fishermen that we came across, in an hour we were back in the canal for the main town and pulling into a rickety, four plank wood dock.