Burmese Days

It’s been an action-packed month over here. From trekking in the remote eastern hills of Myanmar’s Shan State, to asphyxiating in Yangon, home of the world’s worst taxis, I covered a lot of new territory. Rather than trying to capture it ALL in words, I’ve posted some photos online and picked out one of my favorite adventures to share -- it's a boat story. Links and text are below.

Hope this finds you all traveling well, wherever you are. Happy trails and Gong Hay Fat Choy (Happy Chinese New Year)!

~laurie

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New travel photos on Flickr!

Hill tribes in the Golden Triangle: Eng and Akha villages in Northern Thailand/NE Myanmar

Irrawaddy River adventures aboard the Pole Star (story below)

More Burmese Days: Mandalay, Bagan, Yangon, Inle Lake, Ngapali

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If Wishes Were Fishing Boats: Adventures aboard the Pole Star

As the tourist ferry chugged from Mandalay to Bagan, I sprawled on the prow watching the fishermen’s pirogues float by and wished aloud that we, too, were sailing down the Irrawaddy at our own pace, without all the engine racket and the snap-happy Japanese. My travel companion, an Englishman and self-described boat fanatic, was delighted by the thought. Less than 24 hours later, he was striking a deal with a local fisherman who was looking to make a career change.

The boat Flint found for us, a hand-hewn teak canoe, was weathered but strong. She even had a nice name: Nue Win, “the pole star.” Fishing had been poor lately, so the owner had sunk her next to the beach to discourage thieves. My first impression of the Pole Star, submerged to the gills in Irrawaddy mud, did not inspire optimism. With the help of our new friend Koko, a Burmese painter and temple keymaster who adopted us in Bagan, Flint and the fisherman worked out the terms of sale while the three of them furiously bailed out the boat by hand. We returned later to inspect the agreed-upon repairs and the following day, Pole Star was ready to sail -- in theory, anyway. Irrawaddy, ho!

From our rudimentary tourist map, Flint worked out a route to Chaok, 23 miles south -- a rather ambitious day trip for the dry season. We figured we’d overnight there and return to Bagan by bus in the morning, abandoning our skiff for some lucky fisherman to find. On Koko’s advice, we all agreed to keep our sailing itinerary under wraps. Flint and I kept our cheap room in Bagan, casually mentioning our interest in visiting the nearby tourist attraction of Mt. Popa. Koko arranged for a friend with a car to pick us up in the morning, thus avoiding an additional set of eyes and ears. Koko’s adorable wife, Mi Aung, got in on the action by painting my face with traditional thanaka (sandalwood paste) to protect me from the sun. Though Koko offered to accompany us, we decided not to risk it when we learned he can’t swim a stroke.

Our crew of two set off from Bagan around 8 a.m., carrying an overnight bag and ample supplies of water, sunscreen, and snacks. The Pole Star looked sturdy and tight as a drum. Her former owner, $100 richer and by now quite amused with the whole business, accompanied us out to the middle of the river in a friend’s boat and then we were on our own, adrift on the Irrawaddy. Just south of Bagan, we pulled onto a deserted-looking beach to do some onboard organizing and eat breakfast. We had barely run aground when a wild mob of ragamuffins swarmed over the dunes. Luckily, we were prepared for the possibility of native attack, fending them off with colored pencils and mandarins.

An hour or so downriver, a few teak barges and fishing boats were our only company. In the bleaching sunlight, only silhouettes were visible from a distance. As we passed close enough for people to realize we were not fellow fishermen and not even Burmese, their mystified reactions supplied constant entertainment. Scattered along the river’s banks and nebulous sandbars, simple palm-leaf huts sheltered the fishermen’s wives, children, and pigs, all living by the seasons and weather.

I have to assume that when Flint fixated on this crazy boat idea of mine and executed it, he was completely aware of my limited rowing abilities -- not that I didn’t make an effort, but I was mainly along for the ride. On occasion he called out from the “engine room,” as we’d dubbed the boat's narrow stern, to inquire whether those in First Class might lend a hand with the paddle, just for a few minutes? I did what I could, but really, it’s very hot out there and those wooden paddles are heavy.

Around noon, we stopped to stretch and approximate our position. People looked at us as if we’d stepped out of a spaceship and, once they’d recovered, went out of their way to be helpful. With a few words of English, some mangled Burmese, and lots of pantomime, we were able to map our route (more or less) and estimate the remaining paddling time to Chaok. Cap’n Flint had guessed at a 10-hour day if we were lucky enough to catch a bit of current, so reaching Chaok in just under nine hours came as a pleasant surprise. I catnapped in the afternoon, so the trip seemed even shorter to me (Flint claims I snoozed for three hours, but he was flirting with serious sunstroke by then so his account should not be trusted.)

Along the town’s lively riverfront, fishermen were hauling in the day’s catch. Women scrubbed their laundry and dishes among the rocks and children scrambled around everywhere, getting in the way, shrieking and giggling. All of this normal, raucous noise fell away when the Pole Star ran ashore. People gaped. Someone shouted. Children flooded over the prow and an excited crowd gathered behind them, laughing uproariously at our attempts to greet them in Burmese. If the fishermen on the river were stunned to see us, the village folks were completely blown away.

Leaving Flint to amuse the crowd, I headed up the hill to look for a place to spend the night. We had landed in an outlying village of Chaok, which seemed ideal as we were trying not to attract “official” attention to ourselves. At the nearest pagoda, I hailed a pony cart and trotted off to find a hotel -- at least, that’s the arrangement I thought I was making.

My driver stopped in downtown Chaok, climbed down and walked directly into the local police station. My heart sank a bit then, but I remembered the law requires all foreigners to register whenever we move around -- a process normally handled by your guesthouse or hotel. He returned without a word and took me further into town, though not before I noticed a man darting from the police station to run down the street ahead of us.

The English sign above the Dream Guesthouse was encouraging, but the gauntlet of frowning men in front of it was not. I had learned to spot policemen and government poo-bahs in this country early on: they stand around doing nothing all day, yet they’re the only ones with any money. They’re also stern if not outright unpleasant most of the time, while the regular folks are generally friendly. Trying to appear nonchalant, I stepped up to the firing squad and inquired about a room. No one responded. Glaring at me, they carried on talking in Burmese, while the pony cart driver shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Finally, the fellow I’d seen leaving the police station stepped forward, bristling,

“You, foreigner. What you want?”

I whipped out my phrasebook for the first of several fragmented and frustrating discussions. Eventually, he made it clear foreigners were Not Allowed to stay in Chaok, nor anywhere in the vicinity outside of Bagan. Since it was too late to catch a bus, I asked him how to get back to Bagan. He interpreted this as an argument and became irritated, demanding my identification. With my passport pouch making an obvious bulge under my shirt, I shrugged and told him I'd left it in Bagan. We faced off for a few seconds and just when the conversation began to go rapidly downhill, another well-dressed man appeared and politely asked if he could help me. I repeated my vague explanation: I had come from Bagan and arrived in Chaok by accident, unaware I had crossed into a No-Go zone.

Mr. Big seemed to accept this story, waving the surly policeman away. That was an improvement, but his power to co-opt the situation from the police made me wary. He questioned me in decent English, but didn’t seem overly concerned about the whole thing. I wasn’t arguing with the officer, I clarified, I simply didn’t know *how* to get out of Chaok (so far, no one had asked me how I got there in the first place.) He nodded and shouted to the posse behind him. One of them disappeared into the Dream Guesthouse and returned with a set of keys.

Mr. Big turned back to me. “You’ll go by taxi,” he said firmly, “A car will take you to Bagan, and I will go with you -- to make sure there are no more problems.”

I didn’t see any way out of this arrangement so I agreed, thanking him profusely, and only then confessed I had a friend waiting for me in a village nearby (a village I wasn’t at all certain I could find again.) Mr. Big gave me a long look, and after obtaining directions from the beleaguered pony cart driver, he ushered me into a white, government-issue Toyota parked conveniently next door. I babbled about tourist nonsense all the way back to the pagoda and Mr. Big became more personable once we left the local mob behind. As we neared the village I blurted out,

“Uh...so, my friend isn’t exactly *in* the village. We’ll have to walk down to the river to get him. And if you don’t mind, perhaps you could help us make some arrangements for our boat?”

There was a baffled pause. “What boat?” he asked.

With Mr. Big trailing behind, I plodded over the sand dunes toward the river. Flint was standing waist-deep in sludge, surrounded by naked little brown boys who tumbled and splashed all around him.

“That’s your friend?” my bodyguard asked, chuckling at the scene below.

I nodded forlornly, reluctant to break up the fun by delivering our marching orders. I waved Flint back to dry land and with Mr. Big watching curiously, snipped off a scrap of the Pole Star’s weathered sail with my pocketknife, tucking it into my bag as a keepsake. Shaking the mud and fish guts from his trousers as he approached, Flint looked askance at Mr. Big, then at me, and wisely chose to hear about it later. We paid a local man to watch the boat for a few days, in case Koko or someone else from Bagan wanted to come and retrieve her. The whole village accompanied us to the “taxi” for a fond send-off, and then we were hurtling down the bumpy road to Bagan with our police escort, scattering ox carts, dogs, chickens, and bicycles in our wake.

Getting the bum’s rush from Chaok had dampened my spirits a bit, as did parting with our beloved Pole Star so unceremoniously. Mr. Big didn’t talk much on the ride, which was fine with me; I’d lost my nerve by then and could barely remember the series of tales I’d concocted. If he suspected we’d actually planned the whole thing or anyone else was involved, he didn’t let on.

Back in Bagan, young Koko had been pacing the roof of his temple. Only the good sense and iron hand of his little wife, Mi Aung, prevented him from driving to Chaok on his motorbike to look for us. When we returned, boat-less but unharmed, he looked immensely relieved. We spent the evening on the rooftop, regaling them with tales of our Irrawaddy adventures on the Pole Star.

“Everything went perfectly,” we both assured him. “It was a dream come true -- one of the best days of our lives.” We downplayed the return trip with Mr. Big -- to make sure there would be no more trouble.

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(c) 2007, Laurie Weed. All Rights Reserved. Please feel free to forward, reply, comment, or lambaste, but do not copy or reproduce any portion of this content for any purpose without my permission. Thank you.