Crossing the mountains into Myanmar (Burma)

Yesterday, we crossed the Thai/Myanmar border at Mae Sot-Myawaddy, and will be here in Myanmar for the next 8 or so days. The country has been of interest to me for years, since I had a bit of an Orwellian fling back in high school and read in great detail Orwell's account of his time stationed in the then-British colony, a gem of a little book called Burmese Days. Back then, and for me, this country is called Burma, and not Myanmar - the name given to the country by the military-led juntas. We learned yesterday that this name was actually a re-appropriation of the ancient kingdom that thrived here centuries ago, and that Burma was the colonial name for this region.

The last 70 odd years have not been very kind to this country, resulting in an eroding of the embodied wealth that had this part of South East Asia riding high as a proud, conquering force. During WWII, this area was the site of horrific fighting between the Japanese, the British and nationalists, with hundreds of thousand dying in the conflicts. The country gained independence after WWII and then fell quickly under military rule, which continued for most of the last 60 years. It has only recently been holistically open to foreigners, and this opening process is far from comprehensive. There are still parts of the country that are effectively closed to foreigners and you get the sense of a State apparatus watching your movements in the country.

Knowing these issues, I was still very excited to come to here, having read up on the beauty of the landscape and the kindness of the people. It has been touted as a travel destination that is a little (or a lot) less tainted by the destructive powers of impermanence, anonymity and money that so often accompany high volume travel spots. Also, we happened to live pretty close to a famous restaurant in San Francisco, called Burma Superstar, so I was relatively well versed with the excellent cuisine.

Back to yesterday, when we crossed the border. Both of our travel radars were on full alert, I think because we have heard about the challenges of traveling in this country. It is only within the past year that western foreigners have been allowed to cross into Myanmar via land and travel throughout the country. Also, our friends had told us about their travails trying to convert dollars to Kyat, and the scrutiny each dollar was afforded before being accepted or rejected. With an acceptance rate of about 50%. We heard this cautionary tale when we had exactly zero dollars in our possession and then had to cobble together several hundred dollars in hard currency from the appropriate years and series, so we could convert when we arrived. FInally, getting our visas had been a bit of a challenge in Bangkok, so we were on edge a bit crossing this border by foot.

Our fears could not have been more further afield from the reality we had crossing. The crowded border station had the vibe of Cheers, not an authoritarian regime. We have never met friendlier border officials. Each official we spoke with and who did the various aspects of the crossing was so excited that we were coming into their country, from taking our pictures, to verifying our customs declaration, to providing us with a handy map, to explaining how to get from the border to the most integrated national transportation network, to filling out our entry paperwork. Muriel is wonderful with trying to learn a bit of the languages in our various destinations and this is a great ice breaker, so she was asking how to say various phrases. One official told her that she would be quizzed upon her return to make sure she had learned some of the language, which got a big chuckle from everyone.

Once we changed dollars painlessly, we got a shared taxi for the 5 hour trip to the larger city where we would catch a bus to the capital, Yangon. We got lucky, as we arrived in Burma on an odd numbered day when traffic through the mountain pass was flowing our direction. You see, the road is very rough and narrow so traffic only goes one direction each day. We had missed all the buses, so a shared taxi was our only option.

We got our taxi, had our bulky backpacks strapped to the roof and were off in a few minutes. The road soon got rougher, slowing the pace but giving more time for the expansive views of the countryside as we gained elevation. The ridge we were climbing was probably a thousand meters tall, a good way up and up. Every couple of kilometers, there would be a monastery on the side of the mountain, usually with people fundraising for its upkeep.

Eventually, we crossed over the apex of the pass and before us lay a vast expanse of this country. Below us to the horizon was the lowland contrast to the tall ridge we had been crossing. A handful of jagged rock towers are seemingly sprinkled at random throughout this otherwise flat expanse. It is a long way back down to the valley and I spend most of the time looking out the window, thinking of this country that was private and closed off for so long. It feels like we have crossed the physical barrier that guarded the country to the east and can now begin exploring in earnest.

Later that night, we arrive in Hpa'an with no idea of where to stay. Our shared taxi driver takes us to various guesthouses and makes sure that we are comfortable. His hospitality is admirable but when he refuses to take our tip for his extra effort, we are blown away. He simply took care of us out of the goodness of his heart and refuses a 20% tip on the fare. This magnanimity astounds us because, globally, taxi drivers always seems to be out to make extra money. But more than that, we knew that he was just scraping by -- in an earlier conversation we learned that he had worked everyday for the past 3 months shuttling goods and people back and forth, heading east and west as dictated by the direction of traffic over the mountain pass. His constant work schedule meant that he had not seen his two children for these past three months as well.

This morning, we ran in rice fields by the Hpa'an main pagoda. It was very peaceful, with the same jagged karst peaks rising from the flat valley floor and along river banks large and small. I felt the power of this place and its beauty for the first time at the most personal level, from my own two feet. The care of the farmers is evident, even as we trundle along, with recycled fishing nets protecting vegetable plots and baby rice plants just starting to take hold after being planted individually by the river's edge. We eventually ran into a field of tomatoes, ground nuts and gourds with a petite farmer, and fell into a conversation.

The farmer turned out to be a youthful 66 years old, exactly double my own 33 years on earth. He spoke in halting and proud english, with long pauses between words as he racked his brain for the right word. We were so impressed with his language skills, and talked about his life as a teacher who lost his position and came to be a farmer. He sketched out his plot of land and told of his pride in coaxing so much from the sandy river bed. He spoke touchingly of his pleasure in getting to meet us - "congratulations, I am so happy to have met you." Such a powerful, simple declaration and one we reciprocate in full.

 

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