Today was a flippin’ awesome travel day. The type of day you travel to have.
Today was undeniably a Transit Day.
Last night was undeniably a Whiskey Night.
Maybe it’s best to start with the latter.
Whiskey…
For two nights the very gracious Mr. Joe had asked us to join him for “spicy Asian beef” and whiskey in the evening. And for two nights things got in our way. My last night in Inle…my Night Five…nothing was going to prevent me from sharing home cooked beef and downing whiskey with The Myth, The Man, The Legend himself. Nothing.
The sun drops and the power dies. Standard protocol in Inle ‘round sundown. Lucius and I walk into the candle-lit (and empty) courtyard of the Pyi hotel and find the 1000-watt smile himself happily seated and grinning.
Lucius, Mr. Joe and I assume the round table by candle light. The moonless night sky above just oozing with stars. Royal Club whiskey is Mr. Joe’s brand o’ choice. I learned this the moderately-hard way a few nights back. So tonight I came prepared with my own bottle (Soap + whiskey = $2.20…remember?). We pour glasses and smoked beef cubes appear from the darkness by Mr. Joe’s wife (they sleep in different rooms and he refers to her as “my sister” with a hearty laugh). Pretty sure their magic has faded.
Mr. Joe has a decent grasp of English, but hand gestures are required and I have to occasionally remind LP to sloooow down. Many laughs are shared. The comedic highlight of the evening is when Mr. Joe volunteers his thoughts on the frugality of Israeli tourists. And when that guy laughs…its not possible to not laugh with him.
Laughs are mixed with sober words regarding the hardships of his struggle to put his two daughters through university. His eyes don’t lie when he describes the lonely nights awake…
“Always thinking. Always worrying. Much thinking…”
I had heard all this before on a previous night, just the two of us.
Mr. Joe is not unique. His life is full of stress. He doesn’t know what will happen next month or next year. But by comparison to many of his fellow countrymen Mr. Joe is doing extremely well. Mr. Joe is no more deserving of a handout than any other struggling man in this oppressed population. The only difference between Mr. Joe and all the others I’ve met along this strange and incredible Walkabout through this strange and incredible land is in the personal connection I formed.
I’ve sustained on an average of $27usd per day since I arrived in Myanmar 23 days ago. That daily figure accounts for food, lodging, transportation, and miscellaneous. I mention this because I budgeted and entered this country with enough currency to cover twice that amount. So as my time here winds down I’m in a position to finance some charity in the twilight of my stay…
With the Royal Club nearing its grave…we thanked Mr. Joe for his generosity and kind words. Letting Lucius settle into his room, I shook Mr. Joe’s hand and told him what I told him the other night: “I’ll do what I can.”
Fueled by goodwill and whiskey I took an inventory of my kyat and dollars. I wrote a brief note reassuring Mr. Joe that when his daughters finished school their lives, and consequently his life, will improve for the better. I tucked the note into an envelope along with a few SBO contact cards and placed it in the breast pocket of the custom tailored Kim Jong Il shirt I was yet to wear. With that I promptly hit the pillow…
Transit…
My phone alarm goes off at 6:15am as planned. The head has felt better. We both pack and walk into the courtyard at 7:00am for breakfast. “Spicy Asian breakfast” for a fifth time for this kid. Mr. Joe is all smiles. We down a quick breakfast, grab our bags, and meet Mr. Joe in the courtyard. His eyes kind of light up when the shirt appears. I explain its origin and tell him it was meant for a ‘movie director.’ We share a laugh. I glance down at the breast pocket and lock eyes with him.
“I said I would do what I can. I hope this can help your daughters and you.”
“I will not forget,” he replies.
His wife and daughters are quickly summoned and both offer gracious thanks. And with that we march out of the courtyard and into the morning sun. Not a cloud in the sky (going to be one of those days). I look back and do my best to return the 1000-watts coming at me as our view of one another is slowly obscured by trees. And with that Mr. Joe is gone…
My tab for five nights was $25usd. Lucius…$15. I sincerely hope the two hundred and fifty US dollars resting in the breast pocket can ease his worries, even if only for a handful of nights. The Great Mr. Joe…
With Operation Golden Triangle fully approved, LP and I needed to navigate our way to the Heho airport and board an 11:55am flight to Kengtung. Why are we walking out the door at 7:30am then? We both loath the idea of being like every other tourist and taking a 15,000 kyat taxi to the airport an hour away. “No no.” We’re playing local today and taking local transport. Bring on the pickups.
We arrive at the market and find an empty pickup apparently headed to our junction. For $0.50 each we’re good to go. They load our bags on the roof and we wait.
*Blue bag. Top of the mountain.
Worth mentioning that Lucius’ packing for his two week jaunt in SEA consists of little more than a grade-schooler’s day pack. If it weighs more than 10 lbs I’d be amazed. The thing I love about the kid are the little things. For instance, instead of using a money bag or something along those lines LP keeps his mint Benjamin Franklins safe and wrinkle-free between the pages of a hardcopy edition of Thomas Paine’s…Common Sense. If that’s not classic I don’t know what is.
About thirty minutes later we hop aboard and peel off into the woods. 40 minutes later we arrive at _______ (Some name I can’t pronounce) Junction and hop out. Now I’m 6’1” – 185 lbs with red hair. Lucius is 6’1” – 210 lbs and looks like the Terminator. We stick out. We stick out and absolutely dominate the masses in both height and physical prowess. OK, maybe not me but the ex-MLL lacrosse player in my company sure does. Its fantastic. Truly.
So people just approach us… We don’t have to find the connection to Heho. The connection to Heho finds us. And it finds us. They pop our bags on the roof and we find a tea shop across the street. Two giants sitting on those tiny stools 12” above the ground is quite an attention getter. We have some tea. LP does a card trick. About ten minutes go by when…
“Holy %*#@$!!! Where the #@%* did our truck go?”
You know. The truck. The truck with our luggage on top…
Worth mentioning for those thinking this a careless move…Theft against tourists does not exist in this country. It just doesn’t. It doesn’t because if it did, you would go to the town police, report it, and the police would get medieval on the town’s people until the issue is resolved. My guard has lowered here in Myanmar. It will be back on full alert in Thailand.
We bolt into action and kind of scatter. I’m about two steps from throwing money at a motorbike driver to take me tearing off up the road to Heho in search of our truck, when a recognizable face appears and tells us the truck is getting gas. We breath. Then we laugh. Then we paid for our coffee and stand next to our truck. After twenty minutes we switch to another truck that’s about to leave. As we all know time trumps all when headed to an airport. Lucius plays extreme local and hangs off the back with three others. I sensibly sit in the flatbed and film.
Forty-five minutes later the truck stops. We are told this is the stop for Heho. No airport in sight. It takes 2,000 kyat and ninety seconds before both of us are on the back of separate motorbikes heading towards an airstrip. Ten minutes later we blaze into Heho wearing sunglasses and smiles. That’s the way to make an entrance. Time to get our domestic flight on…
We’re an hour early for check-in so we wander and find ourselves a nice shaded spot…on a quiet corner of the runway. It would be about twenty minutes before we are asked to leave, but that was more than enough time for us to discuss (at length) many important topics such as how many U.S. special forces tactical units it would take to overrun the entire country of Myanmar. We settle on seven 7-man teams. 49 are all it would take, we decide. Hell, Rambo was only one man. These are the type of conversations that keep Lucius and I communicating virtually none-stop when we’re in one another’s presence. (Sidebar: We made a road trip from D.C. to Nashville and back in three nights. The only time the air wasn’t filled with dialogue was when the noise level from the helicopter we rode over Smokey Mountain NP in for thirty minutes drowned us out. I mean why wouldn’t you take an impromptu helicopter ride for $20/each when the opportunity presents itself along the highway? But that’s another trip all together…)
Heho airport is tiny. Tiny and crawling with military brass. The camera takes a sensible rest. Our bird arrives courtesy of Yangon Airways. We walk out to the tarmac and board our Fokker. Fokkers, as explained by the Dutch couple, are Dutch-made planes possessing the same mechanical reliability as a certain Yellow Defender 90 that some of you reading this might be familiar. The plane boards from the rear and we take two seats in the rear. The last row to be exact.
We take off (#1). Thirty minutes later we land (#1) in Mandalay. People get off. People get on. We take off again (#2). As we fly over opium rich jungles below (overland transportation off-limits to us honkies, hence the flight) we are served coffee and cake. Lovely. After discussing the merit of a would-be anything-goes reality-travel-show staring the two of us (on HBO of course) we trade turns acting as The House over 1,000-kyat-minimum hands of blackjack at 10,000 feet. I share with Lucius the story of Midd Gaming, LLC and the short-lived one-night-engagement when four of us run a legitimate blackjack casino in college during our senior year (one dollar mins…three dollar maxs…alcohol free for players…in case you were wondering).
Our gaming goes uninterrupted when we land (#2). I’m about to get up when the voice comes on and says “Welcome to Tachilek.” So apparently the flight from Heho to Kengtung doesn’t go Heho Kengtung (as I was told) but rather Heho Mandalay Tachilek Kengtung. People get off. People get on. And when people get on you laugh when you hear with machine-like repetition: Mingalabah (hello)…
Mingalabah
Mingalabah
Mingalabah
Mingalabah
Mingalabah
Mingalabah
Mingalabah
Mingalabah
Good afternoon
Mingalabah
Mingalabah
And with that you give dirty looks to the only other western person who just boarded the plane.
We take off (#3) and bank to our left. A lazy river meanders into my view from the port side window seat. I follow the river north and spot a small foot bridge that looks familiar from a picture I saw recently.
“Holy sh*t dude. That’s the Thai border right there. That’s Mae Sai! That’s the bridge! We’re in Thai airspace. That’s where we’re crossing.”
Just awesome. Great surprise from 2,000 feet. Back to gaming…Twenty minutes later we land (#3) in Kengtung. Lots of military brass to greet us. We get our bags and secure two motorbike drivers to ferry us the twenty minutes to Harry’s Trekking Guesthouse. The place is as great as the write-up describes. Great and empty. We land two killer rooms for six bucks each.
We immediately inquire about motorbike rentals having read that bikes are available for rent here (a rarity in Myanmar). We are promptly shot down. No one rents them, we are told. Good thing that Lucius Polk and Steve O’Neil don’t get shot down when they travel together. We rent bicycles and head off into late afternoon sun in the direction of town and in search of a different response. After two badly needed and well deserved beers we’re off again. We visit three travel agents and they all claim no one rents bikes.
I locate a diamond in the rough; well it was actually in the street: a Burmese man who spoke clear English. We explain our desires and he brings us to the captain of the post office. He plays translator as I negotiate for two bikes. Terms are agreed upon and hand shakes are exchanged. Pickup time: tomorrow morning. Early.
We then decide it a sensible idea to identify where we can ride and where we can’t ride. What better place to source that info than…the police station. I mean why not? So we peddle up and ask to see someone. Suddenly we’re talking with the Man in Charge along with his entire staff of eight. After twenty minutes we are left with no answers. None of these guys speak English. We leave and share a good laugh at the sign out front that reads (in English): “May I Help You.”
Its now dark and we stumble across an old man who adores America who gives Lucius a map of the area. I lose interest and escape to an internet café to summarize an incredible day of travel with a grade-A friend and road companion.
Tomorrow we ride. It should be an epic day. And why not? That’s how it always goes with LP & SBO. We find adventure and adventure finds us. Lets also hope we don’t find the inside of the police station and the inside of the police station doesn’t find us.
This was an enjoyable one to write. Thanks for reading.
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