March 8, 2018 by trs

(The Not Quite) Lake Escape

A three day weekend.

The third of the year, but as we had stayed put the first two it was time for C and I to get out of Lilongwe for a mini mommy and me vacation.

I had had some big plans. A friend from college, SC and her daughter M, now currently residing in Cape Town, were to make the flight up to visit. C was beside herself with excitement at the prospect of guests from out of town. She had on more than one occasion made it clear that she would show them to their room and she would show them around the house and yard. She warned me repeatedly that my job was to pick them up at the airport, but it was her job to show them around Panda B&B, which is what she named our house for visitors. She had taken pains to put little accents in their room – from placing two hyacinth hair clips left over from her Moana birthday on to the bed, to also putting her blue bird desk lamp on the dresser (with a blue spider web on it — I don’t know, she thought it made it homey?). For a finishing touch she placed a plush Panda with a personal welcome drawing on the pillow.

The M10?

Two days before they were to arrive SC messaged me with the bad news: due to an unexpected, and extremely important, work commitment, they had to cancel. C was devastated. Frankly, I was too. I considered even cancelling the hotel I had booked and changing to someplace closer. But I had been looking forward to going to the southern part of Lake Malawi for some time, and the deadline for cancelling without penalty had passed. So it would be Cape Maclear or bust.

Early Saturday morning we packed up the car and hit the road. I will be honest, I was a wee bit nervous. This would be only my second road trip outside of Lilongwe (with me at the wheel) and Malawian roads are not for the faint of heart. The first part was fine enough — the M1 north to the M14 east, the same route to Senga Bay we took in November. Ninety minutes out we headed south on the M5. Don’t let the names of theses highways fool you, they are two lane roads with little or no shoulder. Sealed but full of potholes and unexpected surprises around bends (a truck stopped? a herd of goats? a police checkpoint?) But the drive was pleasant enough. Then just after Mua, my GPS directed me to make a left onto the M10. And there in front of me stretched a dirt road. I checked the GPS. Yeah, I made the correct turn. So we bounced along the dirt road as it gradually narrowed. I hoped it would not end. Thankfully after a bumpy 10 miles or so we returned to tarmac.

The last 20 minutes or so, once reaching the Cape Maclear Nature Reserve (and the area of the Lake Malawi National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage Site), the sealed road once again fizzled out. With the exception of a few enterprising youngsters wielding hefty garden tools attempting to shake down passing motorists, it was uneventful and we soon pulled into our lodge.

Along the beach

Within a few hours I was disappointed. The lodge, despite costing a pretty penny, had no WiFi, no restaurant (both advertised online). They offered lunch — but with no menu we were told we select from a few fish or chicken dishes. Despite being only one of two apparent guests ordering lunch, or even at the lodge at all, it took more than 45 minutes to bring us the food. We had an option between Coca-Cola, Fanta Pineapple, or water to drink. The whole place looked tired and worn. We went for a walk on the beach. Not five feet from the property and I was waylaid by a man wearing a vest who said he ran boat tours. I said I just wanted to walk on the beach with my daughter. He said no problem, he could tell me about the boat trips along the way. I asked him to cut to the chase and tell me the price — I was interested in a trip out on the lake — but he would not reveal them right there and then and said he had a set price sheet he could show me. US$35 per person! I said no. We went on our way.

C had put on her swimsuit, desperate to play in the water, but this was different from where we had been at Senga Bay. The beach is hard pebbles and there is lots of glass. The village butts right up to the lake, the lodges, dive joints, and hostels in-between. Locals use the lake for everything — for their ablations, brushing teeth, washing clothes, washing dishes, fishing, and play. I saw the rusted handlebars of a bicycle in the shallows, a long pipe ran into the water and along the beach, carrying water somewhere to the village. I let her only a foot or two in. She was not happy. Neither was I.

At the hotel C swam for hours in the pool as I contemplated checking out the next day. For dinner we declined to once again order chicken or fish from the hotel and headed to Gecko’s, where a lively atmosphere, a decent singer, a mancala game, and quite possibly the best pizza in Malawi revived us. Despite the hard and somewhat lumpy mattress we both slept very well.

The center of the village

The next morning I was still mulling over whether to check out. But C saw other children in the pool and was cheered. She instantly made friends; she’s sweet and friendly and open — though our giant orca pool toy probably didn’t hurt. And I let go. I let go of the idea of “doing something” on this trip. Sitting by the pool, reading a book, watching my daughter play is doing something. Striking up a conversation with the other parents while we lazed at the pool watching our kids is also doing something. I learned they are Lebanese-Malawian and own a prominent shopping center in Lilongwe. For lunch C and I went next door to the Funky Cichlid, a backpacker dive, where I had the most disappointing spaghetti bolognaise of my life (it took 45 minutes to make and when it arrived it had spaghetti and ground beef and cheese but no sign of tomato sauce — I was told to add it from the ketchup on the table) and C hated her burger. No problem. That day I was not bothered. It was funny. We shared a KitKat instead. Then went back and took a nap. Then headed back to the pool. Dinner was at Hiccups Pub, upon recommendation of our new Lebanese-Malawi friends, where C enjoyed a chicken shawarma and flatbread and I lapped up quite possibly the best hummus in Malawi.

village children and shop

On our final morning C and I took a stroll through the village. At 7:30 in the morning it was quiet — most likely with the majority of the population long awake and on with their day, bathing or doing chores or fishing at the lake only meters away. Malawi is poor, its one of the poorest countries on Earth, and the majority of the inhabitants of the village poor as well. I do not want to sugarcoat it. I am afraid of romanticizing it in some way. Several kids in the village regularly approach foreign tourists with handwritten notes asking for donations to support their transportation to a football game in a neighboring village. There is no football game, of course, but I cannot fault them for trying. Others will pester visitors to listen to their “boy band” and charge per song — but they are surprisingly good with their makeshift instruments, covers of popular songs such as “Who Let the Dogs Out?” and “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” and some pretty great dance moves. But with the exception of some persistent (and relatively mild to other places I have been) requests to see someone’s shop or take a boat tour, the villagers were friendly, and busy going about their daily lives.

On the way back to Lilongwe we stopped at the Mua Mission, one of the oldest Catholic missions in Malawi founded in 1902, and the Kungoni Culture Center, which celebrates the cultures of the Ngoni, Yao, and Chewa tribes. Historical and cultural sites are few in Malawi, museums even fewer, so it was a bit of a treat for me to stop here. Though the museum is only three rooms, they are chock full of information and one could easily spend two hours there with the guide. Lucky for the waiting Catholic University students, C and I went in for the express 30 minute tour, though including the gift shop and walking some of the grounds, we still spent an hour here. C liked the room of Gule Wamkulu masks best. (The Gule Wamkulu is a ritual dance of the Chewa people that involves costumes and masks, some quite elaborate. The dance has been inscribed by UNESCO as an intangible cultural heritage)

Mua Mission

It was not quite the trip I had intended. I had wanted to get away, and I think I had envisioned some kind of fancy lodge that kept Malawi at bay, but instead of an escape, we got a little more up close and personal. At first it was uncomfortable, and to be honest, I am still processing it. My expectations. The reality. The natural beauty and the everyday lives. Economics. Culture. Environment. Do not get me wrong. I know a short walk on the beach and a walk through a village and a stop at a cultural center do not a deep cultural immersion make. But it was eye opening for both C and I.

We will not soon forget it. (especially as C lost her first tooth in the car on the way — a loose tooth, a bumpy road, and an apple are the ticket!) And though I declared at first I would not go back, I already expect that an untruth.

February 28, 2018 by trs

Malawi: Settling In…At Last

Home Sweet Home

We have been in Malawi for six months! Long before coming here, I knew this first six months would be crucial and it would not be easy. I knew reaching this milestone would be very important for both myself and my daughter — to finally put 2017, the year of two intercontinental moves, three countries on three continents, two jobs plus training, two schools, two nannies, one childcare center, and so much more behind us. So often colleagues told me (warned me?) that it would take at least six months to be comfortable in the new job and country. In my previous government assignments in Jakarta, Ciudad Juarez, and Shanghai, it did not take me so long to acclimate; I felt comfortable within three months. That did not happen here. Not even close.

99 boxes of stuff in the hall, 99 boxes of stuff… (actually only 91 boxes)

In the Foreign Service we seem to have an uncanny ability to forget how incredibly difficult it is to move each and every time, how difficult it is to arrive at a new place and wait weeks, if not months, before making the new house a home. It is a defense mechanism. If we remembered, perhaps we could not keep doing it. We arrived in mid-August. Amazingly, just 12 days later our Unaccompanied Baggage (UAB) arrived. Even more incredible is my Household Effects (HHE) arrived from Shanghai, via a storage facility in Europe, in mid-September. It was not until November that my supplemental HHE from the U.S. arrived after its epic journey from my apartment in Arlington, VA to the port at Baltimore, MD, then by boat to Beira, Mozambique, where it was loaded onto a truck and driven to Lilongwe. Every day that passed C and I became more comfortable with our lives in Malawi, with the school, with work, with the grocery stores, with the ways to get around town. The first time I drove to C’s school she guided me based on what she had seen out the school bus window. The first time I figured out the other way to the supermarket was like winning the lottery.

First room completed – C’s jungle bathroom

It was slow going. New job. New position. New country. New continent. New colleagues. New car. New house.

In the Foreign Service, at the vast majority of posts, where you will live is mostly out of your hands. We do fill out a housing survey to help direct the Housing Board in making their decision — but this is my fourth move with the government and every survey I have completed was fairly basic: your name, position, rank, family size, and maybe an area for few requests (near the school? shorter commute? pool or no?). The Housing Board will do its best to assign you but are limited by when you arrive and what houses are available at that time. At some posts, like Malawi, the pool of houses is tight, so there may only be one or two available when you roll into town and you are probably not the only person showing up then either. And the houses available in each place is only as good as the local construction allows — in many countries/cultures built in closets may be non-existent or hall closets a luxury. A bathtub might be really hard to get. Or medicine cabinets or outlets in the bathroom. Storage space may be plentiful or nowhere to be found.

C’s play room

Building codes or shoddy construction practices or local preference may present you with some fairly interesting housing designs. In Jakarta I had a room in the middle of my house. Yes, right in the middle. Four walls, no windows. In Juarez there was no insulation in my bedroom floor, which sat right above the garage. In the winter the floors were like walking on ice. I had a patio but the cemented part of the patio was reached via a rock garden where scorpions lay hidden. In Shanghai there were no hall closets to hang coats and all our bedroom closet doors were made of leather. Yes, leather doors. My cats liked those. I did not so much like paying the $200 for damages and the inventive plastic cover I had custom made to protect them.

My red and white (and horrid cabinet) kitchen

Our home in Malawi certainly has its quirks. There are no outlets in the bathrooms. So I plug my hair dryer in an outlet next to my bed where if I stretch out the cord I can check myself from a distance in the bathroom mirror. The kitchen cabinets appear not to have been updated since the house was built, probably in the 70s, the off-white paint with wooden trim makes me think of wood paneled station wagons of the time period. I hate them. And they either do not close or they close so well I have to use all my strength to yank them open. There is no hall closet anywhere near the front door though there is a nice built in wooden cabinet where I can store shoes and other random items — though when you look inside it seems about half of the back of the cabinet has been eaten away. Luckily, I expect no one will ever look inside but me. There is an odd bench-thing that divides my living room from the dining room. I puzzle over its purpose and how I feel about it. For C’s birthday party I used it to place some food and drinks but with kids it just seemed like I was asking for an accident. Usually C uses it as a play platform — it can be the savanna in the Lion Guard or the forest for princesses or a surface to launch off cars. We have a non-functioning fire place in the living room as well. And our corrugated roofs… during hard rain the sound is so deafening we cannot hear each other speak and when the large ubiquitous black and white pied crows scamper around on top they sound like pterodactyls.

C’s Moana inspired bedroom

Our bedrooms are small-ish and boxy. And there is little wall space to hang pictures or artwork. One side is all closet and a built in desk with mirror, one side is all window, and one side has to fit the bed with large frame to hang the mosquito net. It is the same configuration in all three bedrooms. I lose the fourth wall in the master bedroom to the dresser, the built in mirror, the door to the bathroom, and the door to the room. There is only one small space to hang anything. I know, why should I complain? I have a built in desk and mirror. I have LOADS of closet space. And I have three bedrooms for two people. I am honestly not complaining — just giving the facts, ma’am.

The dining room. Same old, same old furniture. Zambia wall hanging, chair covers (because the cats like the chair backs too much) and my knickknacks in the China cabinet make it mine

As is usual for Foreign Service homes we have bars on all our windows. We have bug netting attached to all our windows, which I assume is par the course for mosquito prone countries. And like most homes in the Foreign Service we have the same old tried and true, and much maligned Drexel Heritage furniture. Although I did not have this furniture in Shanghai (as we had furniture provided by the apartment complex), I have had this same furniture in Jakarta, Juarez, and now Malawi. In one way it is comforting to know exactly what the dressers, dining room tables, side tables, china cabinets, sideboards, desks, chairs, sofas and more will look like. Although I have little to no idea how my house might really look until I arrive, the furniture is not a mystery. I plan decor around the furniture.

Exhibit A

However, it can be really hard for friends and family to understand this lifestyle. I have never picked out my own home. Although some people paint, I have never done so and just use my wall art to change things up (you have to paint it back white before you leave). With the exception of a few accent pieces, I do not bring or choose my furniture. Sometimes we might be able to give some pieces back or exchange, but at some posts you cannot. See exhibit A: the “between room.” Another quirk of this house is this random room. It is located between the living room and the room I have designated as C’s play room. It has only two walls; it has no doors. It has two cute, but strangely located windows. It had the same boring but functional beige curtains found all over our house, in every single government provided housing I have had (again with that Shanghai exception). It has an odd cut out in one wall and a built in shelf in the stucco of one of the walls. It has plastic wiring covers snaking across the walls and a few oddly placed spot lights. It’s weird. I know. But it is the house I have to live in for a few years and I must make the most of it. But the picture I posted on my Facebook drew the ire of friends and family. It is ugly! Get rid of ALL that furniture! Get a rug! Throw away the curtains! The lamps and spotlights are dumb — get rid of those too! People did not understand that A. I had changed out that sofa. Initially it had been brown. The same exact not-so-fetching brown as the sofas in the living room. I thought this mustard an improvement. In fact, knowing what was available in the warehouse, I had requested it! and B. the photo represented my completed attempt at decoration and not a plea for help and design tips.

Our living room with its unusual divider

But, here we are at last. Six months, one quarter of the way, into my two year tour in Malawi. Just now we are beginning to feel settled — in no small part because we have finally made our quirky, randomly assigned house into our home. There is much to love about it. From the wonderful enclosed but open air porch or konde where in the morning I sit quietly meditating and hear the sweet chirps and tweets and caws of no less than ten types of bird song and where I have had many a satisfying afternoon nap in my hammock. To our high ceilings, pitched in the living room. My daughter loves her Moana-inspired bedroom and does not care about the curtains or the carpet or the lack of wall space. She and her friends love the play room (and let’s be honest the living room too — do not let that photo fool you, normally it is covered with toys). No one else has to love it, just C and I. And we know we are lucky to call this house and Malawi our home.

February 1, 2018 by trs

Single Parent Dilemma: The Business Trip

woman with suitcase It may come as a surprise to some that I spent more than six years working in the State Department as a Foreign Service Officer without going on an overnight business trip. I managed due to a combination of my positions and locations (serving as a Consular Officer in two large high volume visa posts — i.e. my job was identical to that of 30-40 other officers) and personal choice. There were certainly opportunities for travel. While serving in Ciudad Juarez colleagues regularly took part in the Mission Mexico “swap” program in which Consular Officers at different posts would change places for a month. So for instance an officer in Juarez would go to Guadalajara to adjudicate visas and a counterpart there would come to Juarez. In swaps you also swapped homes, even cars. There were also the occasional TDY (temporary duty = business trip) opportunities to places like Las Vegas for a trade show or Baja in support of G-20, and even trips to Cairo and other far-flung locals. Shanghai too had opportunities, many similar: Mission China swaps, TDYs to India and Haiti, and travel to Hangzhou in support of the G-20.

I could have volunteered. A few well meaning, though generally childless, colleagues would offer various scenarios. It would not have been impossible, just quite difficult. In Juarez with an infant, and later in Shanghai with a preschooler, a nanny, and pets, swapping presented a more logistical and financial challenge for me than for my single or married without children colleagues. I also rationalized that given the majority of the opportunities presented were basically doing visas in another place, I could simply continue to work hard on visas and other tasks where I was assigned. These choices I made may have cost me tenure the first time around and later promotion or not; it is hard to know. But, they were the best choices for myself and my daughter at the time.

Fast forward to Malawi. Here I am in a different position. I am no longer one of dozens of Consular Officers; I am the sole Political Officer. Though I bid this position high due to the family-friendly atmosphere and the reported work-life balance, I knew it would be inevitable that travel would come up. It may be a small nation, and this presents opportunities to really learn the issues and see a good part of the country, yet there is so much happening here and as the Political Officer I must get out and about on occasion. What I had not expected were three TDYs in three months; to what essentially worked out to be three trips in seven weeks.

Trip One

mother and daughter For my first trip it would be just three days and two nights within Malawi. In late October I joined my locally-employed colleague on a familiarization trip to the southern Malawi cities of Blantyre and Zomba. Lilongwe may be Malawi’s capital since 1975 but Zomba, the original colonial capital, and Blantyre, the business and judiciary center, together make a triumvirate of modern Malawi’s social, cultural, and political scene. We would depart Lilongwe early on a Tuesday for the four hour drive to Blantyre and take meetings all day beginning with a lunch meeting and ending with a dinner meeting. The following day would be spent 2/3 in Blantyre and then we would travel to Zomba to stay at the Embassy cottage that evening. Original plans for a dinner meeting in town were scrapped due to the ongoing bloodsucker situation. The final day would be a half day of meetings in Zomba before the nearly 4 1/2 hour drive back to Lilongwe. Easy peasy, right?

Well, first when traveling as a single parent in the Foreign Service, you need to fill out a few items of paperwork when away from home but leaving family members, especially children, behind. There is the usual out-of-town locator all employees must complete when traveling. For all those folks who do not work for the government overseas, think about having to complete a form every single time you take a personal or professional trip. In the event of an emergency, Post must be able to account for all personnel. If heaven forbid an airplane or train crashes or a boat capsizes or there is a vehicle crash, Post needs to know if personnel traveling in the area may have been on board or on that road. Security and facility personnel need to know who is or is not at your residence. Even payroll needs to know in case pay needs to be adjusted. It is one of the less-than-glorious aspects of Foreign Service life. On top of the usual away-from-home forms a single parent needs to complete a Power of Attorney and a Medical form for the staying-behind-child or children. I also left behind a contact list of friends and family…just in case. Along with my daughter’s passport in an accessible spot.

I had asked a colleague if she would mind serving as Power of Attorney and the Medical back-up and she said no problem and then even suggested my daughter stay at her house. She has a daughter just a year older and with whom my daughter likes to play with. A sleepover! This would be very exciting for C. Her only other sleepovers have been one night at her aunt’s in NY, one night at her grandparent’s in NY, several times at her father’s in KY, and one week at my sister’s in VA last summer. This would be the first time not with family. She could. not. wait. This did involve me having to pack her suitcase — full of school clothes (including uniforms and P.E. clothing) and play clothes. I also had to contact the school bus to give instructions to pick up at my house on Tuesday morning, deliver her to the other house on Tuesday afternoon, all day Wednesday at the other house, Thursday morning at the other house, and Thursday afternoon drop back at our home. The bus went off without a hitch, but I cannot say I wasn’t worried.

Though initially nervous about leaving my daughter, once on the road I did feel a wee bit of a sense of freedom wash over me. Then I came back down to Earth. It was a work trip after all. But it was not too long. It would all be okay. However, unexpectedly that evening I received a call from my colleague. My normally very independent daughter, who has been left with babysitters in many a city as I ran half marathons (always fingerprinted, bonded, licensed sitters), was on her third nanny, and also previously spent time at two child care centers, a preschool, and just started Kindergarten, who had NEVER had separation anxiety before, was crying because she missed her mom. She told my colleague she could not sleep because normally she snuggles with her mom before bed. My heart broke. I called the following night and talked with C again. My colleague told me C had said she could not sleep because she had left all her dreams in a dresser drawer at home. I smiled at her creativity, but felt guilty too. Soon enough though I was back in Lilongwe and apparently forgiven.

Trip Two

mother daughter goodbye In November I flew to Harare, Zimbabwe for five days and four nights to participate in some professional training. This time I made the decision for my daughter to remain at our home with the nanny. (Yes, I have a nanny. And she lives on property.) While my daughter had mostly enjoyed her two nights sleepover at her friend’s house, working out the bus schedule and packing her bag did add an extra layer of work for me. Besides just feeling too tired and lazy to go the extra mile, it was also a big ask for my (extremely kind) colleague. By staying at our home C also had access to all her clothes, toys, usual foods, and familiarity. Well, all the familiarity a child could establish in a home she had lived in for all of three months, with our household goods from the US not yet arrived in country. Additionally, the nanny was eager to demonstrate she could do the job and I wanted to give her the opportunity.

This time, instead of departing after my daughter headed off to school, I left on a Sunday morning. I had to say goodbye to my daughter at the front door and her sad little face looking up at me tugged at my heart strings. Though once I arrived at the beautiful bed and breakfast in Harare, I did feel a wee bit better. On both Sunday and Monday evening I called the nanny using What’s App. This time C did not want to talk to me. She reluctantly came to the phone, then giggled, and ran off. When I made the nanny get her back on the phone, C sniffled and told me how much she missed me. After I let her go I asked the nanny if she was faking. She was. It seemed her staying at home had been the right choice. She was more comfortable.

Tuesday evening tanks rolled into Harare. Well how about that? In all the single parent travel scenarios I had envisioned I had not thought through what to do in the event of a coup d’état. At least, I supposed, the government takeover was in Zimbabwe and not Malawi. It directly affected me and not my daughter. Although the outcome was unknown for several days — we were confined to our B&B on Wednesday and escorted to the airport in armored vehicles through the military checkpoint on Thursday — the coup ultimately turned out to be one of the most peaceful ever. Still I was glad to get out when I did. Landing back in Lilongwe and returning to the house and C was the first time I felt Malawi was home.

Trip Three

mother daughter welcome home In December I had to fly back to Virginia for three days of training. It is a loooooong trip from Lilongwe to Virginia and I had no intention on leaving behind a not-yet-6-year-old. So, for the third of three business trips C would come with me. There would then be no need to fill out the medical and power of attorney forms. No need to arrange to leave her behind. But, I would need buy her plane ticket out-of-pocket and arrange child care while I was in training. Child care is not particularly easy to find in the Washington DC area in the best of circumstances, and becomes a little trickier in less than ideal situations. Though I would be taking my course at the Foreign Service Institute in Arlington, Virginia, I opted to again stay out in Herndon, close to my parents, my sister, and the school/daycare my daughter had attended three years before. As a State Department employee I would also have access to up to five days of emergency back-up child care. I would have options. Just as I was planning to begin my babysitter search my parents let me know they would be available. Thank goodness! For three full days she had time with her grandparents and then her cousins when they came home from school. It turned out to be a crazy quick trip but I was glad to have C along with me on the adventure.

Three months, three different business trips, and three different single parent solutions. We both survived them. After a wee bit of no travel time we may be ready for another.

January 14, 2018 by trs

The Holidays in Lilongwe

I do not always carve watermelons for Halloween, but when I do, my carving is awesome

I grew up in the US and had the usual holidays. My mother used to sew our Halloween costumes. She asked my sisters and I what we wanted to be several months before and then made it. We trick or treating door to door in our neighborhood. When I was younger, my aunt, and grandparents would come to our home for Thanksgiving dinner. Once we realized we were not huge turkey fans we switched to our favorite: chicken schnitzel. My mother made her own advent calendar and we made cookies and made crafts leading up to Christmas.

But there is a strangeness to moving frequently that challenges holiday traditions. One never knows what will be available from one country to the next and what local customs may or may not exist. We have to get creative. Also, in the Foreign Service most of us head to a new post over the summer, and as we are struggling to settle in to new schools, new jobs, new homes, new routines, the holidays of autumn arrive. One after another.

Prior to arriving in Lilongwe, C and I had already decided on her costume for Halloween. She would either be Wonder Woman or a genie / belly dancer; one was packed in our UAB (unaccompanied baggage), arriving not long we we did, the other was ordered in August to arrive many weeks before the big day. About a week before the holiday, the Embassy hosted a family-friendly snacks and happy hour with BYOP (Bring Your Own Pumpkin) for carving. As the day approached I wracked my brain for where I might buy a pumpkin. I vaguely recalled having seen something pumpkin-like at a supermarket. But which one, I did not remember. And, thinking back, the pumpkins had been white or green, but definitely not orange. I asked around. People were not sure. An orange pumpkin seemed a tall order. On the other hand, watermelons were in season and sold at regular spots alongside the road… Our first Halloween in Malawi also turned out to be my first time ever watermelon carving. It turned out almost every had the same idea. It also turned out that carving a watermelon is a little easier than carving a pumpkin, and the insides are more immediately consumable.

My “very confused holiday” trunk or treating decoration representing Halloween, Easter, Christmas, Birthdays, and Valentine’s.

The Embassy also arranged a little “trunk or treating” and party for the community. I have now learned that other posts do this, but it was my first experience with it. In Juarez there was trick or treating at the Consulate and in Shanghai residents of our apartment complex signed up with apartment management to give out candy. In Malawi, we all live in free standing houses and although none of us live more than 15 minutes drive from another, we are somewhat spread out. With trunk or treating, approximately 20 community members volunteered (me included!) to decorate the trunks of their vehicles. The cost of admission for each trick or treater was a bag of candy. Then bags of candy were distributed to each trunk decorator so there was plenty to go around. Trunk decorators parked at the party location and kids trick or treated from trunk to trunk. There was PLENTY of candy to go around, especially as kids could visit every vehicle in twenty minutes or less and then circle back around and do it all over again. I had a few visitors come by about ten times!

Halloween in Malawi this year had an extra wrinkle. Starting in September, rumors of supernatural “bloodsuckers” began in the southern part of the country. Over the course of approximately two months, the rumors spread, accompanied by vigilante justice to capture, and even kill, those suspected of either being bloodsuckers or their associates. While this may seem rather unbelievable–the rumors and the violent response–it was all too real and had a sobering effect on our work and celebrations. The international school cancelled the costume dress up day; the Embassy cancelled an evening party; and I kept my scarier decorations in a box at home and came up with something else.

Not my usual Thanksgiving tableau

For Thanksgiving C and I stayed in town. There is just the two of us and I am not really much of a cook. Certainly not Thanksgiving dinner kind of cooking. You know, a meal that involves more than two dishes. The Embassy Community Liaison Officer organized a event at a nearby lodge with a restaurant set by a pool and among gardens. There, in 80 degree weather, approximately 20 of us met up for swimming and lounging poolside and a custom-made dinner. The hotel staff did a pretty good job re-creating a traditional meal complete with turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, and corn on the cob. The corn unfortunately was too tough / too raw to eat, but everything else was quite good.

Then of course the Christmas season followed. Unlike other places I have lived overseas, Malawi went full on Christmas-mode. In late October I headed to the Shoprite supermarket at Gateway Mall for some grocery shopping. There the entrance was decorated in all its holiday splendor – a Christmas tree, gigantic tinsel arches, large dangling ornaments, and even a huge silver bow. Inside there were two aisles of plastic trees, tinsel, lights, tree topping stars, Santa and elf costumes, and loads of wrapping paper. Wrapping gifts would be no problem. Getting them is a little bit more work. In late October the Embassy mail room notified the Embassy community that in order to ensure delivery for Christmas orders would need to be received at the mail facility in Virginia by November 10! Impromptu gift shopping can be tricky for many of us overseas. Not even a chance to use Black Friday deals for Christmas gifts.

Gingerbread house in the subtropics

C and I headed back to the US in early December; I had training. The stores there too were chock full of Christmas. As usual the back corner of Target was as if Santa’s workshop had exploded. C wanted ALL the Christmas decorations. In particular, she wanted a three foot tall light-up lawn unicorn. I tried to explain that it would not fit in the suitcase. And that the plug and voltage would not work in Malawi. And finally, that in America people decorate their lawns for other people to see, but we had a high wall all the way around our house. C said that without that unicorn it would be the WORST Christmas EVER! But she also desperately wanted a gingerbread house, so I bought one. I put it in the suitcase, snug so that it would not get crushed, and transported it the two flights and 17 hours back to Lilongwe. Not a piece broken. C said it would be the BEST Christmas EVER!

We missed the Embassy Christmas parties, but returned in time for our own Christmas celebrations. We made the gingerbread house. We put up our tree and decorated it–C had insisted I trade in the small tree I bought in Shanghai for a larger one, so I had purchased a five foot fake in the US and brought in my household goods shipment. I hung up our stockings, with two new stocking holders just bought at Target — great for those who have no idea if they will have a fireplace or anything resembling one as they regularly shift around the world. And I began the my tradition of the weeks of gifts for C. We also prepared gift baskets for the staff. I know, I still feel weird saying–and writing–that I have staff. But it is a reality for many in the Foreign Service and there is no reason to pretend otherwise. I had initially not been sure what to include thinking I might get something special while back in the States. But I learned that what most people want are the staples – rice, sugar, salt, cooking oil, biscuits for tea – because Christmas in Malawi is about food and family. I really enjoyed buying the baskets and the contents and assembling them, though giving was most definitely the best part. Because I spend so much time overseas and even when back in the US my family has opted for the past several Christmases to do a gift exchange, it had been a long time since I had given gifts to so many people.

The Christmas baskets

Then we headed to Majete for Christmas. New Year’s was a quiet affair for us. We headed out again to Gateway Mall – the closest thing to come to a US-style mall in Lilongwe. C rode a motorized animal and we goofed off in the equivalent of the dollar store. At home we had ice cream and watched The Goonies. C, snuggled up against me on the couch, dozed off long before midnight — probably a good thing because when 2018 rolled around it sounded as if the neighborhood was under attack. I hugged her tight. Our holidays here, and our first five months, were different, but pretty okay.

January 6, 2018 by trs

Majete for Christmas

A pool with a view

Our Christmas was not your usual snowy yuletide affair. Though if I recall correctly, in the past twenty years I have spent only four in the U.S. and if given the choice I have a tendency to choose warmer climes over cold. Still, I do not remember a Christmas quite like this – hot and humid, yes, been there and done that, but absent the African animals.

I knew being the new colleague on the block would likely mean a shorter holiday. That I was prepared for. The requirement to stay within Malawi though threw me for a loop. Initially.

Hippo, waterbuck, and impala by the banks of the Shire

Then I realized this was a wonderful opportunity for C and I to spend some time exploring Malawi. I settled on Majete Wildlife Reserve located in Chikwawa District, in the far south-west of the country. Majete is a Malawian success story. Though established in 1955, by the 1990s the refuge had been poached to nearly nothing, with large game completely gone from the area and only a few hardy animals present, though at critically low populations. Things looked pretty bleak for the park until 1993 when African Parks, an international NGO focused on environmental conservation issues in Africa (they just appointed His Royal Highness Prince Harry as their President), working with the Government of Malawi, took over management and rehabilitation of the reserve. Today the reserve and its animals are thriving with more animals to be relocated to Majete in the next few years. It is currently the only place in Malawi where one can see the Big Five (elephant, cape buffalo, rhinoceros, lion, and leopard).

Baby yellow baboon

On Friday, December 22 C and boarded our flight from Lilongwe to Blantyre. The 40 minute flight, just twice as long as our 20 minute drive from home to the airport, was probably the shortest flight my daughter has ever taken, one of our closest getaways. C, who usually asks me how many planes we will take to our destination, was very amused that just about the time we reached our cruising altitude the pilot announced our impending landing.

At the airport we were met by a representative of Robin Pope Safaris—a big factor in visiting Majete was the opportunity to stay at their luxury lodge Mkulumadzi. We were driven the two hours from Blantyre to the reserve. We traveled through the city of Blantyre, then up into the hills, finally over a hill into Chikwawa with a breathtaking view of the valley below with the Shire (pronounced Sheer-ray) River snaking through it; then down into the valley, across the Shire, through the provincial Chikwawa capital, and to the park entrance.

The bridge to Mkulumadzi

From the reserve entrance to the lodge we spot kudu, waterbuck, impala, nyala, three elephants, several warthog and baboon. Then we arrived. Well, not really. We arrived at a parking lot. From there guests of the lodge cross a suspension bridge over the Mkulumadzi river. Once over we jump into a jeep for a short two minute ride to the lodge. This would become routine. Lodge to jeep, two minute ride, cross suspension bridge, board safari jeep. Return and do it all again in reverse.

At the lodge we are greeted curbside lodge management. A short walk down a path to the main building of the lodge and we are received with cold washcloths. C does not know what to do with it but I am grateful. The south of Malawi is warmer and our transport vehicle had no A/C. I was hot and sweaty. The kitchen prepared our lunch. We took a dip in the pool. At 3 PM the lodge served tea and at 4 PM we headed out on a game drive. C and I were the only guests the first day, which meant we had the game drive to ourselves. That was a very good thing as game drives are long. In Zambia, the four hour drives were not only long for C but also for me, especially the afternoon drives that went two hours after sunset. For our first Majete drive we were out only 2 1/2 hours but added hippopotami, crocodile, vervet monkeys, and dung beetles pushing a ball of dung across the road.

A friendly neighborhood bushbaby

Back at the lodge a bushbaby makes an appearance. She is apparently a regular, showing up a few nights a week for some peanut butter. I had never seen a bushbaby before, so this was a highlight. We have dinner. Afterwards it is 8 PM and time for bed. The morning drives begin at 6 AM. Because Malawi is so very, very dark at night, with so few lights. Because we are staying in a reserve with even less light and our chalet is separate from the main building, and we are in a nature reserve with wild animals, we must be escorted at night. Our guide has a flashlight but it barely penetrates the night, we can see only a few feet in front of us. But it is enough light for me to see the scorpion cross our path. Yikes!

Back in the chalet, the mosquito nets have been dropped around the bed and the tented wall lowered. Our chalet is lovely. It’s fancy and simple at the same time. A large room with the bed placed at the center. Sturdy walls on three sides, but the fourth is open to a deck that looks out to the Shire River. From there we actually observe hippos in the river and hear their bellowing throughout the day and night. We see both vervet monkey and baboons in the trees. A family of warthogs walks by the deck. In the bathroom the deep bathtub faces large windows; the shower too is open — though the only prying eyes that might see us are the animals. There is no A/C but instead a cooling unit. The whole vibe is relaxed and natural.

A view of our chalet

Except at night. It is all too natural and thus a little bit less relaxed. Large beetles buzz around bumping into furniture. Moths, some really quite large, fly around the room. And spiders. A daddy long legs sits by a basket in the room. He does not bother me so much. A two inch rain spider scurries across the floor towards me. There was definitely screaming involved. The spider makes no noise. After he is dispatched I find an inch long black one watching and waiting high above the sink as I brush my teeth. C and I can hardly wait to get inside the mosquito net and turn off the lights.

The following morning we are up early, but not too early. We are still the only guests and thus the game drive departs when we want to depart. We slept with the tent side down, but with only the netting and thus as soon as the sun rose the beautiful morning light filtered into the chalet as did the sounds of nature – the rushing of the rain-swollen river, the chatter of insects, lizards, monkeys and birds, and the honks and sighs of the hippos. As I stood out on the chalet deck a rustling in the underbrush revealed a family of six warthogs passing by.

C watches the warthog family from our deck

We headed out on the game drive at 7 AM instead of 6. Maybe our late start was a factor, but we saw few animals. The usual suspects – the impala, waterbuck, baboons, and warthogs – were out. We also had the opportunity to briefly see some sable and two eland, the latter the largest antelope. A massive male eland stood majestically in the middle of the road for a few long seconds before leaping into the brush, but I was not fast enough with my camera. Later, we came across a male elephant taking a mud bath. But C began to grow bored, demanding “new” animals. I wondered about this – is my child so well traveled that she is already bored by safaris? “Ugh, it’s just and elephant, mom,” she says, accompanied by an eye roll.

Back at the lodge we enjoy our second breakfast and then retire to the chalet. I read some while C plays with her toys. I lie down for a nap. C protests (she almost always seems affronted by the idea that mom might take a nap) but soon enough she is snoozing on the sofa. It is hot and humid but the breeze and the tiredness that comes from keeping an eye out for animals on a long drive lull us to a delicious sleep. We have a late lunch — its served when the guest wants anytime between noon and 2 — around 1:30. We are dining when the much anticipated family with two kids arrive. As soon as C had heard of their arrival the day before she had been eagerly looking forward to meeting them. They did not disappoint.

Shire river bend and lush rainy season foliage

A note here. The lodge is really quite the get away. It turned out they had no television, no wifi, no telephone signals. I suspected there would be no television, but the lack of wifi was a bit of a surprise. When our on game drives the adults are not only looking for the rare animals but with phones in hand are trying to catch the elusive wifi signal. Here we were already the second day, with two and a half days still stretching ahead of us, and I wondered how we would survive. Well I had brought my Kindle and my journal. For C I had two books, presents from her grandparents she opened our first day, and she also brought her new Lion Guard set of characters. Also, game driving can be tiring. There was a pool. And the lodge also had a number of board games, a few toys, and paper and colored pencils. Still, I thought I might I have booked one day/night combo too many.

Mom and baby impala

The family, two sisters with two children aged 4 and 9 (C is almost 6), joined us for the afternoon drive. Again, a good combination as we could (and did) decide to head back a bit earlier as the kids flagged in energy and enthusiasm. C was thrilled to have other children along. We saw only one new animal, the bushbuck, but otherwise the same cast of characters: impala, nyala, waterbuck, warthogs, baboons, and hippos. Though almost all of them had babies in tow as it is early summer. Yet, I am somewhat embarrassed to admit, I too was growing tired of not spotting new animals. But the weather was good, the skies, blue, the air fresh, and we were in a national park in Africa. Not too shabby.

Our third day, another game drive. Another two minute ride in the jeep. Another walk across the suspension bridge. We drive for long intervals, sometimes for as much as 20 minutes, without seeing a single animal. But we stop for a morning tea break at a viewpoint overlooking a bend in the Shire, the longest river in Malawi. It’s 402 kilometers long from Lake Malawi until it flows into the Zambezi. The greenery and blue tinged hills in the distance set off the brown fast flowing river gorged with rain; it’s beautiful.

It is Christmas Eve and we are slated for a river safari in the afternoon, but instead it pours rain heavily for hours. We nap again and it is refreshing. That day I do not mind. But Christmas Day is the same: a game drive in the morning with few animals and an afternoon downpour that scuttles the planned river safari. I have a harder time shaking it off on Christmas. Though I am not used to Christmases with friends and family, we are away from home, disconnected, and I feel a sense of melancholy. But the lodge puts together a lovely Christmas buffet lunch and includes small gifts for the kids. C happily draws pictures and plays. In late afternoon, as I return from fetching something from the chalet, the rains having finally moved on, I look up to see an incredibly beautiful late afternoon light in the sky and a rainbow. I am restored.

Elephants along the Shire

On our final morning we do manage at last to take the river safari. The river is high and swift. We see some fishing birds along the shore hunting, hippos lying low and dangerous in the water, and a family of elephants enjoying a gathering on the banks. We see the Kapichira hydropower station. It was here, at Kapichira Falls, where Dr. David Livingstone’s 1859 expedition halted, being unable to continue further up the Shire. And now there is the hydropower station, which is significant for Malawi as the country generates at least 90% of its electricity from hydropower.

Back at the lodge we have lunch and then it is time to begin the two hour drive back to Blantyre and the flight to Lilongwe. Despite the day before wanting desperately to be home, I feel now a little tug to stay. It was a great getaway for C and I; I hope one she will remember well.

December 16, 2017 by trs

Golden Triangle Travel 2002-2003 Part Seven: Final Days–A Buddha in Spectacles and a Golden Rock

JJ and I took the bus to Pyay to break up our journey to Rangoon. The bus was scheduled to arrive at 1 AM, but schedules in Burma mean nothing. We arrived at 2:30 AM instead. We were the only people to get out of the bus, i.e. the only people insane enough to arrive somewhere in Burma r at 2:30 AM. We were immediately set on like a pack of wolves by a group of late night trishaw drivers who wanted to compete for our business.

Although the trishaw drivers were plenty, the available rooms in town were not. We were taken to guesthouse after guesthouse, but each one was full. Though initially fun to speed around a never-before-visited Burmese town in a trishaw in the middle of the night, after an hour I began to lose some of my joie de vivre. Two proprietresses sitting out front sadly informed us they too were full. Then the two women talked amongst themselves and offered me a cot in in the lobby. I took the cot and JJ headed back to the first guesthouse where there had been only one bed. Around 7:30 AM one of the women woke me up and told me I could move to a room. I groggily gathered my things, moved to the room, and fell back to sleep. Unfortunately, not for long. A local Buddhist group was doing a donation drive; their loudspeaker droned directly across the roundabout and from that time onwards I heard only the sounds of garbled pleas for money interspersed with scratchy Buddhist music. It was awful. I nearly lost my mind! At 9 AM I got up with very little sleep to my credit.

At breakfast I met two other female travelers planning a share taxi tour of Pyay. JJ arrived from his guesthouse and we all made plans to sightsee together. We first went to see the Buddha with spectacles, reportedly the only of its kind. At the site a guide told us this story: Once upon a time there was a ruler of ancient Burma who had the gift of second sight. He could tell the future and help people by doing this. One day he lost his gift and did not know what to do. Some monks meditated on his problem and told him the solution would be to donate a pair of spectacles to the local Buddha statue. Thus, a huge pair of eyeglasses were fashioned for the Buddha. Once placed before the Buddha’s eyes, the king’s gift returned. After some time, his wife had difficulty with her vision so an extra pair of spectacles were made and placed in the Buddha’s hand. Afterwards the queen’s eyesight too was restored.

We visited two more stupas, some of the oldest in Burma, but my lack of sleep adversely affected my interest. Perhaps I was a wee bit “stupa-d” out. There are only so many stupas one can see in a short span of time and retain one’s enthusiasm. Afterwards, then suffering from a pounding headache, I had the taxi drop me near the hotel so I could walk back to the guesthouse while the others continued on to yet another stupa. Along the way saw numerous sidewalk plaques prescribing how people should behave in certain filial situations. Here are two that even in my exhausted headache-y stupor I found amusing:

Duties of a Wife to Her Husband

To perform her duties in perfect order
To protect his possessions
Not to be unfaithful
To be hospitable to the people of the neighborhood
To be industrious and not be lazy in discharging her duties

Duties of a Husband to His Wife

By courtesy
By handing over due authority to her
By faithfulness
By providing her with ornaments
By not despising her

Woman cigar roller in Bago

I was unable to sleep the rest of the day though as the madman and his megaphone continued. At 10 PM I headed to the bus station. Though JJ and I parted ways here in Pyay, our adventures in Mandalay, Bagan, and Pyay were only the beginning of a friendship. My next destination would be Bago, but without a direct bus from Pyay I had to change buses in Rangoon. Surprisingly, the bus not only left Pyay on time, but also arrived in Rangoon early. Unfortunately, it was 3:30 in the morning. The taxi drivers all tried to convince me that there were no buses to Bago I was surprised the bus left just about on time, and even more amazing is that it arrived EARLY in Yangon, at 3:30 am! It was a challenge arriving at an unknown bus station in the middle of the night. There were others around, but few women. The taxi drivers told me there were no buses to Bago. I had to pee badly but the toilet was locked tight, so I had to sneak off to relieve myself in a dark alley. And a ticket seller ripped me off for the price, pocketing the extra 200 kyat right in front of me as he and his friends laughed. It was a long 2 ½ hours waiting for the bus.

I slept hugging my backpack, but still arrived tired in Bago. After a nap, I hired Mani, a nice Indian trishaw driver with a cheerful disposition and good English. He was very good because he kept me from paying the overpriced foreign tourist fee to the sights. He took me to back entrances, told me the tricks, and I had a good time. I visited two pagodas and a sleeping Buddha statue, and a cigar factory. I liked the cigar factory best. In a house along the main road is a family owned and operated cigar factory. This was not the traditional Burmese cheroot cigar wrapped in green leaves, but an honest to goodness cigar. The women were doing all the work. In the front room men sat playing Playstation, talking, laughing, and smoking, while in the back room the women sat amongst the dried leaves and rolled the cigars, eight hours a day, seven days a week. I chatted with them with Mani as my translator; they were very friendly and cheerful, despite the work.

Mani and I

My plan had to continue on the next day but I was feeling worse. Mani helped me get some medicine and given I had only a few weeks before recovered from the mumps, I made the decision to take a rest day. From Bago I took the four-hour bus ride to Kyaiktiyo. Kyaiktiyo is one of the three most holy Buddhist sites in Burma along with Shwedagon and Mahamuni in Mandalay. The Kyaiktiyo stupa is small, only 24 feet high, but perched on top of a rock covered in gold leaf, balanced precariously on the edge of a cliff on a high hill. It had only recently been opened to foreign tourists.

I met Chris, a Belgian-Filipino, at a restaurant in Kyaiktiyo town. We had met two days before in Bago; he had snapped the picture of Mani and I. We had lunch together and then made plans to head to the Golden Rock. We waited a full 30 minutes for the truck to the stupa to fill. The truck resembled a dump truck with benches in the back, but by the time it took off it was jammed full with some 50 people. The drive was like a roller coaster. The driver seemed to love fast driving. We would fly over a small hill and then swoop down, and all of us in the back would be temporarily. It was certainly a thrilling 30 minute ride. By the time we reached the parking lot it was after 4 PM. There was a 40-minute climb ahead of us. We would have to haul ass up the hill, see the Golden Rock, snap a few pictures, then hightail it back down to meet the last truck back to town at 6 PM.

I had been feeling unwell since Bagan and the climb was steep. My legs were okay, but I was sweating like a stuck pig, my mouth gaping open and closed like a fish out of water, and my heart was pounding. Four palanquin carriers spotted me — I must have looked like their favorite victim. They hurried over with their stretcher-like chair and began walking alongside me. As I huffed and puffed my way up the road, one of them whispered to me “Ah, so hard, so very, very far. $4” and pointed to the palanquin. I managed to decline between gulps of air. They walked in step with me. After another twist in the road, they started again. “Oh, long, long, long way. Very hard. You are very tired, $3.” I was sure I was moments from collapse, but I was not going to give in. No, I said and continued to trudge up the hill in slow motion. After a few more turns they tried once more. “Oh, you so tired. So hard, so long way. Much higher, much further, $2.” I could not take it anymore, agreed, and threw myself on the palanquin. As they lifted it up they proclaimed “Oh so heavy!” I shot them a dirty look. They carried me up a short way and complained that they needed to rest. They stopped a few minutes later and asked me to buy them drinks. I refused. They carried me 5-10 minutes more and told me it was the end of the line. What?! I was just minutes from redemption, from making it on my own, and now I had to pay these clowns? Then they tried to ask for $2 EACH. I handed over 500 kyat (50 cents) to each carrier and walked away.

Fifteen minutes later we were at the rock and had a glorious view of green covered hills and the river beyond. There is much more up there than just the golden rock–many smaller shrines, statues of Buddha, figures of Nats, and the like. I wanted to touch the rock but unfortunately it turned out women are not allowed, and guards were posted at the staircase to the rock to keep women out. This did not sit well with me.

As close as I could get to touching the Golden Rock

Once again transport became an issue – I find it somewhat incredible as I near the end of retelling my story from all these years ago how much the transport – the buses, boats (missed and taken), trishaws, palanquin, etcetera – are more central to this trip than the temples and historic buildings and other sites. It really is more about the journey than the destination. The return from the Golden Rock to Kyaiktiyo town involved trickery and a standoff. We chanced staying at the top for sunset knowing the final truck back left at 6 PM. In full sight of the waiting truck we grabbed a snack but it left without us and we then had to negotiate a return with whatever transport remained. There was some hard bargaining and threats (to us, not to them) but we finally agreed on four FECs. But it was not over as the drivers – because of course it was a group and not an individual – tried to get the money several times on the way back but we held our ground until they returned us to our guesthouses. Exhausted I said farewell to Chris and went to sleep. The next day a six-hour bus ride returned me to Rangoon, where I spent one more night at the Mahabadoola Guesthouse before returning to Singapore.

My seven-week journey to Northern Thailand, Laos, and Burma was at an end. I had survived the mumps and a stomach bug, a two-day slow boat down the Mekong, and many, many long bus rides of varying quality. Yes, it was very trying at times and difficult to be out of touch for so many weeks (at the time Burma had no Internet), but I saw some extraordinary places and met some interesting people. All in all, it was an amazing adventure. Looking back now, fifteen years later, I do wonder at the woman who took off on this journey. After contracting the mumps, she did not throw in the towel but kept on traveling and she did the trip on her own. She really had some chutzpah.

December 15, 2017 by trs

Golden Triangle Travel 2002-2003 Part Six: Bicycles in Bagan

My cheap backpacker self liked the idea of an overnight bus because I could make some distance and save on accommodation. Unfortunately, as my sojourn in Burma continued the quality of the buses declined as did the quality of my sleep. I arrived in Bagan, one of Southeast Asia’s great historic cities, yet my primary motivation was to take a nap. To fight my desire for sleep I went in search of a bicycle for rent.

: Balloons over Bagan

I rode off jerkily. Oh, it was slow going. It had been ages since I had been on a bicycle. Old Burmese men smoking cigarettes cycled speedily past me. Yet after just a few minutes I began to happily enjoy the ride. Over a small crest the first of the Bagan temples came into sight and it was breathtaking. I went down a side road toward the temple. The day was lovely and the sun was high, and against the blue sky the hundreds of brick temples stood out in the dry yellow grass fields. At the first temple I bought a painting for myself. Most of the paintings were copies of carvings in the temples or other Buddhist texts, but the one I bought was in the artist’s words “from his own mind.” Let’s just say, I liked the way he thought.

Bagan Temple Painting

I met one of the Korean students from the cargo bus – he and his friends are students at a Pusan language university studying Burmese. He invited me to join them riding and sightseeing. We rode and visited a few temples together until my lack of sleep catching up with me. I went into a tourist office to ask for some information, though the men had no idea how to answer my question, they invited me to sit down and have tea with them. We talked for a while and then I began to ride back Nyang Oo, where I was staying. The cooling breeze, the mid-afternoon sun and the lovely ride invigorated me so decided to ride down to the ferry point and find out about the ferry to Pyay. Since I had missed the opportunity to take the boat from Mandalay, I thought I could then take the boat down river to Pyay. I learned the boat left in two days’ time but the journey would take three days, which sounded rather long. I would need to buy food, but also a blanket. I was starting to feel a bit under the weather, and worried about the chill sleeping on the deck. Yet it was December 30 and my intel told me there were no buses south from Bagan until January 6. I went home to sleep on it.

I did not sleep well–and thus the decision was made, I would leave Bagan by bus. The night had been cold and though I had a blanket and wore a lot of clothes, it was not enough. I had a lie in then spent half the day exploring Bagan on bicycle. Many of the temples in Bagan cannot be climbed for preservation efforts, but I could climb the largest. Towards the east there is a lovely view of the river, and to the west a stunning view of the plains filled with other temples, large and small. I sat there for some time. I ran into JJ, my friend from Mandalay. We sat and talked for a while, then watched three hot air balloons float over the ancient city of Bagan.

It was New Year’s Eve. JJ and I had dinner and watched a Burmese traditional marionette show. The puppets are wonderfully crafted and the puppeteer incredibly manipulates the marionettes to appear lifelike. After dinner and the show, I returned to guesthouse and went to sleep. I figured it was midnight somewhere in the world.

The following day I sat out on the bench in front of the hotel waiting for JJ. I was writing in my journal and watching life go by on the street. There was a race with most of the runners barefoot. Then nuns came to collect alms. I had seen a nun here and there in Burma, but not more than one or two at a time. There are many, many monks, but not as many nuns. This time there were perhaps 20 walking single file. I thought of the differences I had seen between the young monks and young nuns. The nuns wear pink or orange robes, and shave their heads, but I am told mostly orphan girls become nuns. Monks on the other hand are not without families. Families receive lots of merit if their son becomes a novice monk, even if he does it for just a month or two during the school holidays. I saw monks receiving alms on many occasions and often it was hot, cooked food. Yet the nuns were receiving uncooked rice.

I spent a day just relaxing with medicine and a book. Then another day JJ and I arranged a share taxi with two Japanese to visit Mount Popa, about 90 minutes from Bagan. Mount Popa is something akin to the Mount Olympus of Burma, the supposed home of the country’s nats, the Burmese animist spirits. Mount Popa reminded me of the monasteries perched on huge limestone rocks in northern Greece. From afar the temple on Mount Popa seemed inaccessible; the rock stands out from the plains. To climb one has to remove their shoes and walk up 777 steps. Once up there I found the temple to be a bit ordinary, not what I would expect of the abode of gods, but the view was quite nice. It was terribly windy at the top and my ears turned red and my hair blew about me like mad. I stayed up there only about 30 minutes, though it turned out I was the last of our group to descend.

: Young nuns asking for alms

On the last half day in Bagan, JJ and I hired a horse cart to take us to some of the less accessible ruins. Off we went to see the ruins. In my opinion these were the most impressive in Bagan. Maybe because there were fewer tourists and they were off the beaten track, but the carvings on the outside and paintings on the inside of these stupas were more intact than in the others I had seen. They were also on a slight hill which gave a fabulous view of all the temples large and small down to the river. There was even part of what was a city wall intact along the road, which I had not expected at all. The last temple we visited was quite large and unlike any of the others as it had been renovated and the grounds landscaped. It also had a large gold stupa on the top. It afforded wonderful views of the surrounding temples as well.

There I am in one of the most historical and cultural sites of Burma and Southeast Asia. Yet, have only vague memories of the temples and atmosphere. I know I loved my time in Bagan; riding a bicycle down dusty, dirt pathways, seeing stupas rising out of the plain; hot air balloons picturesquely floating across the sky. I spent a lot of time thinking, sometimes sitting among the temples, other times in the guesthouse or in restaurants. But my diary focused on the upcoming new year; my email stories focused on the tedious, though often hilarious (in retrospect) hiccups of traveling – such as the struggles to get a decent shower, a decent night sleep, or to change money.

Mount Popa

Before setting off on our final Bagan adventure, JJ wanted to exchange traveler’s checks. He was down to only enough money to pay the driver of our horse cart, but without money to pay his hotel bill. There is only one bank in Bagan. We asked the driver to stop on the way to the ruins, but the driver informed us the bank was closed because of the holiday. Therefore, after the ruins we planned to head to the city of New Bagan, in hopes they would have an open bank. In New Bagan we tried first with the employees at an airline office, who offered us no help. Then to a tourist information center, who reluctantly agree, but at 20% commission. We found another exchange shop, but they too were closed. A man at the shop next door said his brother-in-law might exchange the check. The first man closed up his shop and joined us in the horse cart to direct the driver to his brother-in-law’s shop. Ten minutes later we arrive and observe a negotiation in Burmese. The end result though is that they will exchange with only a “small commission” of 25%. Back at JJ’s guesthouse he tells the manager he cannot pay the bill because the bank is closed. She says, of course it is open, but only until 2 PM. The clock reads 1:45 PM (our bus to Pyay is to pick us up at 3 PM). The manager tells JJ her friend will drive us to the bank– we drive like maniacs through the crowded streets, horn blowing, to the bank. But it IS closed. The driver parks anyway and honks the horn. Turns out the bank manager lives in the house behind the bank. He comes out and there is much discussion, but the manager refuses the change the traveler’s checks. JJ is still without money. But there is still a happy ending to the story. A friend of JJ’s guesthouse manager is a long-distance taxi driver from Rangoon. He agrees to loan JJ 75 FECs to pay his hotel bill and other expenses until he arrives in Rangoon. The taxi driver hangs on to the unsigned traveler checks. JJ will meet him in Rangoon, exchange the checks, and pay the man back. Only in Burma.

December 12, 2017 by trs

Golden Triangle Travel 2002-2003 Part Five: Ancient Cities and Moustaches

My second day in Mandalay started off a little wobbly with an unfortunate deal with some other travelers. Backpackers can be collegial or cutthroat and unfortunately this couple I met fell somewhat in the latter camp. They approached me in the guesthouse lobby with an opportunity to join them for a day of sightseeing of Ancient Cities and gave me a few minutes to decide. I made a snap decision to do so. Despite how things turned out with them, I did end up meeting another traveler as a result, who I remain in contact with to this day.

Monk looks across the Irrawaddy from Mingun

I agreed to accompany an Austrian couple to the four ancient cities around Mandalay. At first I thought I misunderstood, four in one day, but that was their intention. They had already hired a car and driver for the day for $10 and clearly wanted to defray the costs. Once our car arrived at a boat landing point ten minutes away though, I saw the flaw in their plan. To visit Mingun, the first city, one needed to take a boat and arrive at the boat landing 30 minutes before the 9 AM departure. Thus they had hired a driver to drive them 10 minutes and then wait for them for about 5 hours. I tried to strike up a conversation with them but they only seemed interested in talking with each other. They did not speak to me the 30-minute boat ride. Once at Mingun they took off.

I actually made an effort to find that Austrian couple again. I went back early to the boat landing, lunching at a restaurant with a view of the road. Then I stopped at a café at the boat landing, again with a view. That is where I met JJ, we struck up a conversation. Back to Mandalay on the boat and I waited again for the couple on the other side. Never saw them. I gave up. More than half the day was over and they had planned to visit three more ancient cities; I admit I did not really want to find them. Later that evening they actually cornered me at the guesthouse and claimed they saw me get into the “wrong” boat and demanded I pay them the extra dollar the driver charged them for me. I handed it over and was grateful I dodged spending the day with them.

The Moustache Brothers

That evening I went to see the Moustache brothers – Par Par Lay, Lu Maw and Lu Zaw. They are a famous comedy troupe; two of the three brothers (one actually a cousin) were jailed due to a political joke at an Aung San Suu Kyi rally. One received a sentence of five years, the other two years. Because of this danger of being jailed, the comedy and dance routines are now done strictly with family members. I arrived early and could talk with the brothers, get their autographs, and take their pictures. Par Par Lay, the main comedian, asked an Australian couple for the correct term for being watched by security men and they told him “under surveillance.” Throughout the whole show he kept saying “…Because the Moustache Brothers are under surveillance” in a false whisper. Most of the routine was a one-man monologue about the problems in Burma couched in comedic terms and alternated with dance and Burmese traditional costume modeling by his wife and sister. He noted security forces watched the house and joked his father was outside ready to make the agreed upon signal if those forces closed in. He talked about the conditions of the roads (“See how nice the roads are after a government official comes to visit.” Or “Notice the road in front of our house is in such bad repair compared to the ones nearby”), about price changes (last year the price of a kilo of rice was 1000 kyat, now it is 3000 kyat), about the vagaries of Burmese currency (he handed out now worthless 75 kyat notes), and so on.

Burmese calendars on Mandalay roadside

It was a good show and one of the most enlightening and memorable activities of my visit to Burma. Naturally much of my three weeks was shaped by the tourist lens. On only a few occasions did I have glimpses of a dark side – at least once, in the early morning hours as a bus slowed through a construction area, I saw small children carrying large rocks, what appeared to be manual child labor. Seeing the Moustache Brothers – though also aimed at tourists as it would be too dangerous for locals – gave the trip greater context. Linking my socio-historical background with current events. Years later when I read of the death of Par Par Lay I was easily transported back to the one night I had an opportunity to meet him.

On the way back from the Moustache Brothers I came upon a performance of traditional Pwe theater. It was amazing how many people sat and stood around to watch this. I remember reading about how when the British colonized Burma, they thought the Burmese people were lazy because they spent much of their extra money on merit earning (building small shrines, donations to temples and the like) and spent time watching these Pwe performances. I am glad the Burmese are such resilient people to have withstood years of colonial rule and the current government.

Nat shrine at trishaw driver’s home

I had planned to travel from Mandalay to Bagan on the Irrawaddy River boat – true Road to Mandalay (in reverse) but because of the holidays the boat was full. Instead I would take the night bus, saving on accommodation and a day’s travel. Thus, I had another day in Mandalay. My trishaw driver invited me over to his house for a midday meal. His mother and sister were very gracious, and many of the neighborhood children came over the stare and laugh with (at?) the strange foreigner. After lunch, my trishaw driver I went in search of a bus to take me to Ava and Amarapura, two of ancient cities. The bus turned out to be a wild goose chase, either it did not exist or I was not meant to find it. So, I rented the taxi of a friend of the trishaw driver, and together we set off to see these towns.

I did not care so much for Ava. The ruins were not as impressive as the ones at Inle and seeing them involved a fair amount of extra work. I had to pay for a ferry boat to take us across the river, and then rent a horse and cart to take us around. The cart ride was nice enough and I would have preferred to have just stayed in the cart then to get out at each stop. The aggressive souvenir selling, with children running full speed behind the horse carts, was tiring and ultimately depressing. But at Amarapura things were better again. There was a monastery, but also a beautiful teak bridge – the longest and oldest such bridge in the world. I regret I did not have more time there; the Moustache Brothers and Amarapura were the best parts about Mandalay.

Sunset from the Amarapura teak bridge

I returned to Mandalay to pick up my backpack and catch the 9 pm cargo bus to Bagan. Once again, the departure time came and went, and still they were loading cargo. The space under every seat and the entire aisle was filled with cargo. This worked in my favor because I could place my head on the tarp covered rice bags and sleep. A group of Korean students sitting in the back of the bus did not fare so well—next to them a broken window blew in cold air all night and the sacks loaded in the back were full of garlic. I slept fairly well though the ride was not without incident. I woke up when our tire blew out, then again when we stopped for the bus personnel to look at the tire, and again when we stopped at an open-all-night roadside mechanic. We were to arrive at Bagan at 5 am. By 7:30 we were still cruising along the road without any indication of how much further we had to go. We then began to pick up more passengers. Anyone who flagged down the bus was welcome. When we started in Mandalay there were about 25 passengers, lots of empty seats. By the time we pulled into Bagan at 9, four hours late, every seat and every space available on top of the cargo-lined aisle was filled. I was glad to arrive in Bagan and settle in to the Lucky Seven Guesthouse for a nap.

December 7, 2017 by trs

Golden Triangle Travel 2002-2003 Part Four: Leg Rowers and the Road to Mandalay

Fisherman on Lake Inle

There is something to be said about endurance and learning what you can really put up with. In Laos I spent 6-7 hours sitting on a wooden plank in a cramped boat for two days and 6-9 hours on some long, uncomfortable bus rides. Burma would take it to a new and different level. On 23 December (2002) I took a bus from Rangoon to Taunggi, near Lake Inle. The bus was to leave at noon and take 18 hours. We only departed 45 minutes late but arrived the next day 23 hours after departure. To tell the truth it wasn’t all that bad. It wasn’t Laos-bus-journey-bad. First, this was a super plush deluxe coach bus. We had reclining seat!. Second, the other passengers seemed more used to travel, no need for all the sickness bags. Third, the music. Burmese music is rather pleasant. Probably because most of the hits played were actually Western songs with Burmese lyrics!! The first time I heard a few bars of a well-known English song, I opened my mouth to sing quietly along, only to hear Burmese instead. I heard pirated songs of Celine Dion, Craig David, The Coors, Shania Twain, The Eagles, Marc Antony, and more. I could not sing along, but I could hum along, and it made the trip easier somehow. Fourth, they also played movies; two in Burmese and two in English! I was really surprised about the English movies yet happy to watch them, though we were not cinematic masterpieces (one was about a dog from outer space). Still, many hours after the scheduled arrival time, I started to worry I had missed my stop. It would not be the first time. Luckily, at a rest stop an English-speaking fellow passenger told me I had one stop to go. Finally, I was dropped at the intersection to Lake Inle where I caught a taxi on to Nyaung Shwe.

Let me be clear: I am not a foodie. I have lived overseas the majority of my adult life and traveled to over approximately 100 countries. I have come a long way in the food department from my childhood, but I am still not an adventurous eater. Thus finding good Western food in unexpected places is a pleasure, particularly when on the road for longer periods. I spent the first day only exploring Nyaung Shwe, recuperating from the bus ride. I check into my guesthouse – a bargain at $3 a night because the in-room bathroom did not work. To take a shower I only had to walk down the hall, into the courtyard, up a flight a stairs, and down another corridor. In my towel. Magical. The guesthouse also had a restaurant with items like pasta, pizza, and hamburgers on the menu. I am impressed. Till I tried to order. I point to the burger, but the man informs me they do not actually have that. I point to the pizza. Sorry, he says, do not have. He tells me, “no price, no available.” I then notice that everything on the menu has no price except for omelets. I go next door where unbelievably there is a small restaurant with freshly made pasta – made by a Burmese taught by an Italian chef from Bologna.

My leg rowing guide on the canal

On my second day I spend the morning chatting with fellow travelers and am rewarded with a not-yet-expired Inle Lake Tourism (i.e. foreigners) Region Entrance Fee Ticket. It saves me US$3, which is a night’s hotel. In the afternoon, I arranged for a canal tour. It was a wonderful trip on the most beautiful day. The sky was blue and the water is so incredibly clear that one could look down and see the thick grass and water lilies just below the surface. Due to this thick grass Inle Lake is famous for its leg rowers. In order to navigate around especially thick clumps of submerged grass, the rower benefits from standing, and uses his legs to continue rowing from a standing position. I have the most wonderful picture of my very photogenic rower standing on the back of the canoe, with a gorgeous blue sky complete with perfect cottony white clouds in the sky and reflected in the water. All the houses are built on stilts and are also beautifully reflected in the water in a near perfect mirror image.

A Singaporean traveler and I rent a boat on my third day to travel to the village in the middle of the lake. From Nyaung Shwe the journey took thirty minutes–leg rowers, fishermen, and grass collectors along the way. We first visit a weaving center and then head to the ruins at Indein. There were so many small wiry stupas here seemingly forgotten by time, and the government. There were few tourists. In fact there were many more souvenir sellers than souvenir buyers. Several of the carvings were quite intact and reminded me of those at Angkor Wat, the shapely Apsaras dancing next to entrances to the temples.

In the center of the lake there was also a floating market (otherwise known as the floating tourist trap – one can’t just walk away, especially when the souvenir sellers surround your boat), a floating garden and a Buddhist Temple. The most amusing place by far was the Temple of the Jumping Cats. This is not the actual name of course, but it has become known by this for the monks have trained the stray cats at the temple to jump through hoops!!! Neither the monks nor the cats seem to particularly like or dislike this. Visitors arrive and see a couple of monks lounging lazily in chairs and beneath them their protégés, the talented cats snoozing away. After enough people arrive, a monk reluctantly gets up and claps his hands and says “okay” unenthusiastically. He grabs a bag of dried fish, throws it on the floor and then prods a few cats awake. For those cats not willing to get up, he snatches them up and drops them in the center of the visitors and the dried fish. Then he pulls out a hoop and one by one grabs a cat and places him on the floor, then prods it. The cat looks up at the hoop, wiggles its behind and effortlessly leaps through the hoop and then slowly crawls back towards some dried fish. After most of the cats had performed this feat, the monk just says it is over and goes back to his deck chair. What an unusual monastery- but given the number of tourists who handed over money to see this spectacular stage show, they are also really smart.

Cats jump through hoops to entertain

By 7:30 PM that night I was again on a bus, taking the Road to Mandalay. Although shorter, this ride was not as pleasant as the last. The seats were closer together and my knees we rammed up against the seat in front of me. A chilly draft keeping me from being warm; there was a terribly-acted Hong Kong film on the screen. The trip took 11 hours to reach Mandalay, though it was supposed to take eight. We arrived early in the morning; the bus station was full of novice monks asking for alms. As I realized that they wanted to collect their meals for the day I started to unload the extra food I had (Tin Tun had provided me too much): pears, plums, cashew nuts and pumpkin seeds. Another American gave one lucky novice a can of sardines and he scampered away extremely happy.

A long tuk-tuk ride into town brought me to another guesthouse, another $3 room. This was a room just for me. With a bathroom, with working water—even hot water for showers! It also had a tv, with one channel that came in maybe once a day, and included a wonderful breakfast of watermelon, pineapple, toast, jam, tea or coffee, and a cooked-to-order egg. Despite these spenders, the overnight bus has been less restful than I had hoped. Before lying down to nap I went to ask the front desk something. Once downstairs I noticed that my key ring did not have a key. It must have fallen off. A group of boys, I guess hotel assistants, went up to my room with a bag of keys, none of which was labelled, and tried one after another after another on my room. Half an hour later they were still working from the pile of keys on the floor…

Temple in Mandalay

It is perhaps little surprise that this beginning did not bode well for a first day in Mandalay. I needed to buy film (it was 2002 after all) and also needed to change money. The hotel and nearby hotels were either offering terrible rates or not changing money at all. Not surprisingly of course a helpful individual presented himself and led me to an Air Mandalay office with a decent exchange rate. He turned out to have a trishaw and a handsome 24-year-old son, named Gypsy, who would be perfect to take me around sightseeing. Gypsy showed up on time at the hotel three hours later to cycle me to several temples and Mandalay Hill. I purchased a combination Mandalay visit ticket, which for $10 would grant me entry to the main sites of Mandalay and the ancient cities of Ava and Amarapura. Mandalay should have been magical. A temple with elaborate wood carvings on all the doors and walls impressed me enough to write about, but I mention little to nothing else of the gleaming white and gold palace and temples and the famous Mandalay Hill. All these years later and I have no recollection of walking up those 1700 steps, though I know I climbed all the way to the top. I wrote it took me 45 minutes. Plus, I have pictures! What stands out in my memory of that first day in Mandalay are two things: the first is that after visiting one of the temples I came across a young woman or women outside the gate. Like many women in Burma, their faces were painted with a yellow paste, a traditional kind of sunscreen called Thanaka, made of ground bark. Yet, unlike other women, who wiped it across their faces in swathes that made it look like they had run into a yellow paint brush, these women had painted designs. They offered to make one on my very pale skinned face, and I agreed. For a few minutes I was not sightseeing or traveling at my hectic pace. I was just sitting still as a giggling young woman painted a leaf on my cheek. The second is while at dinner that evening in a European style restaurant, I sat next to a table of US diplomats. I do not remember the conversation, but I do recall thinking I might like to be a diplomat too. And well now, incredibly, I am.

At the end of the evening, when Gypsy dropped me off at the restaurant after several hours of serving as my guide and transport, he professed his love for me. He was not the first trishaw/taxi/tuk-tuk/bemo driver / tour guide / hot air balloon pilot to make such a declaration. Surprisingly, perhaps, I doubted his sincerity, but let him off gently. And made the decision to find another guide the following day…

December 3, 2017 by trs

Golden Triangle Travel 2002-2003 Part Three: Rangoon Days

After crossing the Friendship Bridge between Laos and Thailand, I returned to Bangkok by train. I applied for my visa for Burma – opting to apply myself at the Embassy instead of using the usual Khao San Road travel agents. I took a brief detour from the Golden Triangle to travel to Brunei for two days. Yes, Brunei. And it was my second trip to the small country. Suffice to say one of my graduate topics was Southeast Asian Maritime Piracy and I was there for research purposes. Then back to Bangkok for an evening before flying to Burma the following day. I had dreamed of visiting Burma since 1994, when I had watched a movie about the events of 1989. I had an evening flight, something I generally try to avoid; however, in this particular case it turned out to be lucky. Strangely, I remember almost nothing of my time in Rangoon, a name that evokes something akin to romantic colonialism. (Though I know very well colonialism is not romantic. My title is a take on George Orwell’s Burmese Days) I remember walking a long way through the older, colonial part of town looking for something, but I do not remember what it was or if I found it. Most likely it was the Strand Hotel, as it used to be one of the most famous and luxurious hotels of Colonial Southeast Asia. I recall the tea house from the first evening, the low lighting, the smoky air. I remember drinking Star Cola, Burma’s answer to Coca Cola as the US brand had not been sold in the country for years (in 2012 Coca Cola returned to Burma after half a century away). I can vaguely conjure up the second-floor entrance to my very cheap guesthouse. And standing in the grocery store while my Burmese seat-companion-turned-benefactor gleefully helped me shop. And even those memories are just fragments.

Wearing my backpacker best at Sule Paya

On my flight I sat next to Tin Tun, a Burmese living in Singapore, working in Algeria, heading home to Rangoon for a week. We talked half the flight. Tin Tun and his family are expatriates who have made their lives outside their homeland. He has lived in Singapore for 15 years, his sister is a doctor in Brunei, his brother-in-law a bank advisor in Manila, nieces in New York. He told me a brother-in-law, who was picking him up at the airport, might take me to the guesthouse of my choice. His brother in-law drove me first to Tin Tun’s home, a lovely lakeside house on the outskirts of Rangoon, where he plans to retire. Tin Tun had brought gifts from Algeria for his family. It was like Christmas. And the family treated me so nicely and made me feel at home, that I would not have been surprised had Tin Tun pulled a gift out for me. In a way he did. He and his brother-in-law decided it was too late at night to take me to a guesthouse in a new city, so they told me I must stay the night. And that is how I came to spend my first night in Burma a room on the banks of Lake Inya. After breakfast the next morning Tin Tun drove me to the guesthouse.

I stayed at the Mahabandoola Guesthouse in the center of town. Although it was a bit run down, it was only $3 a night and suited me fine. It was also right next to the Sule Paya, one of the most popular Buddhist temples in Rangoon after Shwedagon. I learned the Burmese staying at the guesthouse paid only US$1. I do not mean they paid the equivalent of US$1, but an actual dollar bill. Burma essentially has a three-currency system. The USD, the Foreign Exchange Certificates (FEC) and the local Kyat (pronounced Chat). (The FEC was abolished in 2013) Supposedly the FEC is equivalent to the US$ on a one to one basis. That is even printed on the bills themselves, but in practice it is not the case. But nothing is really as it seems. The official exchange rate is something like US$1=6 kyat, but the unofficial, black market rate was US$1=1000 kyat!! But 1 FEC would only fetch about 920 kyat. Foreigners though are forced to purchase 200 FECs at the official rate at the airport. It is all a government racket. Kyats and dollars are really the currencies of choice. The kyat gives you the best spending power; FECs the worst.

Baskets full of betel nut leaves

Rangoon is a sprawling capital of wide dusty streets lined with many British colonial period buildings. The most popular sights are the Sule Paya and Shwedagon Paya. On my first evening I went to a tea house lauded in my travel book as the best in the city. I liked it so much I went twice more while in Rangoon. There I had a lovely Burmese tea, rather like Indian chai, of dark tea with milk and sugar and a plate of bain mok. Bain Mok is an opium cake, although today the seeds sprinkled on it are no longer opium. The café offered a wonderful atmosphere to see Burmese relaxed with one another and to write in my journal.

On the walk home from the tea house I met a Burmese man, who popped up alongside me and asked to speak with me. After making sure he did not want to change money and sincerely just wanted to talk to a foreigner we sat for a soda at a street café. These are all over Myanmar. In the evenings these establishments spill out onto the sidewalks and even the street, with small folding tables and even smaller, almost preschool-sized, chairs. He was nice enough but I was a bit put off by the fact that he A. wanted to accompany me on my trip all around Myanmar though we had just met and upset that I did not think it a good idea, and B. his betel nut habit. One of the worst things about Myanmar has got to be the addiction to betel nut. he nut is put in a green leaf and chewed in the mouth, like chewing tobacco. Users must spit out the juice which is a horrible bright red color that stains the teeth, the gums, the lips and the pavement it is spit upon. This guy kept chewing his betel nut, and even when he wasn’t, his red stained mouth was distracting. Throughout the trip I grew to hate betel nut more and more…

Shwedagon Paya was lovely, though it was first place in Burma where I faced the foreigners-pay-more practice. For Burmese entry is free; for foreigners the price is US$5. There is a long shop lined arcade up stairs leading to the temple, during which the whole time one must be barefoot. There were ceremonies of families with golden painted parasols touring the paya as their sons were to become novice monks. There are shrines around the paya to which people pray depending on the day of the week they were born. I visited the Tuesday shrine and poured XX (a whole lotta) cups of water for my age + 1 and threw in a small donation to appease the Buddha and bring me luck. As it was a Saturday the shrine for that day of the week was the busiest. There are also places to worship the Nats, who number more than a hundred, and are the animist gods of pre-Buddhist Myanmar, but reign alongside Buddhism to this day.

Approaching Shwedagon

After Shwedagon, I returned to the guesthouse and called Tin Tun, who had told me we could meet again for dinner. However, when I got ahold of him, he said he was quite sick with food poisoning, but he would take me out anyway. He picked me up around 6:30 PM and we drove down to Chinatown (which to be honest didn’t look any different from any other part of Rangoon, and was only a few blocks away after all). Then he started buying me food right and left. He also took me to a supermarket and bought me a bunch of food. He said he was worried about me traveling by myself and that I needed some food for the travel. I tried to say it was not necessary but he told me that he was older, had a lot of money, no children and not much else he wanted to buy in life having most of what he needed and wanted already. Well….okay, you do not need to twist the arm of a no-income graduate student. I would be well stocked for days.

On a walk during my first day I did experience an odd and rather disturbing situation. I wrote about it in my journal: Today on the street a man tried to give me a child. I had stopped to look at a cute little boy when suddenly a man was beside me asking “Do you like baby?” I said, “Yes, the boy is very cute.” The man asked where I was from and then told me I can take the baby to America. He then stooped down to ask the boy, who was about four years old, if he would like to go with me to America. The boy looked scared. Then man scooped him up in his arms, told me the boy’s name is Mohammed and tried to pass him to me. I have traveled to quite a few developing countries but never before or since has someone tried to give me a child.

On my third day I traveled to the town of Twante, famed for its weaving and pottery and located across the Irrawaddy River and along the British-built Twante Canal. Twante itself turned out not to be that interesting other than giving me the opportunity to see a satellite town of the capital. What turned out most interesting, as so often is the case, was the journey there and the completely unexpected turn the day would take. First, I crossed the Irrawaddy by ferry. I had wanted to take a boat up the canal but no boatman would do so without charging me an exorbitant foreigner price. So, I opted for a mini bus. The trip to Twante was about an hour along a bumpy, dusty road. Though I could not see any of the scenery as I was seated on the inside. The truck has a small covered bed lined with benches, similar to the jeepneys of the Philippines. I was jammed on the very last seat towards the open back, though with only half of my behind on. When we hit a bump I was airborne, but did not fall out because the entire back of the truck was lined with men. There were 10-15 men standing hanging on to every available piece of rail on the back and sides of the truck.

Kids in Twante (they wanted Polaroid photos)

Once in the town I wandered around trying to find anything resembling the famous pottery or weaving, but no one spoke English and there did not seem any obvious I came upon a small boy who must have never seen a white person before. Normally this results in shrieks and screams and running away (I have had this happen many times) but for him it resulted in absolute incredible delight. He began laughing and laughing and laughing. Pointing at me and saying something to some other boys. He ran up and threw his arms around my leg and looked up at me continuing to laugh with un-abandoned delight. I took his picture with my Polaroid and tried to give him the picture, but he didn’t understand, so I kept it. (and I still have it taped in my journal).

After being unable to find anything of note in Twante I prepared to head back and hopped into a truck for the ferry. It was not full and I would wait a long time for it to fill up and return to the ferry. An Indian man in the truck asked if I had been to the pagoda and since I had not, I decided to get out and go in search of it. I walked and walked but without any luck. No one seemed to know where the location of the pagoda. Several children ran after me screaming “I love you,” so I stopped to blow them a kis,s which threw them into hysterics and made them follow me all the more. Somehow, I ended up being invited to a wedding reception. Soon I was in a large covered all seated next to the newlyweds eating ice cream and having our picture taken together. I left with the whole party waving goodbye to me. I returned to the ferry in a truck chartered by an Italian couple, stopping at a monastery along the way.

I ended up staying a few extra days in Rangoon than expected because with the work and school holidays it turned out difficult to get a bus ticket out. The earliest ticket I could get was on December 23^rd. I did meet Tin Tun one last time, back at the tea shop. Then it was off to the next stop: Lake Inle.

The Wanderlust Diaries

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