Myanmar- Spit, Sarongs and Golden Sunscreen

Myanmar was a country that was never really on my watch list. I had dreamed of Thailand and Cambodia for their famous attractions and beaches, but I was woefully ignorant about this undiscovered little gem.

I was travelling with a German at the time, and let me tell you, if you ever jump on the backpacking scene by yourself, find a german or two to join up with. They are wonderfully capable of living up to any stereotype you might hold- they love their beer, are super organised, know exactly what they want and have the negotiation skills to usually get it. I had already done a couple of months through Indonesia and Cambodia with Jana, my current travel buddy, and our mutual friend Marina. Travelling with two beautiful young women was not, as some might assume, a particularly easy experience for me- many of the men in Asian countries are not particularly subtle about their overtures towards the elusive “white woman”, and I usually had to watch them like a hawk to stave off any unwanted attention. This once involved a group of young, armed soldiers who were MUCH too interested in them for their own good (but you will need to read about Indonesia to see how that one turned out.

Jana and I worked fairly well together though and we had developed an effective working dynamic- she would plan, organise, initiate and orchestrate our travel to and adventures within said countries, and I would carry the heavy bags and, well, finish the leftovers. She was tall, smart, and had a sense of humor that was ridiculous enough to keep up my mood should tiredness or setbacks hit us on the road.

The Jana in question had been regaling me with tales about Myanmar, trying to convince me that we really should wander over for a look. What intrigued me most about it was that because of its volatile political history, it had been closed to tourists for some time and was supposedly untarnished by the lecherous and fake tourism culture that has ruined parts of Thailand. So , never needing more than a gentle prod in the right direction, we shot off to check it out.

Myanmar was, at first impression, very much similar to every other South East Asian countries I had visited thus far. It was hot, noisy, hectic and with insane traffic. The cars dodged the trucks, the scooters dodged the cars and the street dogs dodged the scooters, and we, as pedestrians, did our very best to not die.

Loose wires hung from the powerpoles and often dragged on the sidewalk, the atmosphere consisted of 3 parts exhaust fumes and 2 parts road dust, and pop up shops selling everything from fruit to illegal pharmaceuticals existed at every 3 feet. Needless to say, I felt right at home.

You see I have always loved the insanity of these kinds of countries- you never know just what might happen next- from seeing a cow blown up with a Bazooka (yes, I did actually, unfortunately see this) to stumbling upon the most pristine piece of beach you have ever seen that is also, coincidentally, populated by massive water monitor lizards. I consider it a minor miracle that I still have all of my appendages attached.

Our first stop, Yangon, was all I expected, but it was also something less. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing, and after a while I realised something- no one was yelling at us to buy their products. It was actually a strange experience to not have 2 or 3 people slide into your personal space, like an unexpected fart, to tell you of their unique and very special something or other. Watching your bags, ignoring hawkers and learning to say increasingly harsh versions of ‘no, go away’ in the local dialect had become second nature, and not being accosted made me feel a little left out. Was I not good enough to be scammed any more? Had my personal hygiene finally reached the hippy stage of demonstrating I had absolutely no spare money?

What we soon realised, however, was that this wasn’t us, this was simply the culture. The people, if we ever did seek a conversation, were genuinely pleased to see us. This was a welcome surprise, and one I am ashamed to say it took me some time to accept.

Our first stop in Yangon was a to huge, golden pagoda that dominated the landscape. It had some vague connection to royalty that Jana could absolutely explain to you, and which I thought was really shiny.

To get in, for the first time, we had to either rent or buy a sarong to cover our legs (I was perpetually in shorts, and usually topless, so I figured investing in one now would probably save me some money in the long run. It turned out to be a large circle of fabric in a roughly rectangular shape that was worn in a similar way to a kilt or the lava lava of the Islands- you tie the 'Longyi' in a big knot at the front of your waist, leaving everything underneath to dangle freely in the wind. I was really quite a fan.

The actual pagoda was monumental, and hundreds of locals and a few other tourists had turned up with us after dark to experience the wonderful light that played on the golden surface of the pagoda from the thousands of candles that were dotted about us, amidst incense sticks and white lilies. The candles also lit hundreds of Bhudda statues that were displayed in various states of repose around the temple structure.

Monks were also visible, wearing the traditional orange wrap, some playing instruments, some sitting cross legged, obviously deep in meditative prayer, and some idly taking selfies on their iphones.

We could see most of the city stretching out before us from our high vantage point, and in that moment I knew that Myanmar was very much going to be an adventure the two of us would not soon forget.

The next day we tried to get a feel for the local currency, and see what the food and culture was like. In the day, Yangon was hot, a little smoggy, and definitely ramshackle. But whereas the day before I had considered the people eerily polite, today I was completely horrified. As we walked down the street I had 3 seperate people spit huge globules at the ground in front of me, splashing on my feet. Now in New Zealand, if someone did this to me, it would be all on, and Jana had to grab my arm and hold me back from launching at one particularly messy spitter who had pushed me just a little too far.

However, the surprise on his face at my reaction was enough to tell me that this was not an intended insult, and it was I who was out of line. I apologised quickly, moving on, and as I looked around, I saw these patches of spittle everywhere, often even inside some of the shops, and what was even more disturbing was that the patches were a uniform shade of violent red. I had begun to wonder if everyone in Myanmar had developed some kind of venereal lung disease, but after some investigation we discovered that most locals, men and women alike, were addicted to the practice of chewing a bunch of leaves and other spices called betel nuts. Apparently it had a slightly narcotic effect similar to chewing tobacco. But instead of swallowing the minty-ish flavoured juice, you needed to spit it out.

After finding this out, I was of course determined to try it, and went to the nearest lady on the corner who was selling them. After looking baffled for a few minutes that I actually wanted to try some, she waved off my attempts to buy one and simply gave us both a betel nut to try.

This, far more than the strange concoction of chemicals and spices in the betel nut, surprised me completely. I had never had anyone in South East Asia turn down an offer of purchase, let alone freely give out samples to try, simply for the pleasure of watching weird white people make grossed out faces at the taste of her product. It was genuinely quite disgusting, and I decided I would never try the vile practice again. Except for another ten or so times.

Using the betel nit was a logistical challenge in itself- to hold this great parcel of leaves in the corner of your mouth and not swallow the resulting juice wasn’t easy, and the spitting around a huge obstruction in your mouth also took a lot of practice. I actually felt a little sorry for Mr “spat all over my feet while I was wearing flip-flops”.

As we chewed, I noticed a mild numbing of the mouth, and a slight nicotine high, but it was definitely not worth the chemical taste or the red spittle that lasted for hours afterwards. A look at the deteriorated smiles of the locals, who were lucky to have 4 visible teeth (all stained a dark brown) left zero chance of this becoming a habit for me, and we gladly spat these out at the first opportunity.

Now Myanmar is actually quite large, and between the big cities not an awful lot exists except jungle and the occasional village, with unpaved gravel roads forming much of the linking infrastructure. This might have added to the country's rustic charm, except for the fact that we had to use these roads to get from place to place, and that the buses that drove upon them were about as modern (and hygenic) as the plague.

They do run night buses, fortunately. I say fortunately, but really, I mean fortunate for people who have that incredible super power of being able to fall asleep in a moving vehicle. The night bus is great because it saves you a night of accommodation expense, and also ensures that the time spent travelling does not interrupt your ‘seeing interesting stuff’ time during the day. If you plan it right, it doesn’t even have to interrupt your ‘getting blind drunk in the evenings’ time. However, for me, even getting completely snozzled is no solution to my sleep disability, and so I would normally spend this time as productively as possible completing content writing that I did as a little side hustle. It paid very little but in Asia, a little went a long way. When my battery ran out, I would be left reading my kindle and idly plotting the death of whoever invented . The glass had fallen out or been smashed and as a result great wafts of road dust and cold air blasted in every time we turned on a left hand corner.

One of these journeys we had actually planned to spend on a proper sleeper bus. These were mythical buses we had heard existed but were never able to book. Rumor said they had actual seat-beds, and even curtains to block the hacking coughs of the locals (which usually ended with a loud hoick into a plastic bag that hung from the seat in front of them, its contents sliding back and forth with the motion of the bus).

We had planned (well fine, Jana had planned) to take an especially long ride (over 12 hours) in one of these extra-special buses. We booked our tickets from a booth on the side of the road, as the websites for online sales looked as though they were made by someone who had just learned to draw on Microsoft paint.

Negotiations over, we waited carefully for our amazing ride to come. The bus that arrived was exactly the kind you might have used at primary school to get to the pools on a friday afternoon- old, noisy, belching black smoke and with seats that were worn through and, if they did lean back, did so at about a 4 degree angle.

In a state of disbelief, we climbed on and secured a seat, being careful not to stand on the pair of live chickens that were laid carelessly in the aisle. We could hardly believe this was what it had come to, and in shock, burst out laughing. I was glad, as while I can normally adapt to crappy situations with a certain stoicism, I knew my fiery German friend would happily tear the ears off of the dodgy bloke who sold us these tickets, and was worried the let down would stifle her mood. Jana was tough though, and though her stomach might not always hold up to the local climate, her determination was unflappable. It is important to find someone to travel with that does not hold you back, and I know Jana and I complimented one another well- she would encourage me to take part in all kind of cultural and sightseeing tours that I would never have known about otherwise, and I provided just enough crazy to let us take on adventures that might have otherwise looked a little too risky to do alone.

We settled into our seats as comfortably as we could, and as it was still light out, were awed by the incredible mountain views that surrounded us- the jungle was untamed and beautiful, huge trees and dense shrubbery punctuated by the occasional burst of colour from native bird life.

The downside of this being a beautiful mountain road is that the road itself was rather windy. Having never suffered from motion sickness this was no concern to me, but the young Chinese lady 2 seats over was not having a good time, and began the inevitable purging of her dinner a couple of hours into the drive. More unfortunately, it seemed that these bouts of sickness would come when she was not expecting it, and getting the plastic bag on hand in time (which was already dangerously full) was not always possible. By hour 6, she had given up completely and would just turn sideways and let loose into the aisle of the bus. I was mildly fascinated to watch the vomit slide gently up and down the aisle in time with the movement of the bus. I am a primary school teacher, and therefore have seen just about every kind of bodily expulsion known to man and also had the responsibility of cleaning it up (often from off off of myself). Jana, having not yet qualified as a teacher, was not quite as jaded to the experience (or smell) of this situation as I was, and covered her nose with a bandana, turning a slight shade of green herself and popping in some earphones to try to avoid the noise.

Fortunately, after about 8 hours, we finally stopped at a way station so we could have a bbreak and get a little food. Poor Jana had to brave the local toilets, and this was not a pleasant experience I can tell you. Consisting of nothing more than a few sheets of corrugated iron pounded into the ground, with a stained hole dug into the earth serving as the toilet seat, it took a strong will to brave. Add in the fact that these things had no ventilation and would sit for hours in the baking sun and well, you can imagine the fragrance. As for myself, after wandering a little into the jungle a little and carefully poking a few large spiders out of the way to pee, I decided I was hungry.

Myanmar is, unfortunately, not famous for its culinary delights, and what you get is really just what you get. I was surprised this time however, when I saw some lovely potatoes in a gravy sauce on offer from the canteen style food bar. I ordered this dish plus some rice (gotta get me them carbs!) and dug in rather happily, but stopped when I realised the consistency was off. The potato was chewy, and squidgy, and not at all what a potato should taste like. On a more careful examination, I discovered that I had actually managed to buy a bowl full of lumps of fat covered thinly in a brown sauce. However, I am notoriously cheap, and rather than try my luck at some of the meat dishes which looked as though they had sat there since faxes were in vogue, I decided to simply plough through my meal. It really wasn’t as bad as you might expect, once you got used to the grease.

Having been fortified I felt ready to take on the last next hours of our journey, and went to revive Jana with a coke after her traumatic experience of the bathrooms. She and her stomach were not quite ready to tackle solid food just yet.

We settled in once again, noticing with little surprise that no one had bothered to clean up the vomit on the floor, and prepared to deal with the rest of the night.

After another 6 hours, most other passengers fell asleep. Jana had tucked herself underneath a hoodie like it was a tent to stave off the cold and the smell, and folded herself up to try and find some comfort in the restrictive seat, head bumping slightly on the window. I had finished my writing for the week and was left with nothing to do but drift into that strange kind of trance you get when on a long journey and unable to sleep.  As he long hours stretched by, I amused myself with silly day dreams, and as the dawn arrived, was once again able to appreciate the beauty of this underdeveloped country.

However, the 12 hour mark came and went, and I waited. Then it was 14 hours, and I was still able to mostly ignore the aches and pains that had begun to arise from sitting for so long. But by hour 16, both Jana and I were seriously wondering where we were headed, if we had actually boarded the wrong bus and would end up in Russia or something. It was only after 19 hours, sore, stiff, drenched in sweat, cloaked in a thick film of muck that consisted of dust, B.O. and vomit, that we emerged brokenly from the bus, and wandered in a stupor into town.

Jana and I had adopted a system of bartering for accommodation when we arrived in a little village; rather than pre booking, we had found it much cheaper, if a little more rat infested, to let the locals approach with an offer and barter them against one another. Working in tandem, Jana would use her stern voice to lay out a cheaper deal, and when they refused, I would begin walking away as if to look for somewhere else to go. This inevitably forced a panic to get our business, and my aggressive German friend always somehow managed to get a better deal than I thought was possible. After 19 hours on the hell bus however, we were too tired to do this particularly effectively and basically took whatever we were offered, eventually being led to a room that at least passed the Gareth test (i.e. it had a bed and a toilet). Having splashed some cold water on our faces to revive a little, we were finally able to look out over the landscape out of the window. That view took our breath away, as stretching out before us in the haze of early sunshine were hundreds of pagodas, spread haphazardly throughout the plain in a multitude of colours and sizes but all of the familiar bell shapes.

Jana, being an indomitable German of the kind Asterix would be proud of, wanted to explore immediately, and as I was unlikely to sleep after seeing such an incredible view, reluctantly agreed. We wandered into town and managed to barter an electric scooter to hire for the next 2 days. These were actually brilliant little bikes and I was amazed that in a country where cigars were nothing but rolled up leaves with a bit of tobacco stuffed inside, they had beaten far more developed countries into offering electric vehicles as rentals. Greta would be proud indeed.

While I may not be an organisational genius, I am a capable and practical man, so I was the driver, and Jana took the obligatory selfie videos as we bumped and slid over the sandy tracks. As a fiercely independent woman, she also made sure to throw me behind her occasionally so I could play pillion and she could be the crazy driver hauling ass through the sand. To her credit, we hardly ever fell off.

As we rode through the landscape, a pagoda would arise, spire first, out of the faded yellow dust before us, surrounded by trees with delicate wind chimes dangling from them, creating a subtle tinkle of sound welcoming you into the fold. They were often surrounded by low walls, and would have a cracked pathway made of centuries-old pavers leading into the shadowy interior. The pagodas themselves were beautiful, all kept immaculately clean, and provided a safe refuge inside from the heat of the sun. The huge, bell shaped spires rising delicately up 20, 30 sometimes 40 meters into the air.

Parked outside some of the largest pagodas the locals selling their wares, such as the aforementioned cigars, snacks, and also a special type of yellow paste they all wore on their faces. This they painted on their cheeks and foreheads, young and old, often in beautiful swirls and patterns. I had initially thought this was a kind of religious marking, but after chatting with one of the local ladies, we discovered that this paste was made from grinding the bark of a certain tree (like a mortar and pestle, where the branch was the pestle). It was called Thanaka and was used as a natural sunscreen. It smelled subtle and fragrant, almost like soap, and stayed flexible and cool on your skin.

She offered, of course, to give us some, stating that it was a sunscreen used by local people. We both took her up on the offer, and I must admit it was a soothing experience, I was surprised that this practice wasn’t more common in other countries. They took extra care of Jana. I had found that wherever we went the locals would fawn over Jana’s looks, the women especially interested in her. She looked to them I think, like a movie star with her long limbs and surfers body, and they would often get quite handsy, poking and prodding her in wildly inappropriate places to see if she was actually real. The good thing about this was that they took wonderful care of her too, smiling, complimenting and ensuring we got the best service. Jana was therefore intricately decorated with the golden sunscreen by our local friend, and loved it so much she bought a small pot of Thanaka to take home with her.

We wandered around the architectural wonders of the pagodas for hours, taking incredible photos and just soaking in the atmosphere of peaceful solitude that hung over the plain. It was with contented hearts that we finally wandered back, our little scooter on low battery, to our dodgy accommodations.

As I rode back in the fading light, I had Jana babbling excitedly in my ear, completely excited about the dawn photo shoot she had planned for the next morning. I, being a notorious grump in the mornings, had finally given up on all of these ‘dawn experiences’ that you see touted on the tourist scene, and politely excused myself from the experience.

After seeing her pictures, I’ll admit that this was one I really should have dragged my bum out of bed for.

Much more happened in Myanmar, from hiking between two opposing armies to living above a herd of buffalo, but I shall get to those stories later on. Keep your eyes open for the next post about this beautiful country.