MYANMAR (1) - LOSING A PASSPORT
764 Kilometres – 27 Days
30 March – 25 April
2015
MAP
Mae
Sot, Thailand - Myawaddy, Myanmar - 10 km
Mae
Sot, Thailand, was a mere 5 km bike ride from the Friendship Bridge, the border
between Thailand and Myanmar. With already having a visa, the single thing
required was a stamp in the passport.
I
always found it surprising how one could cross a line on a map and find yourself
in a vastly different environment. Different-looking people, different clothes,
different food, money, and language; yes, virtually all things were entirely
unlike what I'd become used to in Thailand. Following clearing customs and
immigration, next up was an ATM to draw local currency. Myanmar Kyat had an
exchange rate of 1,000 Kyats to 1 USD. It took purchasing a new wallet to store
all the notes. Again, Myanmar took me by surprise as men traditionally wore the
longyi, had red-stained teeth from chewing paan and practically all Burmese
used face paint.
The
weather was sweltering, around 40°C, and by the time my business was done, the
time was past midday. I considered it a good idea to find accommodation instead
of heading over the mountains in the midday heat. This decision subsequently
turned out to be the wrong choice.
Once
checked into a hotel, the owner informed me the road out of Myawaddy over the
pass was in poor condition, narrow and steep. The poor road condition resulted
in traffic in and out of Myawaddy only allowed on alternate days. Regrettably,
the traffic from Myawaddy to Pha-An was that day, meaning I had to wait a day
before getting underway. Little did I know this marked the start of a
problem-studded visit to Myanmar.
Myawaddy
I
woke to a racket in the street below and quickly made my way out the door to
see what was happening. I followed the clanging and the drumming and stumbled
upon a ceremony filled with colour and spectacle.
During
the summer school holidays, boys enter the Buddhist Order for a week or more.
These young boys, dressed like princes (in imitation of the Lord Buddha, a
prince until setting out upon his spiritual path), were carried shoulder-high
through the streets to the temple. I understood they spent the entire day being
carried around on the shoulders of their older male relatives. The procession
consisted of cars and trucks with deafening music, followed by what seemed like
the entire village on foot, chucking popcorn and sweets at the youngsters. All
rather festive, and I felt fortunate to have caught this unique ceremony.
I
believe that food becomes an adventure in a foreign country; this belief was no
more true than in Myanmar. "Wet Thar Dote Htoe", literally
"pork-on-a-stick", consisted of pork offal (anything from pig lungs
and intestine to tongue) cooked and eaten "fondue style" in soy sauce
and skewered onto a bamboo stick. Wet Thar Dote Htoe was almost always eaten on
the streets while huddling on small kindergarten plastic stools and dipping the
skewered meat in the bubbling, black sauce. No ordinary meal.
Myawaddy
– Pha-An
After
the fear of God was put into me regarding the road to Pha-An, I weakened and
took the bus. Their concern was justified as the road was narrow and in poor
condition, to put it mildly. With the route only open to traffic every second
day, buses, taxis and trucks formed a continuous line over the mountain. Though
traffic moved in the same direction, the road was narrowed, and the corners tight.
Three-point turns were required in places. I subsequently discovered a new road
had been built (not indicated on the map), but most people preferred the old
route as the new highway was considered costly due to toll fees. I should have
known not to listen to advice regarding whether or not a person could cycle a
particular way.
Hpa-An
had a whole plethora of guesthouses and locating accommodation was therefore
easy. One knew Myanmar was a hot country as clay jars, filled with water, was
scattered around town, something last experienced in Sudan.
Pha-An
– Thaton - 50 km
Early
morning my clothes already clung to my sweat-soaked body as the path from Pha-An
headed further north. The route between Pha-An and Thaton made a fascinating
day of cycling, shared with motorcycle salesmen loaded to the hilt, bicycle
taxis with sidecars, and three-wheel motorbikes carting their passengers to and
from their destinations. Even though the road was considerably better than the
previous day, the way nonetheless remained narrow. No one went anywhere in a
hurry. The entire route was lined with stalls selling paan, snacks and rice
dishes (but mainly paan).
Once
in Thaton, the plan was to visit the famous mountaintop pagoda. Once booked in,
I realised the pagoda was in the next village. This didn't bother me, and my
early arrival made a relaxing day in a guesthouse and allowed me to explore
this new and very different country.
Thaton
– Kyaikto - 68 km
I
tried to get underway before the sun started beating down. My relatively early
start allowed me to witness barefoot monks walking the streets, collecting rice
and food from villagers. The road was surprisingly flat and in good condition
but extremely narrow like the previous day. There wasn't a great deal one could
do but stick as close to the side as possible, and the mirror came in handy. As
soon as a truck was spotted, I veered off the road, allowing them to pass.
In
Kyaikto, I bunked down in Happy Guest House, and my 16,000 kyats got me a
comfortable, air-conditioned room with breakfast. The plan was to go to the
mountaintop pagoda, but the oppressing heat kept me indoors, as I was in no
mood to cycle to where trucks headed up the mountain.
Kyaikto
– Bago - 90 km
April
is the hottest month in Myanmar, and the ride to Bago, the one-time capital of
Burma, was in blistering heat. Even though leaving early (according to me), the
heat soon started rising from the road while baking down from above.
Mercifully, the road was dotted with numerous places to fill up with water.
Still, it virtually remained impossible to stay hydrated. But, again, the road
was surprisingly good, albeit slightly narrow.
Once
in Bago, one couldn't miss the bright green Emperor Hotel right along the main
road. I'm sure there were better places, but the manager's helpfulness made me
stay put. They should have called it the Everest Hotel, as the stairs were near
vertical. Luckily, a large storeroom on the ground floor made easy storing the
bicycle, and the kind staff carried my panniers upstairs. They must have seen I
was in no mood for those stairs.
Bago
– Yangon - 90 km
Determined
to escape as much of the sweltering weather as possible, it was early morning
when I stuck my hat upon my head and headed to Yangon, the former capital
previously known as Rangoon. One can't blame anyone for being under the
impression that Yangon was the capital. Cycling was along a
"highway"; for lack of a better word, as the road came with two lanes
in both directions as well as a shoulder. The shoulder was bumpy with a few
potholes, but a shoulder, nevertheless. The shorter route appeared to lack a
shoulder, and with all the trucks, the larger road seemed a better choice.
Still, I didn't envisage the traffic quite as heavy as it was.
The
last 20 kilometres into Yangon was a pure nightmare. Although Sunday, the
traffic was horrendous, and it took forever to find the Ocean Pearl Inn. The
hotel wasn't the most inexpensive but comfortable, and I was thankful to have a
room with air-con.
Discovering
my passport missing came as an utter shock. Unpacking all the panniers and
phoning the Emperor Hotel in Bago was all to no avail. I surmised the passport
fell out when taking a picture or buying water.
By
evening I met John from New Zealand, staying at the Ocean Pearl. He'd rented a
car and driver, and was heading to Bago the following morning. When he offered me
to join the ride to Bago, I jumped at the opportunity, thinking I could
recognise some of my many watering holes and enquire if they found a passport.
Yangon
– Bago – Yangon - By car
By
morning I set off with John and the driver to Bago. Even though keeping an eye
out for familiar stands, things looked completely different from the back seat
of a car and driving in the opposite direction. Once in Bago, John dropped me
at the Emperor Hotel. I thanked him and went in search of my passport.
The
manager at the Emperor Hotel was extremely accommodating. He drove me from
police station to police station and from immigration office to immigration
office. As none of the staff spoke English, he acted as my translator.
Unfortunately, the town lost power amid all the drama, and the police couldn't
type the letter needed.
While
waiting for the electricity to be restored, we had a delicious lunch. Amazing
how good food can be when eaten with the residents. After lunch, the power had
yet to come on. I used the opportunity to investigate the enormous Shwethalyaung
Buddha, measuring 55 meters long and 17 metres high and constructed in 994. Amazingly,
this gigantic Buddha was overgrown and only rediscovered in 1881. Apparently,
while building the Yangon–Bago railway line, contractors stumbled upon it.
Today, a vast canopy keeps it safe from the elements, making photography
tricky.
Upon
my return, the power was still out, and we took the letters to a street kiosk.
Returning to the immigration office, the street had transformed into a market
selling anything from fruit to meat and spices.
Once
the letters were signed, the officers instructed me to take the paperwork to
the "Myanmar Travel Tourist" in Yangon. Both letters were in Burmese,
so I had no idea about the content. Finally, Tun-Tun, the hotel manager,
organised a taxi for the return trip to Yangon. Phew, what a day.
Yangon
By
morning, I searched for the address given to me in Bago. Asking around (the
address was written in Burmese), the place turned out to be the immigration
office. If only they said so. The immigration office, in turn, sent me to have
photos taken and, upon my return, I found the office closed for lunch. This
rigmarole resulted in a letter stating my Myanmar visa number and entry date. I
was informed the letter was as good as a visa. Therefore, I should have no
problems at the border. This, of course, merely solved the visa problem, not
the passport.
In
the meantime, an email from the South African Embassy in Bangkok stated that
there was no South African Embassy in Myanmar and that I should approach the UK
Embassy for an emergency travel document. So off I went to the UK Embassy, to
find them out to lunch. Please give me strength!
Nothing
one could do but wait and, once inside, I explained my predicament. This time I
was requested to have my letters (given to me by the police in Bago)
translated. An exercise that turned out quite interesting. Typists,
translators, and photocopiers were stationed along the pavement down a small
alley. From plastic kindergarten tables and chairs, they did business.
Zombie-like, I joined the line at the translator’s table and waited my turn.
Then, with the translated document in my hands, I headed to the internet café
to have the South African Embassy email printed.
Printing
the email from the SA Embassy sounded more straightforward than the process
turned out. I needed to access my Yahoo account, and the code sent never came
through. By the time all was done, the Embassy was closed and after lunch I
discovered the passport photos were the wrong size. There was nothing to do but
return to the shop and get new ones taken. As Mark Twain said: "The truth
can be stranger than fiction."
Eventually,
all forms were filled in, copies made, the right size photos attached and the
required fee paid. The lady at the Embassy admitted they had never had a
similar request and needed help figuring out what to do.
She
intended to contact the South African Embassy in Bangkok and check with them,
promising to pass on all relevant information via email. So we agreed I would
stay in Yangon the next day or two in case I needed to provide more info.
Yangon
A
walking tour of Yangon was a fun and informative way to pass the time. The city
had many beautiful, old colonial buildings, some renovated, a few still being
restored, and others still on the to-do list.
In
the meantime, an advert, with a reward, was placed in the newspaper. This was
only possible with the help of an exceedingly kind Burmese man I met at the
newspaper.
The
best time to be out in Yangon was sunset when the streets were lined with food
vendors and markets spilt onto the bus lane. Each shop blasted music louder
than the one next door, causing a riot of sound. At the same time, pedestrians
pushed and shoved their way along the crowded pavement. This was my absolute
favourite time to be out. Vendors were frying, cooking and steaming, delicious
food, from yummy samosas to pork offal on skewers.
Yangon
The
passport had by then become a royal pain in the ass. Still, it wasn't the end
of the world; all I could do was wait. I wasn't the first person in the world
to lose a passport, and I sure wouldn't be the last. So waiting a few days made
no difference to me.
The
problem was this happened ahead of Thingyan, the Burmese New Year and Water
Festival; a festival celebrated over a four-to-five-day period. The phrase
"Son of a bitch" left my mouth with alarming frequency when I came
across this little discovery. I couldn't have made this up, even if I had tried.
In
the meantime, Yangon was preparing for the festival, and time for me to move
along. The Embassy closed during the festivities, and hence no point in
sticking around. Best to resume my travels while Myanmar celebrated the New
Year.
Yangon
– Okkan - 111 km
I
didn't get away early and the roads were already congested by the time I got
underway. I tried a different route to avoid the hectic traffic and although, a
roundabout way, my chosen path appeared less crowded. Unfortunately, once on
Route 2 North, the road was extremely narrow and uneven. Coupled with heavy
traffic, it made a hair-raising experience.
Fortunately,
buses and trucks (even though moving at high speed) seemed accustomed to slower
traffic, including bicycles, oxcarts, tricycles, and scooters. The only good
thing was the shade, making a slightly more comfortable ride.
I
picked up 30,000 kyats ($30). The money must have blown out of someone's pocket
as it consisted of three, 10,000 neatly-folded notes. Being a considerable sum
for villagers, I felt terrible for the person who lost it.
In
Okkan, the Okkan Hotel was frightfully expensive at 30,000 kyats but, I put the
money I picked up towards my accommodation.
Okkan
– Gyobingauk - 90 km
Following
breakfast, included in the room rate, the road headed north. But, again, the
road was narrow and the traffic scary.
The
water festival hadn't yet started, but already people were throwing water,
which brought relief from the relentless heat. I swear, even the bitumen was
melting.
Pyay
was roughly 170 kilometres away and Gyobingauk was conveniently midway, making
two relatively short days.
In
Gyobingauk, along a dirt road, was the Paradise Guest House. The establishment
wasn't much of a paradise, but surprisingly, it came with air-conditioning and
at $10, I didn't complain. Even if not super effective, the air-con kept the
room slightly cool.
Gyobingauk
– Pyay - 90 km
Due
to the holidays, the difference in traffic was substantial, and I barely
encountered any buses or trucks. Being the start of the Water Festival, kids
were having a blast and, therefore, no escaping getting wet. Practically
everyone encountered was armed with a bucket or water gun and in the heat,
becoming wet was a blessing.
You
can imagine the kid's delight as they saw me coming along. They ran as fast as
their little legs could carry them to fill up their containers and I was
thoroughly drenched by the end of the day. It felt like I got a double dose,
but they kept me cool to Pyay where the well-known Myat Lodging House was my
abode of choice, but a tad of a dump and not cheap at all.
Pyay
The
previous day was Thingyan Eve, and, on this day, the actual festival started.
Being a wet affair, taking any pictures became virtually impossible. Bandstands
with hosepipes and huge speakers were constructed along the main road. No one
could pass without being blasted both by water and sound. One couldn't even
think of taking a side road, as the little ones manned the smaller bandstands
and were even more vicious. An additional day was spent in Pyay enjoying the
festivities. All were having fun, whether on foot or cruising the streets in
the back of pickup trucks while becoming soaked.
Pyay
With
my inability to wait, I left Pyay in a spray of water, but not much further;
the bike's back wheel started making an almighty noise. I continued but the
noise became progressively worse. Although I sprayed a generous amount of
lubricant, it was of no avail. In the end, I returned to Pyay, hoping to find a
bike shop. Finding a bike shop was wishful thinking as everything was firmly
shut and would remain closed for the following four days. I was convinced the
problem was the back hub. By the time the bike was dry the squeaky sound
miraculously disappeared.
I
was still determining how to proceed as I'd no patience to wait until the
festival was over and was convinced the problem would reoccur once wet. One
could take a ride to Bagan, which had more bike shops, but an expensive option.
The one positive was it would get me off the road, as I didn't care for the
motorbike riders with bottles of whiskey stuck in the back of their pants.
Pyay
- Bagan (By car)
The
unthinkable was done, and a lift was arranged to Bagan. In hindsight, taking
the ride was stupid, as little did I know this was the last day of the water
festival. I was under the impression the festival lasted four more days. I was
annoyed as the owner of the Myat was dishonest and gave me the wrong
information as he was the one who wanted to drive me to Bagan at quite a hefty fee.
The
water festival made a slow ride to Bagan where accommodation was at the View
Point Inn, a convenient place with many options and even a dorm.
Bagan
turned out an intriguing place and (to me at least) fell in the same
jaw-dropping category as Angkor Wat in Cambodia and Petra in Jordon. Between
the ninth and 13th centuries, Bagan's kings commissioned more than 4,000
Buddhist temples, of which around 2,000 remain. This temple-studded plain
stretched 40 square kilometres across central Myanmar.
The
following day was New Year's Day, and all the madness of the previous days was
forgotten. Everything was quiet and back to normal, apart from everything being
closed. I set out by bicycle in the morning to explore the temple area. Still,
the weather soon became unbearable and best to retreat to the coolness of a
room. The sunset over Bagan didn't quite meet expectations and didn't come with
any of the beautiful colours anticipated.
One
more day was spent in Bagan to snap a few more pictures, but the light never
improved. The search to find a bicycle shop didn't reveal anything either, and
the single person uncovered couldn't find anything wrong, and all I could do
was hope the bike would hold up until reaching Mandalay. I was doubly annoyed
with taking the ride as I missed out on a large part of the route. Add poor
quality pictures, and it felt like I could do no right—all in all, a trying
time in Myanmar.
Bagan
- Myingyan - 55 km
Mandalay
was about 160 kilometres from Bagan and Myingyan, conveniently midway. After
such a long time off the bike, I should have been a ball of energy but instead
felt lethargic and couldn't get going. A room at the Kaung Kaung Guesthouse at
the entrance to the town was home that night. However, the rooms were pricy,
and I was unhappy with the lack of Wi-Fi. Apparently, "Have Wi-Fi"
didn't translate into "Have working Wi-Fi".
Myingyan
– Mandalay - 110 km
The
route to Mandalay was hot, dry, dusty, and the going slow. As I wondered if
something was wrong, the road turned out a false flat as the second half of the
day felt downhill. With the mercury hovering around 40°C, I thought it was only
the mad dogs and me out in the midday heat. Around midday, nearly all truck and
motorbike drivers pulled over at roadside shelters to have a snooze. I wanted
to get to Mandalay and put my head down, and soldiered on.
With
that, I reached the end of the road to Mandalay. Mandalay wasn't as romantic
looking as Kipling made it out to be. Instead, it was a dusty, sprawling city.
The cheapest bed in town was undoubtedly at the AD1 Hotel, situated amid the
onion market. The market was an area where one could still get that old
timeless Asian feel and, as my $13 room came with an en-suite bathroom as well
as air-conditioning, I was more than happy.
Mandalay
– Yangon - By bus
One
more day was spent in Mandalay, and then time came to retreat to Yangon to see
if my passport had turned up. My visa time ran out, and I took a bus to Yangon.
The bus was cheap at $10 and amazingly comfortable, with reclining seats and
air-conditioning. We hardly ever stopped, and rolled into Yangon at around 5h30
p.m. Even the short cycle from the bus station to the hotel was a nightmare as
the traffic was horrendous and the streets dark.
Yangon
Sadly,
no passport turned up, but the good news was my previous passport (which I
never discarded as it contained my American visa) was still valid. I assumed
being issued a new passport, would automatically cancel the old one. Thank
goodness, the old passport still had two blank pages, and thus no need for an
emergency travel document. Discussing the situation with the UK Embassy, they
agreed to refund the fee paid. So things were finally starting to turn in my
favour.
A
ticket was bought on the first available bus to the Thailand border. Still, the
next bus was only in two days as the traffic to and from the border was only
every second day. Furthermore, the bus being a night bus meant I would arrive
at the border the day my visa expired, making it out of the country by the skin
of my teeth. It sure seemed I'd reached the end of my bad luck.
Yangon
- Mywaddy (Thailand border)
Expecting
the same bus as Mandalay to Yangon, finding the bus precisely the opposite came
as an unpleasant surprise. The seats were extremely narrow and more suitable to
tiny Burmese than bulky Europeans. Two people could barely fit next to one
another.
The
ride was uncomfortable and impossible to sleep in such a confined space. The
lack of toilet facilities meant one couldn't drink water as the bus seldom
stopped. The drive through the night was slow, and by daybreak, we'd only made
it to Hpa-An, from where the trip went from bad to worse. Shortly after a
breakfast stop, the bus proceeded onto the mountain road. The narrow road with
steep and exposed drop-offs into the valley below didn't instil a great deal of
confidence. So narrow was the route and so tight the corners, the bus couldn't
always make the turn and had to do three-point turns – actually, more like
six-point turns.
Close
to the top, roadworks caused lengthy delays. This wasn't your typical roadwork,
as all work was done by hand and supplies were carried in woven baskets
dangling from shoulder poles. The wait was thus an exceedingly long one before
eventually waved through. Not significantly beyond that, and while negotiating
an especially tight corner, one enormous bang came from under the bus and
almost scared us all to death. As we were mere inches from the cliff's edge,
people let out shrill screeches and instinctively moved to the opposite side of
the bus, and I thought they were all asleep.
It
turned out not the tyre, and the driver and his cronies crawled in under the
bus, and an hour or so later, we were on our way - this could have been in the
1800s. We were scarcely on our way, or the bus stopped at a temple where monks
handed out drinks in exchange for donations.
We
crawled into Myawaddy long past midday. As foreseen, clearing immigration took
longer than usual as I left the country with a different passport. However, I
was immensely relieved to cycle off to Mae Sot, Thailand, once all was sorted
out.
So
came to an end a problem-studded ride in Myanmar. Priority was to get to the
South African Embassy in Bangkok to apply for a new passport as I believed the
process took a few months.