Monday 27 April 2015

MYANMAR (1) - LOSING A PASSPORT



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 cafĂ© 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.