Friday, December 14, 2007

Lao Lao in Lao

I stepped out into the deserted street in front of my guest house. It was my last day in Laos and I had woken up too late to see the monk walk. In this daily ritual, early every morning, over 300 saffron clad monks walk solemnly through the streets, and are fed khiaw niaw (sticky rice) by devout Laotians.
This moving sight had greeted us our very first morning in the ancient town of Luang Prabhang. That first day, two Laotian women had cornered me as I sat enthralled, outside my guest house overlooking a magnificent golden wat (temple). I was sipping excellent Lao coffee and watching the monks file silently past. The ladies offered to sell me a bamboo basket filled with sticky rice for 10,000 kip (about a dollar).
I had just read a booklet in our guesthouse about feeding the monks. Making extremely inventive use of the English language, this gem of information had warned that the monk walk was a solemn ritual and tourists should learn to do it properly instead inadvertently offending locals. My weak protests about not knowing what to do were brushed away by the intrepid duo who relented only when I promised to do the deed the next morning.
There was no escape when they tracked me down on day two. They stuck around to find me a place to kneel on the red matting on the sidewalk. The ladies, Phon Chan and Thong giggled merrily while I frantically and somewhat unsuccessfully, tried to roll sticky rice balls in time to pop one in each monk’s brass bowl.
Later they collected the empty baskets and posed for a few pictures before leaving. They both had lovely cheery faces, as did most of the people we were to meet over the next few days in this land of a thousand smiles.
My friend Rina and I spent a couple of days in Luang Prabhang which is strategically located on the banks of the massive Mekong river. On our first morning, we took a trip up river to see some cave temples with their thousands of ancient Buddha images.


Typical mornings in Luang Prabhang for us, started with coffee and baguettes in the little bakeries that abounded in this former French colony, with the JoMa bakery emerging as a firm favorite.
We saw monks everywhere...going about chores, little ones doing what naught little boys do, others chanting in the temples and carefully practicing their English with tourists. Monkhood is a rite of passage here as in many countries in the region and every man we met had done time as a monk ranging from weeks to years. It always amused us to see novice monks texting, checking mail at Internet cafes and (gasp!) on occasion, shyly checking us out too.
We watched sunrise from Phousi hill and hiked to the spectacular Tat Kuang Xi waterfalls where I splashed around to my heart’s content in the natural pools formed by the cascades.

We braved the unrelenting sun to bike around this quaint town, a world heritage site dotted with hundreds of wats. Buildings were a mixture of French colonial and more traditional Thai/Laos architecture.

By dusk, the main street transformed into a night market where tribal women came to sell handicrafts and gentle haggling was the order of the day.

I was in foodie heaven and for once, even vegetarian Rina had no trouble finding great food to eat. Our favorite was the noodle soup lady and like homing pigeons, most nights we faithfully ended up at her stall. Other favorites were fresh laap (a salad with minced fish, meat and herbs), morning glory fry, laam ( a stew), fish and chicken grilled on sticks, water buffalo patties, eggplant in lettuce like leaves, papaya salad made to order, all manner of fresh fruit and loads of desserts (got to love the French influence!).


We left Luang Prabhang with a plan to head to Phongsali, the northern most province in Laos, where the best green tea, whisky and opium are produced. The trekking around there to tribal Hmong villages was supposed to be spectacular. Phongsali was where few tourists ventured and to me, it had taken on the mythical proportions of Shangrila, so remote did it seem. Most of the locals laughed at the ambitious plans of these two backpacking Indian girls and we felt rather brave taking off into the unknown.

It was not an auspicious start. Our first stop was the town of Nong Khiauw and we paid a princely sum to get there by private van, the only transport available to us at that late hour. The plan was to catch the morning ferry from Nong Khiauw and head north. The journey took longer than we expected in the dark and we had no idea where we were heading. Rina and I were giggling hysterically to mask how uneasy we felt. To shut us up perhaps, the driver played some excellent Thai pop music. United in a shared appreciation of the music, our tension eased somewhat.

We got to the town late in the evening to find it shrouded in darkness. After depositing us at the nearest guesthouse, our driver headed back. We were on our own. Stumbling back from a surprisingly good dinner, washed down by Laos beer and singing old college songs, our torch beam lit up a snake on the road in front of us, hood raised as if taking a whiff of the cool night air. It’s hard to say who was more horrified, our scaly friend or us! After a restless night, we woke up to a beautiful misty morning and headed to the river.

Over the next few days we slowly learnt to read between the lines and sift through the misinformation we were fed at tourist offices. Basically there was one public boat a day to the next destination and this was subject to change with very little warning. Fellow travelers bonded sharing information and we had a lovely week, heading north on the Nam Ou river, a tributary of the Mekong in crowded slow boats.

The scenery was spectacular.


Water buffaloes lolled languorously watching us through sleepy eyes.


Naked kids screamed and played in the river while the adults fished or farmed the lush countryside.

It was unfortunately slash and burn season and the air was filled with smog. We drifted past burning firesides and at night it was like a pyromaniac convention. While tourists grumbled about the pollution, most Laotians shrugged it off as a practice they had followed for generations.
We stopped en route for a night in the village of Muang Noi on the river bank. Our clean, basic accommodation was a hut built on stilts, with a shared bathroom for 3 dollars/night. To my utter frustration, roosters woke us up by crowing enthusiastically from 4 am onwards. This village was a tourist hotspot and restaurants had the ubiquitous banana pancake and milk shake type menu along with local fare. I took great pleasure in ordering the chicken curry!

Muang Noi is known for good trekking and we stopped on our way back from some caves to watch a riotous game of football in a school yard. About 50 teenage children of the village, both boys and girls were playing and it was hard to tell who was on which team. Goal posts were marked by a few pairs of slippers and players played with all manner or lack of footwear. I spotted a few with just one shoe. Goals were greeted with rapturous screams. It was the most joyful game I have ever seen! I started to think about how many people choose to adopt kids from countries such as Lao in the fond hope that they are giving them a better life. Perhaps this is the better life.
Next stop was the township of Muang Khoi. We almost didn’t get there because no public boats were running. Finally we hooked up with two elderly couples and rented a boat. Muang Khua was a hole. It was close to the Chinese and Vietnamese borders and was hot and filthy. Our only diversion was watching the river traffic. The town had a half bridge made of metal and when a vehicle wanted to get across, it would drive to the end of this bridge and then the whole bridge would be towed by a tugboat to the other side. There may be more efficient ways, but this was much more entertaining!

That evening I played badminton with the young men of the village whose initial skepticism turned to amazement, that this puny foreign woman could actually hold her own. I was feted with Beer Lao for my exertions! That night Rina and I took the tough decision to head back to Luang Prabhang as we were running out of time. Phonsali would have to wait...

To get to the bus stop we had to walk past a butcher’s house. The drying entrails made us both gag, but as we walked past, the inhabitants arm deep in bloody buffalo intestines, smiled cheerily at us. The bus journey back via Uthomxia (where we stopped for lunch) took all day. The bus was leaking gas at one point, but eventually we made it back to Luang Prabhang with frequent pit stops to eat. We were disheveled and tired and snapping at each other by the time we arrived late that evening.
Luang Prabhang revived our spirits instantly and the next day we did a lovely kayaking trip on the Khan river where both Rina and I took some spectacular falls while we attempted to negotiate the rocks and zigzagged our way down the river. Our abysmal kayaking skills ensured that we spent more time in the water than actually navigating it.

And now it was already our last day. I walked down the street, camera slung around my neck, on the look out for something that would catch my eye. I consoled myself thinking I was in Luang Prabhang, and there was no shortage of wonderous sights, even if I had missed the monk walk that morning. Scarcely 100 yards away from the guest house, I came upon a bunch of women huddled by the side of the road. They looked like khiaw niuaw sellers, judging by the bamboo baskets by their sides. I walked over, hoping to see Phon Chan and Thong, the two women I had met on my very first morning. Sure enough they were both there and we rapturously greeted each other like long lost friends. They made me pose with the bamboo baskets and their friend Noy took pictures while all the other women stood around laughing.

They started to gather up their bundles and I followed. As we were walking, Phon Chan reached into one of the bamboo baskets and thrust a bunch of bananas at me. Confused, I started to refuse when Phon Chan silenced me by saying, “For you. No money. Present”. I was really touched and mimed what I was feeling by putting both hands on my heart and wiping away imaginary tears. They found this hilarious and and indicated they were going to the river. I understood they were on their way home and thought I would see them on their way. We walked down to the Mekong where they pointed out their village on the bank opposite. Their boat was a long wooden one with a motor and Phet, the youngest and prettiest, took four women and dropped them off. When she came back, the remaining five women asked me if I wanted to go in the boat with them. I happily agreed and they decided I needed a Mekong river tour.

We drifted down the river looking at the morning sights while I chatted with Noy.


So, we set off down the river while they chortled and called out to the fishermen and villagers on the banks, charging them to pose for me.

At some point Noy said something to the rest which galvanized them into action. Phet pulled up by the side of the river and everybody got out and ran to the different shacks around as if in search of something. I was puzzled, when it dawned on me that they might be searching for Lao beer which I had told Noy I liked! We came to a tea shack and I found that they were selling beer. Deciding this was a good way to thank them for their hospitality, I bought some beer and invited the ladies to join me.
Magically glasses appeared and then a roll of new pink toilet paper which was ceremoniously opened. With great solemnity, Thong wiped the glasses carefully with the toilet paper and then we poured the beer and started to drink.

Hai, the oldest woman took off to the little kitchen on the side of the shack and came back with scrambled eggs doused in fish oil which we all ate with sticky rice. I, as the relatively wealthy foreigner was not expected to pay for everything and that more than anything made me relax. I learned their names and a bit about their lives.

The kids who were running the tea shack, were watching this unusual scene in fascination and after a while Noy ran off to the veggie gardens and returned with miniature green watermelons which she cut up for everybody. Noy was absolutely taken with my camera and I showed her how to take pictures.
Meanwhile Hai, who looked like the village lush, was looking rather disgruntled with just drinking beer. She took off somewhere and returned with an empty coke bottle filled with a clear yellowish liquid. “Lao Lao” she crowed in delight and the others cheered while I mimed absolute horror because I knew just how potent this local whisky could be. When our beer glasses were empty, Hai poured us each some Lao lao and we started doing shots at approximately 8:30 in the morning.
Then some dried, fried animal was brought to the table which they insisted I eat. It was vile, with a chewy rubbery texture and I didn’t dare ask what it was. A few other women from the village came by to look at what was going on and were invited to join the party. The kids started to play Lao pop on their boom box and that’s when things started to get really wild.

The women had all seen Indian movies dubbed in Thai and insisted I dance for them. And so I did! My faux Bollywood dance steps were much appreciated and soon we were all dancing and laughing. Phet who was very shy, was the last to get out of her seat and she turned out to be the best dancer of our lot.
At some point, I realized I had a flight to catch so I begged them to take me back. Reluctantly, the festivities came to a close. Hai had almost passed out and the others tried to tip toe away but she drunkenly insisted on coming back with us. Our merry bunch headed back to the Luang Prabhang side of the river and we said our tearful goodbyes after many hugs and handshakes.
I spoke no Lao and they, very little English, but we had understood each other perfectly on this magical morning. And a good time was had by all. It was the perfect end to a perfect holiday.


March, 2007




Cuba

“No es facil” (It isn’t easy) is a common refrain in Cuba. More so than any other country I have visited, Cuba throws up unanswered questions and forces you to look within, at your own belief system. A closet socialist and an admirer of Cuba’s determined stance against the bullying, destabilizing tactics of its powerful neighbor, I came here prepared to fall in love with the country and its people. However, the more I saw, the more, the realization dawned that this system was simply not working. It’s not like me to be pessimistic and in my admittedly short visits to places I tend to focus on the positive. So what was it about Cuba that churned me up so?
Cuba certainly has more than its fair share of the positives. The country is a photographer’s delight and one can be trigger happy here, looking at life through colorful frame after frame. It’s all undeniably beguiling, especially with a Mojito or Cuba Libre (made with good Cuban Ron) in hand.
The humor, pride, and the sheer physical beauty of its people are one of its biggest assets. Cubans, who range in color from blue-black to café con leche to milky white, seem truly racially integrated in a way that few countries achieve. Cuba provides its citizens with free medical benefits, housing and a monthly food ration. The state provides free education and there is about 97% literacy. One fact among many jumped out at me: There are over 400 million illiterate women worldwide and not one of them is Cuban. No slouch in the natural beauty department, Cuba has the feel of a Caribbean island with its famed coastline of soft white sand, azure waters and lush tropical vegetation. And just when one tires of plains dotted with sugar cane and tobacco fields, there are cool mountains to escape to, like the Sierra Maestra range that sheltered guerillas during the revolution.
Cuba is infused with music. It blares out of radios from every house and bands, good, bad, indifferent play in bars and restaurants every where. Major towns have a Casa de la Musica and a Casa de la Trova which play traditional music (Son, Trova and Afro Cuban) to packed audiences. Towns have colonial buildings, huge parks, open plazas and cobbled streets where folks gather to gossip while kids play improvised games of baseball, with nothing more than a stick and a bottle cap. Soccer, chess and marbles are popular too, and we often saw groups of men aggressively slamming tiles in hotly contested games of dominoes.
It was fiesta time in June when the three of us arrived and alcohol flowed in the streets of Trinidad and Camaguey with strangers happily sharing swigs of beer with us. Beer was sold in trucks bearing huge vats and people scrambled over each other in their eagerness to fill jerry cans and bottles with this inexpensive, golden elixir. Pigs roasted whole, stared beadily at us even while being shredded into sandwiches. Pizzas, pork, rice and black beans and ice cream were imbibed in staggeringly huge quantities. At night the plazas came alive with scantily clad teens moving their bodies to latin pop and salsa. We joined revelers in Congo processions down the streets and gawked at floats and bands in the parades. On one very special night, we witnessed the rueda, aka the Casino, which is the infinitely complicated and very beautiful salsa, danced in circles. Another magical afternoon in Santiago, by sheer luck, we chanced upon energetic rehearsals of Cutumba, a world famous Afro-Cuban folkloric dance group.
Cubans seem born with the ability to move with grace and rhythm and it’s a common sight to have people just get up and dance in restaurants when the mood strikes. And no matter how much we tried, we failed to achieve the skill that enabled them to shake from head to toe in the frenzied manner of a person electrocuted.
As one can imagine, people are pretty relaxed about sex too and the official age of consent for girls is 14. In a parody of their mothers, even little girls of 3 and 4 strut around dressed provocatively and kids couple up from 9 or 10 onwards. Machismo rules and men leer and make suggestive comments at all women who pass by. It reached a point, when our lone male had to claim both us women as his own to avoid more unwelcome attention.
Religion is one of the most misunderstood aspects of Cuban culture. The state relaxed its stance on atheism in 1992 and believers were allowed to join the ranks of the communist party. Every house we visited had a picture of Christ or the Virgin and the Pope’s visit in 1998 seemed to have been a cataclysmic event in this predominantly Catholic nation. It was strangely moving to visit the serene shrine of the patron saint of Cuba, La Virgen de la Caridad in the mining town of El Cobre. In a little room, believers had provided offerings like metal sculptures of body parts, golden statues of guerrillas (apparently Castro’s mother had made one for the safety of her son), degree certificates, a TV, a balsa wood raft sculpture (our guide book surmised that the person made it safely across the straits of Florida) and even an Olympic medal. There was also a poster with a map praying for the release of prisoners of conscience held in locations all over Cuba.
The nation has a young history which seems alive in a way that’s alien to those of us from older civilizations. The poster boy of the revolution is of course, Che Guevara and he is everywhere, on murals, postcards, posters, propaganda hoardings and on the red 3 peso notes that hustlers sell on street corners. Ironically, the Marxist icon has become a consumer product. Children in schools are exhorted to “Be Like Che” but I suspect our hero’s rakish good looks and early death have contributed to the legend. With his fundamental honesty, I am convinced that even Comandante Che would have been terribly disillusioned with the state of Cuba today.
The airport in Habana was modern despite painfully slow immigration procedures. Officials did not stamp our passports and we were issued tourist cards instead. The airport was festooned with flags of different nationalities and there was even one of the US (I checked!). There were visa only ATMs and modern Korean air-conditioned taxis. The drive to Centro Habana started to reveal more. Hundreds of people wait in queues for two humped buses called Camellos that arrive already filled past capacity. Tourists have their own special buses and are thankfully exempt from the ordeal of using public transport. Vintage Corvettes and Chevys ply the streets. Dilapidated old colonial buildings looking dangerously shaky assault the senses. In the city center, run down restaurants serve up meager fare and vegetables like tomatoes and potatoes ubiquitous everywhere else, seem a rarity. But it’s the raw need you see in every face that gets to you. Children, men and women in the street are desperately trying to sell you something or asking for money and goods. This is what proud Cubans have been reduced to.
During the “special period” in 1990 after the fall of the USSR, Cuba went through times of great economic hardship. When the government decided to open its doors to tourism as a means of filling empty state coffers, it set in motion the double economy that both plagues and sustains Cuba today. Almost all hotels and restaurants are owned and operated by the state, which explains the terrible service everywhere. Not having enough state owned hotels and restaurants to cope with the tourist influx, the state has reluctantly allowed for some private enterprise. Casa particulars (B& B’s) and private restaurants (paladares) have sprung up everywhere and in spite of crippling taxes and restrictions, there’s fierce competition for tourist dollars. Paladares operate out of residences, are not allowed to have more than 12 tables, can’t employ people other than family members and are unable to serve shrimp, lobster or beef. And we had wondered why hamburgers sold in these places were made solely of ham!
Cuba has a dual currency system where tourists use CUCs or Cuban Convertible Pesos (8 CUCs = 10 UD$) and the general population uses local pesos called Moneda National (about 26 local pesos= 1 CUC). Our outdated guidebooks were wrong and US dollars were not in circulation at all. Government monthly salaries are capped in the range of about 45 CUCs and people have to try and supplement this income. As we paid about 15-25 CUC per night for a room, casa particular owners are earning several times what their compatriots are and this has created a dual economy. Homes we stayed at were plush, with air conditioners, televisions, camcorders, washing machines, fridges and often servants too. Our hosts lived well and provided tables laden with foods like lobster and shrimp for us. We saw for ourselves in supermarkets that consumer goods and foods were available in Cuba, but only some could afford to buy them. People without access to tourist money are forced to beg or supplement their income illegally. The dual economy has created a class system, something the revolution fought so hard against. On the positive side, prices of many goods and services are regulated and have been the same for years. A trip to the famed ice cream parlor, Copelia, in Santiago was an eye-opener as we saw even skinny waifs tucking away 8 scoops of ice cream with ease. All this gluttony cost only a few local pesos.
Inefficiency is rampant, in government offices everywhere. For every job, there are several personnel, who do little other than sit around and chat. The only efficient business we saw was that of the Partagas cigar factory. Cigar rolling is a serious, skilled business and workers have to pass exams and tests to qualify. Every Thursday, workers are entertained by performers, but contrary to popular rumor, cigars are not rolled on the thighs of virgin mulatto beauties. Like everywhere else in Cuba, workers in the factory were obsessed with the results of the World Cup (Copa Mundial) and Brazil was a hot favorite.
Back on the road, plush casa particulars coexist with glorified shanties on the same street. We were curious about homes and how they had been allotted and were told that families stayed on in homes they owned prior to the revolution. Cubans are not able to buy or sell their homes and so growing families are forced to share living spaces. Many attribute the high divorce rate to cramped living conditions. People can trade homes, but a great deal of money passes hands illegally during such transactions. Poor people are forced into living in unhygienic and often unsafe homes because these are not exchangeable. Cubans are also restricted from moving towns without government permission. Just a few streets away from the beautifully renovated city center in Old Havana, are old apartment blocks that collapse with frightening regularity. A trip to rundown China town made even us, hardened veterans of poverty (from India!), blanch. Rural areas seem better off somehow. There are also tourist areas and beaches that are out of bounds for Cubans and these are supposedly hotspots of luxury.
We, like many other tourists, stuck to casa particulars recommended in our guide books or those recommended to us by these casa owners. It was annoying to be solicited so strongly by hustlers (jineteros) and we had started to ignore people who approached us in streets as we knew there was invariably a catch. The guidebooks recommended various strategies that we tried, but with little success. Later, we were shamed by some of well spoken educated jineteros who told us how hard it was to break into the market and how much they were harassed by local police. And so we talked to everybody, rebuffed some (especially offers of kisses!) and took other people up on offers to eat meals illegally at their homes. We were sometimes ripped off, but it was worth it. A strike for free enterprise and entrepreneurship!
While healthcare is free, medicines are very hard to come by and the monthly ration is woefully inadequate. People may be highly educated, but jobs are few. We met engineers who drove taxis and chartered accountants and professors who solicited us in the streets. Internet access is hard to get and international calling rates are among the highest I have ever seen. Corruption is endemic….even in the Capitolio National, the former seat of the government, the lady in the cloakroom openly asked for tips and then attempted to sell us 3 peso Che notes. In restrooms too you need to pay the attendants before you can get toilet paper or soap.
The wily Fidel Castro has always managed to turn things to his advantage, but politically Cuba seems poised on the brink of disaster. The daily struggle for survival is taking its toll. Everybody knows things will change after Castro (he is 80 after all) but nobody knows what direction this will take. They seem resigned to wait it out and while many openly criticize Castro, there is no doubt that he is also admired.
It’s hard to separate out how much suffering in Cuba is due to the US embargo and how much is due to a failure in governance. Both I suspect have played a role. And so the questions keep coming…What should good governance look like? Which political system works best? How socialist should a government be in order to protect those who need it? When and how much violence is justified in a revolution? Is violence justifiable at all?
But days later, back home as I walk around Singapore looking at its grim, unsmiling prosperous citizens, I can’t help but compare it to the love of life we saw reflected in hundreds of smiling, generous Cuban faces. So many we met who were willing to share their lives with us, like chain smoking Migdalia of midnight feasts and video games, Caridad mother of all tourists, the chess master of Santiago, hosts Humberto and Cari, serenading musician Eddy Mendoza, bicitaxi drivers, lusty taxi drivers and wily jineteros. I believe, the world has lessons in grace to learn from Cuba on how life is meant to be lived when things “no es facile”.

Burmese Daze

I dream about Burma every night, of golden pagodas appearing from nowhere in the midst of stark, dry landscapes, of monks collecting alms at dusk, of the sluggish brown Ayeyarwady river, the unrelenting heat, the hum of haggling in the gem markets, ladies with beautiful thanaka smeared faces, of men in elegant longyis and of the gentlest, kindest people I have ever met.
It’s a different world in a different time. Streets are sparsely populated with vintage cars and packed buses held together by rust and willpower. Imagine if you will, a life without ATMs (or travelers checks!), traffic jams and innumerable cell phones. There is change happening, but not at the breakneck speed which one sees elsewhere in the developing world. I wonder how long Burma can keep the world at bay. The process has already begun in tourist rich areas where touts have a twang to their English and cynicism in their hard sell. We found it hard to tell rich from poor Burmese as mostly everybody dressed the same to our untutored eyes.
Nobody ever talks about politics and every now and then, you see a signboard denouncing foreign devils to remind you of just where you are. People tell stories of acquaintances vanishing silently and of course no one has seen Aung San Suu Kyi in years. It’s hard to picture the “junta” as the enemy as even people in uniforms break out in smiles as we greet them in Burmese, saying mingala ba (perhaps it was the atrocious pronunciation?!). One curious thing we found was that golf shops abound-apparently it’s a favorite pastime of the hard hitting generals.
Department stores are filled with everything one could ever want but the prices are often ridiculously high. Currency used is the kyat (chaat) or the dollar and kyat prices are higher than $ prices in most places.
Yangon was memorable for the Shwedagon Paya, whose gleaming, golden stupa dominates the city skyline. It has been said that there is more gold in this pagoda than in the vaults of the bank of England. Watching daybreak in this powerfully spiritual place is not to be missed. We also got to see a novitiate ceremony where little boys all decked up, get to become monks for a short period, a rite of passage for the Burmese male. Our hostess overheard a Burmese tour guide solemnly explain to Taiwanese tourists that the males were called monks and the females, nunks! How perfectly logical, and nunks, is how they shall be known for the rest of my life!
Thanks to the generosity of my resident friend Janet, we also got a glimpse of the expat life in Yangon-trendy bars and restaurants, service apartments, maids and drivers, embassy parties and softball games. The same as expatriate life anywhere, in fact.
On the road to Mandalay, we stayed in a hotel, which we realized later was government run. Mandalay was memorable for a marionette show and a wizened old master puppeteer who gave me a hug when he realized I was from India. Much to my disappointment, we missed the famous Moustache Brothers and their satirical show. We did however eat the best food of our trip in Mandalay, Shan cuisine in the Lashio Lay restaurant, a massive meal for under $3 a head. We took a ride up the Mandalay Hill partly by trishaw driven by a retired primary teacher and partly in a tiny blue locally built car proudly bearing the license plate Gold finger! We preferred the serene white stupas at Sandamuni Pagoda at the base of the hill to the view on top. Trish, another friend returned from a day’s trip to the earthquake damaged, cave temples at Mingun with glowing accounts of what she had seen. Dinner at the City Cafe was a disappointment-we ended up being forced to eat Spaghetti Bolognese while vegetarian Rina picked listlessly at deep fried veggies. Next morning at 5:45 am as we sat sipping tea in the lobby, the lobby manager came up to us and said, “Excuse me, if you don’t mind, I request you to please get in the car as your boat leaves at 6 am.” Talk of being polite!!! A mad car ride later we arrived just in time at the docks.

The boat ride down the Ayerrawady was definitely something to remember, moving our $2 chairs across the burning deck in search of elusive shade and breeze. Even a surreptitious massage, surprisingly decent food and Mandalay beer barely sustained us through eleven hours of being slowly baked to a crisp. The Bagan Hotel, when we arrived finally was like an oasis in the dessert, none of us wanted to leave, ever again!

Bagan was mind blowing with its 2000 plus temples and stupas from the 11th-13th centuries. The next two days went past in a whirl of visiting the sites, buying lacquerware and scouting out the best local food. (Green Elephant gets my vote!). Rina and I were up earlier and earlier to beat the heat, and my system is only now recovering from shock. Our favorite mode of transport was Mr. Tin’s horse cart, where Rina made a close study of the bowel movements of equines with some truly shocking findings! Bicycles also made for a leisurely ride around this ancient site.

Our return flight to Mandalay took 30 minutes as opposed to 11 hours by boat, but of course nothing memorable happened. Mandalay airport was impressively modern compared to Yangon which was like a throwback to early airports in India.

Yangon on our return was reserved for shopping. We bought jade, gems, wooden carvings, spoons and umbrellas in the Scott Market and enjoyed every bit of the good humored bargaining with the storekeepers. We even found time for a longyi tying lesson much to the amusement of the shop girls.

I had waited so long for this reunion of friends but before we could gratefully say “jezu tin ba day”, the trip was over.

And every night I still dream of Burma….

Shabari, March 2006