if you haven't seen any of yasha's writing before please check out the previous post.

28/2/07

At first glance the ferry ride from Butterworth to Georgetown seems strangely reminiscent of the ferry ride to the southern Indian city of Cochin. Plainly both these towns are situated on easily defensible coastal islands and both towns were founded by colonial powers. In Cochin's case the Porteguese took control in the seventeenth century. It wasn't until a hundred years later that the tide of colonial ambiton and the English washed up on the western coast of Malaysia.

But here the similarities between the two islands ends. The English imported Indians from their own holdings in both southern and northern India to work in the agricultural plantions of Penang, Malacca and Kuala Lumpur. At the same time Chinese miners flooded down from an overcrowded and oppressive mainland China it work in the tin mines of the Malayasian interior.

Today this ethnic melange has produced a rich and vibrant cultural that is niether entirely Malay, Chinese or Indian. But it is undoubtedly Malaysian.

We've spent several weeks here in Georgetown, walking through street after street of crumbling Chinese shop houses. The breadth of Chinese culture is deep here, deeper even than in mainland China, where the cultural revolution eliminated the old ways forever. In the Chinatown of Georgetown you can walk down an ancient street and then wander into a two hundred year old clan hall.
There, surrounded by incrediably intricate and gold painted wooden carvings, are the tablets which record the geneology of the clan.

At first we couldn't understand what this was all about. We stopped some people and asked, "Is this a Buddhist temple or what?" And the answer was yes and no. Mostly clan halls perserve the local gods - or protectors - that the original clan members brought with them from China. To the right and left of the main shrine is a shrine to a god of prosperity and then frequently a shrine ot Kuan-yin, the goddes of compassion. On a busy morning the clan hall is full people franticly lighting incense and rushing from shrine to shine, paying homage to ancestors, praying for prosperity and begging for mercy. The air is cloudy and scented with incense; light slanting down from the central courtyard reveals a scene that could have been in the middle ages. it is fascinating.

After viewing the mideval atmosphere in the clan temples we would return to our hotel, the Oasis Hotel, on the apptly name Love Lane. Love Lane had an atmoshphere of a different sort.
By day, the ancient shophouses seemed the same as the rest of chinatown, but at night, the hookers came out to play. Some were tall and attractive but with a strikingly deep voice. Others hung out at a street corner, creating a tableau like something out of the Parisian photographs Brassai. The clerks themselves at the Hotel Oasis had an ambigious sexuality, frequently sitting outside the hotel, drinking singha beer with the transvestites on the long, hot, langorous afternoons.

We timed our visit in Georgetown to be during Chinese New Year, and during that week there were never-ending lion dances, puppet shows, Chinese opera on a mainstage, traditional music with fiddle and zither, and of course, a dangerous amount of firecrackers. We had a wonderful time. But what made it even more wonderful was that the Chinese people were so eager to show us their culture. We stood in numerous clan halls, furiously shooting photographs, and people would move around us as if we weren't even there, bowing, placing incense before a shrine, and then someone would stand beside us and explain exactly what was going on. Yesterday afternoon, for example, we quietly sat in the gold maker's hall, drinking tea watching a group of men playing mah jong. The periodic clicking of the pieces as they were shuffled, the bird-like movements of their hands, were hypnotic in a way that we rarely experience in our busy lives. I cant emphasize enough how much fun it was.

Of equal fun was our trip to the Tamen Negara National Park. (I was just told that tamen negara means national park, so somehow i've got the name wrong)
Perhaps the confusion stems from the fact that Tamen Negara was the first national park in Malaysia, established by the English in 1939. Initially it was a game preserve to safeguard the dwindling numbers of Seldang, a large and aggressive wild buffalo. In time Tamen Negara became the premier national park on mainland Malaysia, with thousands and thousandsof acres of pristine tropical rainforst, wild elephant and tigers.

We spent a week trekking in Tamen Negara, sleeping in elevated game watching blinds or "hides". The first "hide" we slept in was perhaps the best. Yasha and I were the only ones there, sleeping on a pair of hard wooden bunkbeds. It was a rare experince to see the jungle gradually going dark, and to hear animal calls increasing, not decreasing, as the daylight waned. We sat in silence holding each other, watching firefles rise into the star-filled night.

But trekking in the jungle has its own rules, far different from that of a temperate climate. After a rain storm, for example, the leeches would come out. We had one twelve kilometer hike where the leeches pursued us so hotly that we really couldn't stop. To rest we would stand on a fallen log above the ground and flick the leeches off our shoes with a stick. After awhile our legs were dripping with blood from leech bites. But strangely enough, their bite contains both an anesthetic and an anti-coagulant, so the wound doesn't hurt even though it bleeds quite freely. In the end it just becomes another inconvenience that can be dealt with. Unfortunately we met some other trekkers who weren't as well prepared as us. They were trekking in sandels, so after a couple of kilometers their feet resembled a pair of bloody stumps! ouch! It hurt just to look at.

Perhaps most amazing about the rainforest was the amount of species diversification. In an acre of forest there are more than two hundred species of trees, all competing for sunlight. (as a brief aside, yesterday we went for a walk through the jungle out to the lighthouse here on penang island. After picking some pitcher plants were told that there were 24 different species of pitcher plant on Penang and mainland Malaysia). In Tamen Negara there are hundreds of species of rattan, a bamboo like plant, and in many areas this was a dominant component of the jungle. What differentiates the rattan from the bamboo is that the rattan uses spines to keep itself erect. If a stem falls over (and some are sixty feet tall) the spines along its stem will catch on neighboring trees to hold it up. Other rattens trailed long tendrils of spines through the air, some like long strings of razor wire, and more than once, while walking blithly along, I was impaled in the nose or eyebrow by a virtually invisible razor wire of green.

We spent a week all in all in Tamen Negara: one night we slept ontop of picnic tables in a fishing shelter while a storm raged outside, the rest of the time we slept in hides. We learned that we could make our way through this jungle, but that walking, due to the heat, perhaps isn't the best way to go. On our next adventure, in Sarawak, we plan to explore by boat....

seeing burma the slow way

it's hard to describe myanmar in a few sentences... as peter has pointed out it's a complex country with a long history.
what struck me maybe most is how very friendly, openminded + welcoming the burmese people are. the living standard of the average burmese is very low compared to that of many other countries around. very few people own cars + those you see are dented old models that have been on the road for a long time. most people get by with their old bicycle or the ox-cart, or if they are more successful financially they might drive a moped. the only new cars we saw (apart from government vehicles) were the tourist busses that are operated for the package tourists + ply the few well maintained stretches of road between any official tourist site + the nearest airstrip. since all land travel is slow + bumpy most tourists on a 1-week-tour jet from yangon to mandalay, take the tourist-cruise along the irrawaddy to bagan + from there jet to inle lake before the flight back to yangon. undoubtedly, you will see a lot of beautiful places this way; however, you probably won't mingle much with the average burmese. also, a big chunk of your tourist dollars will find their way into the pockets of the government which heavily taxes these package tour establishments.

another way of seeing myanmar is to take time + join the locals on old dented minibusses that pack an incredible amount of people, live stock + goods, or squeeze onto a hard wooden bench on a truck bed among families, monks + nuns; the young guys usually prefer to stand on the ledge or ride on the roof amidst boxes, crates + baskets. it's not the most comfortable mode of traveling, it's invariable very slow because of numerous stops to pick up more + even more passengers, but it's an excellent way of meeting people + making friends.

on the s-l-o-w train down from the shan hills we got to sample many local delicacies that were offered by our fellow travelers + in turn we shared the cookies + fruit we had packed for the ride. another day we spent tuckering along on a ferry through the canals in the irrawaddy delta watching the rural life on the shore. the only way to get back was on the back bench of a crowded bus that rattled along the pot holes tossing us about. a young muslim scholar insisted on offering us his seat so we wouldn't hit the roof standing in the aisle.

wherever we went we were greeted with hospitality, curiosity + lots of giggles. the further away from the tourist tracks the broader the smiles. burmese are gentle + beautiful people, nobody seems to be in a hurry + nowhere did we hear harsh words. considering that the media are still censored + foreign books are hard to come by - as foreign products in general (no mcdonald's or starbucks here!)- burmese are surprisingly well informed about the world + politics outside myanmar. everywhere we went people came up to chat or just practice there english, yet open criticism is not the burmese way. the local head of the "national league for democracy" that we talked to acknowledged cautiously that equality + freedom are still far off, that it is only a small percentage of people who benefit from the package tourists, but welcomed us with a smile + assured us that he wants foreigners to visit + see his beautiful country + support their plea for more openness by sharing our appreciation + concern with our friends + family back home.

most burmese men + women wear their traditional longhy, a sarong-like cloth wrapped around the waist + knotted (for men) or tucked in at the waist (for women), a practical garment that can be worn bathing or sleeping. most women use the traditional tanakha to protect their faces from the harsh sun, a beige wooden paste that is applied to cheeks, nose + forehead. i did not see many women with short hair, apart from the buddhist nuns (+ there are an astounding number of nuns + monks of all ages). most women have looong beautiful glossy black hair, often waist-long, sometimes down to their knees. we saw several women gracefully riding their bicycle with their long hair wrapped around their shoulders like a long shawl.

although myanmar is home to many muslims, hindus + christians the vast majority of burmese are devout buddhists. pagodas + chedis dot the country side. even the smallest hamlet has at least one pagoda + a monastery. people can be found praying or bringing offerings any time of the day. as everywhere in asia merit-making is taken very serious. one might have little money to live on but a good part of it will be spent on offerings to the buddhas + nats (local protective deities).

any occasion to celebrate is welcome. we arrived on a national holiday at the end of a week-long celebration. many streets were closed off + loudspeakers set up to transmit music late into the night. coming from bangkok burma felt like a time-warp, refreshingly low-tech + slow-paced. kids + adults gathered in the streets to play barefoot soccer. teenagers played badminton. little ones gathered around the popsicle-cart. games + races were in progress + i realized that it had been a long time that i have seen old + young mingling like this.

all in all - myanmar is a magical place that takes time to discover + i'm looking forward to return + see more of it. i hope you will, too.

yasha

Myanmar
Jan-Feb, 2007


In a land far away, across the oceans of place and time, lies a place called "the golden land". In truth it is the land that time forgot. Travel to the capital of the golden land, Yangoon, formerly called Rangoon, and you are immediately confronted by a place that looks like India, like Calcutta, but it isn't. Immense colonial buildings some painted pink, or blue, or hot yellow, slowly decay in the tropical sun. The power supply is intermittent, so at times the city is illuminated at night like any other city, and the giant golden spires of the pagodas shine like a searchlight into the sky. More commonly, the city is plunged into darkness, and business is transacted by candlelight.

But already I am mistaken about Myanmar. The capital, Yangoon, formerly known as Rangoon is no longer the capital. Fearful of attack from their perceived enemy, the United States of America, and advised my a number of astrologers, the military government that rules Myanmar moved, one dark and rainy night, the entire capital to a small town some hundred km away. Today, hardly anyone knows where it is.

One hundred years ago Myanmar, formerly Burma, was a small holding of the great colonial power, England. The English quickly overwelmed the limited defences of Burma, sent the king into exile, carted off as many gold covered Buddha statues as they could, and then settled into a century of beign neglect.

One thousand years before the English came to Burma the Buddha did, or so it is told. He left behind giant footprints, pieces of hair that became the centerpieces of glittering temples, and culture of mindfullness and awareness that even the tropical sun and rain couldn't dim.

It was World War II that began the serious troubles. Hundreds of thousands of people died, almost every town was bombed, and the local culture was devestated. With the war's conclusion, Burma sued for independence from England. This was quickly granted. But since then the various generals that have controled Burma have embarked on ill conceived economic experiments. All the chinese and indians, the shopkeepers, were driven out. Thousands were executed. The local currency, the kyat, was devalued overnight, to make a classless society. Instead of rich and poor, everyone was poor. To signal the dawn of a new day, even the name of the country was changed, from Burma to Myanmar. And over the country a darkness settled that even the golden temples couldn't shake. This is the land that time forgot.

We spent a month in Myanmar in January. Much of it was similar to the last time I visited, ten years ago. The people are still incrediably friendly, the roads still unbelievibly poor, and the devotion of the average person for buddhism still equally intense. Unfortunately though I wasn't able to post anything to this blog while in Myanmar, it just wasn't practical. So instead of writing about everywhere we went I'm just going to write about one place, and hopefully that will suffice.

When you think about development in a third world country you have to ask yourself, "what would that look like? Who would benefit? What are the pitfalls?" In mid January we left the dusty Are Iwaddy plain and traveled into the hills of the souther Shan state to visit one of Myanmar's most famous tourist destinations, Inle Lake. As a tourist destination Inle Lake is forced to confront the issues of development that most other locations in Myanmar merely wished they had. But more of that later.

Set in a shallow bowl between two golden brown ridges Inle Lake looks like a chip of liquid sky has fallen to earth. It extends as far as the eye can see, from the village of Nyaungshwe in the north for more than thirty misty miles to the south. The amazing thing is that the shoreline is hard to find; there isn't any really. Instead, the water imperceptably turns into floating marsh islands that have been cultivated in a neverending series of gardens. To prevent the islands from drifting away they are anchored along their length by tall bamboo poles driven into the bottom. Amongst the floating gardens are some 17 villages on stilts. Almost all of them are only accessed only by boat.

I had visited Inle Lake some ten years before. Sadly, I was suffering from a case of traveler's dysentary at that time. Although I cant remember much about Inle, except for the path to and from the toilet, I can still remember the place that gave me the dysentary, and the young mother holding her barebottomed child in her arms as she served me some foul tasting soup in Mingun.

Even then I can remember Inle Lake to be a touristy town. There was an organized infrastructure of cheap hotels for backpackers and a jetty where motorboats took tourists on tours around the lake. I hadn't taken the tour back then, but Yasha and I had decided that this time, even if it was touristy, we would do it.

Yet on our first night in Inle Lake we were given a bit of a shock. We were hanging around the jetty at dusk when, a fleet of immense tourist buses began to arrive. Plainly they had just made the trip from the airport, some thirty miles distant, and hadn't made the bone-jarring 15 hour drive from Yangoon or Mandaly. These were all package tourists, on a two-week tour of Myanmar. They were helped down from the bus and directly into a motorlaunch. Their samsonite baggage was loaded, and off they went in a cloud of spray. Something major was going on.

Later we learned that five mega resorts have been positioned around the lake, and that the packpackers, although they contribute more money to the local economy then the package tours do, have become the minority.

At this point, Yasha dug in her heels. She wasn't going to go on some expensive tour on the lake with a bunch of other tourists. I agreed, but it seemed a shame to come all that distance and not explore the lake just due to our outraged moral principles. So the following day we decided to rent bicycles instead.

We cycled in the early morning sun on a dirt path between two marshes. Naked children were riding on the backs of water buffaloes, hordes of ducks were squaking, and golden light illuminated everything with grace. It was beautiful.
After awhile, we stopped by a huge, seemingly abandoned monestary. Constructed all of wood, it stood on pilings above the marshy lake front. We walked inside. At least it looked abandoned. The entire first floor was bare, but in the corner there were several pairs of sandals next to the stairs to the second floor. We ascended to find two old monks sitting on a carpeted platform. In the front of the hall, wooden Buddhas, gold painted and seeming of great age, surmounted the alter. No wonder the monks lived in the shrine room, it was probably the only way to deter smugglers. Then, surprisingly, they offered us lunch.

Later we continued on our way. We cycled down a dirt road to find a group of villages rebuilding a crumbling group of stupas (zedis) and buddha statues. We wanded to the lake front. Immediately a woman asked us if we wanted to go out in their canoe. Why not? We paddled out to their village, which was set on stilts admist floating tomato gardens. Just to the south of us we could see the imitation Shan archetecture of a mega resort. It seemed odd, probably none of the westerners in the resort had even been to this village.

After paddeling for some time we went to their house. Set on stilts, with walls of woven bamboo, it comprised a mere two rooms. A little gangplank in the back led to the outhouse. Of course, it emptied directly into the lake. Not more then ten feet away people were bathing. One room of the house had a bed, with a mosquito net, for husband, wife, and three children. The other room was virtually bare. a broken mirror stood on a shelf, two chairs were against the wall, and everyone just squatted next to the fire. The children were chewing on pieces of just-cut sugar cane.

When we left, we paid our new friend 2,000 kyat. That wasn't even two dollars.
Several hundred yards away poeple were relaxing in their hundred dollar room and probably preparing for a spa treatment. It all seemed obscene. But who is to blame? The military government, that enjoys wealth yet deliberately keeps its population poor? The sanctions imposed by the Bush administration on Myanmar? The deliberatly valueless kyat? Even Yasha and I are complicit; in America we aren't even considered middle class, yet in myanmar we have what no one else has, the right to vote.

When we paddled back to our cycles our heads were spinning. There really isn't anything we could do to help these people. All we could do was show them that we had hearts, just like them, and that we cared. Quickly we got on our bikes and rode off. Yes, this is the land that time forgot. But i guess it is now our job to make sure that people in other countries dont forget.