One of the problems I have been experiencing while on the road is how predictive text seems to mess up what I write – it omits some words, introduces others that I haven’t thought of and occasionally keeps repeating letters, for example I want to type ‘the average temperature here is’, I end up with ‘ttttttttthhhhhhhheeeeeee aaaaaaaaaavvvvvvvvveeeeeeerrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaagggggggggeeeeeeee tttttttttyytteeeeeeeeemmmmmmmmmmmpppppppppeeeeeeerrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaatttttttttyuuuuuuurrrrrrttteeeeeeeer iiiiiiiiiiisssss’ , so you get the idea how frustrating it is to have to deal with. It sends one bananas.
Talking about bananas yesterday I engaged in an epic walk to Banana Mountain locally known as Ko Lin Yan. It is the site of the largest Buddha in Myanmar. In fact there are four of them sitting back to back and reaching over 60 feet above the ground.
It was a two hour hard slog to get here from Ye. Now I had to face the return journey. I had been heading south for almost an hour when a young guy rode past. He waved then carried on a short distance before turning around.
He asked where I was heading and as soon as I said Ye he beckoned me to climb on the back which was easier said than done due to two large woven rattan baskets full of the noxious durian fruit being mounted on the pillion.
I struggled to get on but eventually coaxed my body into position.He engaged gear and we sped off. I couldn’ t believe how far I’d walked, it took an age to reach town even on the speeding bike. We roared into town, slalomed around a dozen cars and trucks before disappearing down the dismal back streets and finally halting outside a Thai restaurant.
I was hungry having only eaten a little mango before breakfast.I chose the Tom Yam soup, hot and spicy, delicately flavoured with lemon grass. A young lady came over and sat opposite me. She works for the World Health Organisation on a project to reduce malaria. I asked her if it was a big problem in this area.”Oh, yes” she replied, “It is a very big problem.” I thought it best not to mention the fact I am not taking antimalarials. She took my Facebook address and went back to work.
3.6.15
In front of me is a kettle half full of luke warm tea – not strong tea, just enough flavour to make it taste like weak water. This is the way the Myanese like it. I find it refreshing.
Shortly I will be boarding a bus for a five hour journey north to Ye, capital of Mon State. Hopefully the roads will hold out – we are just entering the start of the rainy season. Already is dark and oppressive, damp and dismal and a downpour could have significant consequences for the length of the journey. Flooded roads, washed away bridges being just two.
There is a saying ‘It’s better to travel than to arrive’, I ‘m not sure I agree. Earlier I had accepted the offer of the charming hotel receptionist to order me a taxi, to take me to the bus station. I had of course allowed plenty of time. “It will be here at 12”, or at least that’s what she would have said if she could speak English, but, I understood her.
Opposite the hotel is a local school. It was break time so I stood outside waiting for the taxi. School kids laughed and waved, made jokes, some shouted to me saying hello. All good natured fun.
After 35 minutes of waiting a motor cycle pulled up alongside me. “You go bus?” “Yes” I replied surprised to say the least. The rider scooped up my large blue bag and placed it between his arms. I sat behind him one hand holding the pillion seat and the other the brim of the my hat. Altogether it was an alarming experience, no more so than when overtaking a couple of trucks. These people are crazy. Last night I saw a guy cruising along with an infant firmly held in his left arm the other on the handlebars.
It was a relief to reach the bus station until I looked around. A more disagreeable place would be hard to imagine. A strong fish odour hung on the air. Thousands of flies crawled on the floor picking themselves up from time to time to bite my legs.
I didn’t expect the bus to leave on time – at 2:00pm but after an hour and a half of hanging around in the shelter there was a sign of movement but is was only to unload some jute sacks from the bus dragging them out with the aid of a long steel hook. What an inefficient system .
I took my seat.The bus was full.A large man came up the steps and collapsed into the driver’s seat. He doubled over and prayed for ten minutes. His prayers didn’t work. We had been going, I kid you not, less than 1second when we (or he) collided with a bike. The bike was bent,the rider distressed. We continued to the other side of the bus station, about 150 yards before stopping and taking on a further twelve passengers.
Oti Kyi a zealous official then sprang up the steps demanding my documents.He scrutinised the visa, the entry stamp, then asking me where I was going. He seemed pleased with my response ” Very nice” he kept repeating as he left the bus.
Fifty yards more and another checkpoint would you believe. At this point four passengers left the bus. Why? Ahead was the open road, we began to pick and by less than a coat of automobile paint we avoid a reversing road roller.
2.6.15
It’s breakfast time, 7:45am on the roof terrace of the Shwe Mount Than Hotel. I enquire what is to eat. “You want toast with sugar?” “Do you have any jam?” “No jam.” “Fruit?” “No have.” “OK coffee – with milk.” “No have milk, sorry.”
First thing after breakfast I wanted to find the railway station and make enquiries on how to reach my next destination – Mawlamyine. Until recently foreigners were not allowed to take the line north, now like the rest of southern Myanmar it is officially open for business – theoretically. After a long walk following the left bank of the Tavoy River I moved away from the waterside passing between rows of two storey wooden homes with their customary upstairs niche into which would be placed an image of Buddha.
Four kilometres after setting out I could see the station. I walked up and peered inside. No one seemed to be around. I whistled, then shouted but it appeared deserted except for three bicycles that were propped up against a wall.
I looked around for information – it was posted up but in non Roman script. To me the Burmese language is all squiggles, uncontrolled loops, inverted horns, banjos and hypotenuses – totally unreadable unless one has consumed 10 pints of strong cider.
Spitting is taken seriously here – no discrete little coughs behind the hand but rather deep akkkkkks and then the unwanted fluid is discarded. Perhaps the main reason for this is the non stop consumption of betel nuts that leave the men with rather fetching black toothed smiles. Ladies it seems do not for the most part use this product. Many do however decorate their cheeks with white patterns which to me look agreeable.
1.6.15
I am sitting I’m not quite sure where. It has been a difficult day to say the least. However I am in a restaurant. It is almost 8.00pm, there is an hour before they stop taking orders.Menus are written up in Myanese and also a little Roman script. Translations are both interesting and amusing. Stewed pig’s legs (order 24 hours in advance), boneless duck’s feet – tempting,eel curry – no thanks leave it to the Cockneys, intestine salad -not sure if I can stomach it, fried pork fibers – hmmm, fish head in casserole soup, pig brain – makes one think?
In the end I decide on Prawn with kale plus a river fish piled with tasty vegetables cooked in a black bean sauce, and what a big fish,it was the only thing of substance I’d eaten all day, breakfasting on a little fruit and yoghurt. At 10:30am following a short motor cycle taxi ride (60 baht) the bus to the border town of Phunanrom had departed.It was an ancient affair with 6 whirling ceiling fans, four lounge type lights above the aisle and 35 narrow seats bolted to a wooden floor.In front of the driver hung a collection of garlands and to his left a small shrine. Clearly we were in good hands.
Our journey took us up through which tropical jungle and over high jagged mountains. Two hours later we had reached the border. I received my exit visa and proceeded to walk the 6 kilometres through ‘no man’s land’ to the Myanmar immigration post.It was mostly uphill and I made my upwards in a workmanlike manner ignoring the heat,the humidity and buzzing insects.
Suddenly a truck pulled up alongside and offered me a lift, I couldn’t see the driver,the man in the passenger seat was a Buddhist monk, I’d noticed him earlier at the border, shoeless, wearing unwashed yellow robes. He had a nice smile so I threw my bag in to the back of the truck,followed by my backpack, then I stood on the rear tyre and scrambled in, falling clumsily on to the bed of the truck (my back was still sore).
We arrived at an army checkpoint.The soldiers were friendly asking which football I support, the universal common denominator. From this first post I clambered back into the truck and we continued for a further 3 kilometres until we reached yet another immigration post.Here the official made a photocopy and asked me to fill in a form. He was very polite. This route has only been open for a year, in fact southern Myanmar was closed to foreigners until late 2014.
My passport was handed back fully stamped up and at the same time a Frenchman came into the hut.I had spoken to him briefly at the Thai border post. Once his formalities had been completed he suggested we travel together to share costs.I was agreeable.
He spoke a little Thai and finally after much negotiation he organised a driver to take us to Dawei. My back was still painful and I wasn’t looking forward to this next leg of the journey. The rear seat of the Nissan estate we were travelling in was nothing more than a hard bench with no concession to comfort.I squeezed in barely managing to get my size 10 boots behind the front seat.Ahead of us was a five hour journey – mostly along a hard dusty track cut through the jungle. Despite my discomfort it was an interesting experience.In the valley bottoms khaki coloured rivers roared over upturned rocks.
Periodically the most homes were visible from the roadside – platforms built a few feet above the jungle floor and then provided with a simple thatch roof to keep out the rain. Usually the sides were open and no evidence of furniture could be seen other than a few simple cooking utensils.
Eventually we pulled up at a roadside shack,a Myanmar kind of devices. Behind the shack was a toilet block.I ventured down. They were covered in corrugated sheeting with a hole cut out of the back to give light and ventilation. The lavatories were of the squat kind. Alongside the bowl is a container of water and a plastic scoop to flush the pan. The cubicle was despite the opening dark and full of flies. A hornet was buzzing around too. As usual My camera was swinging from my neck and in the poor light it caught the cubiclebside knocking off the lens cap.It fell on to the floor into a pool of stinking urine. I debated whether to pick it up.I couldn’t see anywhere to wash my hands.In the end I just went for it and then plunged my hands in to the water container.
There were three more army checkpoints to pass through;each time my passport was carefully checked before we were allowed to continue. Around 6:00pm we finally arrived at Dawei a small city that seems to be part of the jungle.
An endless procession of motorcyclists are speeding up and down the pot holed roads constantly tooting their horns as if this alone substitutes for good road sense.
One has to be vigilent for snarling dogs that are everywhere,feral, fecund, fierce and menacing.It is not that I am overly concerned with wildlife. Two nights ago I was in a bar in which a friendly rat scampered back and forth totally unconcerned by my presence. Indeed it made a change from the hundreds of geckos that shared the raft with and that would rustle inside the rattan covered walls of my room. So tonight as I gazed at the floor I wondered whether I was observing a mouse or a shrew.It seemed happy scampering back and forth and then suddenly it was on my foot. But I was wrong it wasn’t a mouse or a shrew but the mother of all roaches. For once I looked affectionately at a brown and white cat.
28.5.15
Hellfire Pass is 55 kilometres from Kanchanaburi, the location of the Kwai Bridge but they were both part of the railway that the Japanese Imperial Army wanted to be constructed as quickly as possible so that they could supply their front line troops.
The route of the railroad meant that the POWs and Asian labourers had to dig a cutting through solid rock using little more than their bare hands. Because the war was starting to go badly Japan they urgently needed the line completing and for this reason they introduced ‘speedo’. In effect this required the slave labour force to work much harder and for longer periods. As a result even more lives were lost not to mention the horrific injuries suffered by men toiling in nothing more than loin cloths and open sandals.
Curiously the Japanese erected a memorial to the men that struggled and died to build this narrow gauge rail line. It was officially dedicated in 1944, some months before the end of the war. They were unable to respect the living but felt bound to honour the dead.
My companions were Lek and Gob. Gob drove very cautiously, slowing for any hazard and respecting speed limits. It was a four hour round trip, a trip that confirmed I had underestimated the severity of my back trauma and I sat and suffered in silence in the rear street. Nevertheless the journey took us through some beautiful country. Tall mountains stretched either side of the valley in which many different crops were planted up in the rich red earth.
Around one corner we almost ran into a large group of Monkees, some sitting, others playing in the road. It was tempting to stop but the girls were hungry and kept muttering the word ‘pork’ so it was no surprise when we pulled at a roadside restaurant. I chose fish and chips, the fish was accompanied by a strange sweet sauce, not unpleasant just different. I didn’t leave anything nor did Gob who looks like an overweight Sumo wrestler.
26.5.15
Hola, yes I am on the river. There is a storm overhead. Maybe we are in for a downpour. Outside my raft someone is netting small fish. Three other men are wading along the river casting their nets to and fro.
Today in spite of my bad back (that is really painful) I put on my camera bag and set off for the mountains and a temple hidden away in them.
I walked over the infamous bridge and followed the rail line but after a while, going toward Myanmar the Thai rail authorities have begun renewing the track, and the new track is much more difficult to walk along, not least due to the coarse ballast they have used to infill between the sleepers.
After a while I began to follow a small country road, banana plantations and rice fields were either side of the road. Already some of the rice is being harvested and dried. An elderly Thai farm worker, a woman, was walking along on the mats on which the rice had been placed to dry, turning over the grains with her feet. When I returned she was asleep in a hammock and a group of small birds were taking advantage of her absence to gorge themselves.
More than two hours had elapsed since setting out. Overhead the sun was partially hidden but temperatures were high. I wasn’t carrying any water so I decided to turn back. It still meant that I would be on the road for five hours sans eau.
Suddenly behind me there was a rustling in the thick grass, I got a glimpse of what seemed to be a cobra’s head rearing upwards but I was mistaken it was an imposter – a large crane. I’m not sure who was the more startled.
As I type this the raft is beginning to shudder as the storm approaches. I am sitting on cheap bed below the rotating blades of a ceiling fan. There are no sheets just a handy woolen blanket in case the room temperature falls below 35 degrees Celsius. My shirt is saturated with sweat and droplets are running behind my ears. The room has lighting but no TV or AC. A sink with one tap is placed next to the entrance to the lavatory and a shower hangs from the wall alongside. This means of course if one has to get up in the night to put on a pair of flip flops otherwise wet feet.
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24.5.15
Guess who’s got a really sore back? Yes this morning on the way north from Bangkok I was lifting my blue bag into the back of a Tuk Tuk and twisted awkwardly. So I am in considerable distress but I will bear the pain with fortitude. A quarter of a mile from where I am staying is a military cemetery that contains around 7,000 graves of British, Australian and Dutch prisoners of war who endured the mostly terrible conditions and unbelievable cruelty – I of course will get better.
I am actually sleeping on a raft on the River Kwai.Hopefully the mosquitoes will spare me in my present condition. It is basic accommodation with myriad entry points for undesirable visitors. I have tried blocking some of the bigger holes.
The bridge is a mile upriver from me and I shall walk up and walk across it on my to Hellfire Pass an infernal rail cutting that claimed many young lives.
I can’t sit any longer due to the discomfort.
23.5.15
Thousands upon thousands of people are crowded on to the pavements, walking, shopping, cooking, sitting by their sewing machines, others are washing, laundering and yet again there are many lazing, hundreds offering massages of one kind or another – foot, facial, with oil, without oil, head, back, green, in fact there are so many places offering massages in order to keep in business they must massage each other.
Getting around is a real nightmare if like me one travels by foot. Traffic is horrendous, there is a system, it’s called ‘do your own thing’. Twice I have been caught by motorcyclists – and that was on the pavement. It would be impossible for you to walk around here unless motorists suddenly change their driving habits.
To avoid the traffic I decided to follow a railway line. This offered some insight into how many live. Either side of the tracks rude dwellings constructed from the most basic of materials have been thrown together. Foetid pools of water run into channels which are in effect an open sewer.
Despite this it is evident that many of the inhabitants work hard to keep themselves and their families clean. Lines of freshly laundered clothes are hung out to dry.
Cooking is done on rudimentary stoves fed with bottled gas and families sit under tarpaulin canopies slurping noodles and sipping spicy soups.
Presently I am in Praturnam, an area with thousands of Hindus, some that live here and others from the subcontinent.
Heading north today to border with Myanmar. Not sure whether to take bus or train.
20.5.15
Today I left BKK but have to return to get passport from embassy before I can go to Myanmar.
Not a particularly scenic journey but we were travelling far too fast in the minibus to see anything. The driver has only recently been released from an asylum following delusional behaviour in which he kept believing himself to be a Formula 1 driver.
Arrived at the place I thought I had booked not only to find the dates wrong but the hotel too. Although how the accommodation could be wrong when I have a printout I am unable to explain at the moment.
To make matters worse when attempting to find appropriate paperwork my fake Ray – Bans fell off of my face and when I tried to retrieve them (Thai flies 0 – me 1) My finger caught a piece of furniture and a large chunk of fingernail was broken and bruised.
Well that’s all my news for today.
19.5.15
Have arranged visa which has taken some time. Tomorrow I am leaving Bangkok for Bangsane a town on the Gulf of Thailand. The journey should be interesting.
Had a nice pot of tea earlier in a nice cafe. Bangkok is a clean city, wherever one goes the pavements are swept.There are lots of shopping malls and all the usual designer shops.
The hotel has a nice pool but I have avoided rather than risk ear problem but there are families with kids playing in it.
Have you met up with any friends? I understand the temperature is still low. Is it cold? Yesterday it was reported that there was a substantial snowfall in Winnipeg -don’t you just wished you lived there?
escapingeast 