Mawlamyine

I could hear the sound of traffic, but I couldn't see it. Somewhere down the hill, hiding behind a canopy of palm leaves, was the city where George Orwell worked as an assistant superintendent for the British Imperial Police. By the old pagoda where I was standing, Rudyard Kipling stole glances at Burmese women and collected impressions for his incongruously entitled poem Mandalay. Who cares about details, such as the actual name of a place, when you're somewhere east of Suez, where the best is like the worst?

Despite its importance for British literature, Mawlamyine, or Moulmein as it used to be called, is blissfully devoid of tourists. Most visitors to Myanmar concentrate on the big four: Yangon, Mandalay, Bagan and Inle Lake. But if you'd like to wander through a more dreamlike, less convenient Asia, this crumbling town by the Andaman Sea isn't to be missed.

Chelsea wins

So how do you get there? Well I'm not a travel agent, so I'll just tell you how we got there. One beautiful November afternoon, two rather toothless gentlemen transported us by taxi bike to the sprawling Mandalay bus station, where we boarded a coach to Bago, a town a couple of hours north of Yangon.

Exiting said vehicle at 3 AM in the deserted streets of what we could only hope was Bago, we were once again reminded that transport in Myanmar isn't exactly a costumer-centric experience. Luckily, we found a tea shop on the main drag, where we devoured some steamed buns and watched a Premier League match on Sky sports. Even in Myanmar, Chelsea wins.

Soon we were joined by a talkative local fellow, who wanted to know what our plans were. Foolishly, we admitted that we would only be staying in Bago for one day, then head to the Southeast.
'Why not go now?', our table companion demanded. 'There's a pick-up truck leaving for Mawlamyine in a quarter of an hour. I'll make you a good price.'

So, instead of checking into a guest house, we set off on another seven-hour trip, this time in the back of an Isuzu. The fact that we were already quite drowsy at this point actually worked in our favour. As most university students know, you can only endure sitting on a wooden bench for long stretches of time if you're either drunk or tired or both.

While we rushed through the starless night, blowing our horn at every settlement along the road, Hannelore reclined against the frame of the car and I gestured my way through a conversation with the driver's sons, who happened to be expert baggage handlers and gifted mimes. Home, I was happy to realize, felt very far away.

Two girls, one cup 

Long after our legs had surrendered their last remnants of feeling, we crossed the bridge over the Thanlwin river and came to a halt in the sweltering midday sun. Our first impressions of Mawlamyine weren't too favorable. To our delicate olfactory nerves the city's commercial center reeked of heat, sewage and fish. While I generally like the smell of fish markets, this particular melange, piled on top of the tiredness from the long drive, struck me like the 'Two girls, one cup' video struck those unsuspecting marines. It was time for a nap.

When I regained consciousness I was in a room without any windows. To my right was a pile of limbs that might or might not have been my girlfriend. To avoid any criminal charges, I decided it was best to leave the building at once and go for a stroll. Outside, the working day was winding down. Our guest house was only one broad street removed from the sea and the sea only one broad sweep removed from the sun. In Yangon the magic hour signaled the arrival of food stalls and sightless musicians. Here, the streets were almost empty.

Reluctant to make any definite plans for the evening, I sauntered off in the direction of a hill I thought I'd seen on the drive into town. The slums at the foot of the hill had an air of permanency over them, while a deserted mansion a bit further up the road with several willow trees stooping in its courtyard seemed ready to collapse.

Soon I entered a narrow passage flanked by monastery halls. A sole monk was sweeping the floor, which to my eye was clean to begin with. Somewhere to the right, a couple of voices were chasing a mantra. A bell rang, a dog barked, but that was it. A carefully executed audio play.

Looking back, I realize that Mawlamyine was the place I really wanted to visit when we left for Asia. It wasn't premeditated. It wasn't even in our guidebook. But it was the timeless Asia I had dreamt of. The boats, the people, even the trucks and scooters, everything was slow like the kinetics of a dream.

So what did we do? A lot and nothing much. We visited a nearby island (where horse-drawn carriages were still very much à la mode) and a gigantic reclining Buddha statue inhabited by a sickly monk and his collection of x-rated statues depicting the life of Buddha. We ate a fantastic fish-and-lemon dish and pomelo with a salt and pepper mix. Hannelore discovered Spy, a brand of red sparkling wine from Thailand, and vowed not to drink anything else ever again. Everrrrr.

And eventually we stepped on a boat and – very slowly – saw Mawlamyine disappear from view. No Burma girls to send us off, though. Still waiting for Rudyard, I guess.

The great railway bazaar - Hsipaw to Mandalay

The train from Hsipaw to Mandalay shook like a tambourine in a 60s revival band. Its passengers, unwilling participants in a real life game of Pong, slid from side to side on the wooden benches, clutching their possesions to keep them from going airborne. Very slowly the train made its way through upper Myanmar down a narrow corridor cut from the surrounding vegetation, while flowered branches slapped the side of the car and infused it with a heavy fragrance.

For the first two hours of the trip, apart from an occasional flicker of rural landscape, these green drapes were all the windows had to offer. From time to time, we'd stop in a small town along the way. As soon as the train halted, women carrying fruit and dried goods on their heads would circle it, hoping for a quick sell. Each time we stopped, it took the machinists longer to get the thing going again. I was starting to think we'd never arrive at our destination.

Of the many foreigners who traveled this railway line, the American Paul Theroux probably contributed the most to its legendary status. For his travelogue The great railway bazaar, Theroux made the journey from Maymyo to Naung-Peng and back, crossing the Gokteik gorge along the way. The viaduct across the gorge, completed by the Pennsylvania Steel Company in 1901, is the main reason many travelers prefer the train over the more comfortable (and privately owned) bus service to and from Mandalay. 320 feet high and 2250 feet long, it still is one of the largest traditional steel trestles in the world.

Here's Theroux crossing the viaduct:
“The train wheels banged on the steel spans and the plunging water roared the birds out of their nests a thousand feet down. The long delay in the cold had depressed me, and the journey had been unremarkable, but this lifted my spirits, crossing the bridge in the rain, from one steep hill to another, over a jungly deepness, bursting with a river to which the monsoon had given a hectoring voice, and the engine whistling again and again, the echo carrying down the gorge to China.”

Louder and sadder

Hannelore and I traveled during the dry season, so we weren't rewarded with bursting rivers, but the crossing - about four hours into the journey - proved to be an unforgettable sight, worth every bounce and jostle along the way. After we passed the gorge, the hedges besides the tracks opened up more regularly and we could see villages strewn across a countryside that might have been conceived by a gang of gallivanting French impressionist painters.



Bare-shouldered women froze in their crouching poses as we waggled along, faraway temples drew the last sunlight of the day into their bell-shaped stupa's, the sounds of the train became louder and sadder. And then … And then …

If I can give one tip to other travelers who want to make this journey: book a room in Mandalay before you leave. We hadn't, and when the train finally arrived, three to four hours behind schedule, it proved almost impossible to find a room in the city. Eventually we had to settle for a hotel above our budget, with air-conditioning and a private bathroom. What are we, tourists?

Trek from Namshan to Hsipaw

“Bomber terrorist's elevator plan backfires, so he rigs a bomb to a LA city bus. The stipulation is: once armed, the bus must stay above 50 mph to keep from exploding. Also if LAPD Officer tries to unload any passengers off, bomber will detonate it.” Source: IMDb.

Even when presented in its simplest form, the plot for the movie Speed has blockbuster written all over it. It reads like a syllogism: A causes B, B causes C, C equals kickass. The producers were so convinced of the script's genius that they didn't bother to cast an actor for the leading role. Instead, they chose Keanu Reeves.  

Compared to other Hollywood action flicks, the basic premise of Speed isn't that far-fetched. In a city like Los Angeles, if you have a hunky police officer by your side, you could probably drive a city bus for an hour or so at a speed above 50 mph and live to tell the tale. The cast's survival chance would be much slimmer in a country like Myanmar, where roads are muddy patches that keep potholes together. If a Burmese director were to do a remake, that bus would explode before the charismatic terrorist (since Dennis Hopper is dead, the role would probably go to Liev Schreiber) has a chance to make his first jeering phone call.

Hsipaw

"Howareyouandyourfamily?
Asformeiamquitewellandhappy.
Ialwaysrememberyouandhopeyouareingoodhealth.”

There's a classroom across the street from Mr. Charles' guesthouse. Every morning at six o' clock we are awoken by the sound of many children's voices repeating the same three phrases over and over again. Since the lungs of a pint-sized human can only hold so much oxygen, the chorus usually  falters in the middle of the third sentence. The last couple of syllables make a mad dash for the finish line, after which there's a collective gasp for air and a fresh start from the top.

Bagan

If the non-fiction section of your local bookshop is anything to go by, you should definitely start worrying about the end of human civilization. Publishers are churning out studies in cultural pessimism like cookbooks nowadays.

One of my favourites in this genre is The world without us, a popular science title in which journalist Alan Weisman imagines Earth sans homo sapiens. Gathering evidence from places that are already devoid of human interference, like the Korean DMZ or Chernobyl, Weisman reveals that the rest of the planet would get over mankind pretty quickly.

Yangon slides by

Yangon

I'm gonna come straight out and say it: I'm not a huge fan of Paris.

Maybe I lack the imagination to make the city's history come to life. Its symmetry and grand boulevards leave me indifferent. The fabulous museums, the iconic metro signs, the triumphant arcs that stand guard on every roundabout, are like the distinctive traits of a woman that is altogether too beautiful to approach. Better to appreciate them from a distance and save myself the embarrassment of rejection.

Yangon, on the other hand, steps right up and lets me smell its armpits. The former capital of Myanmar is poor, dirty and always recovering from some major natural or man-made disaster. Yet at the same time it's one of the most romantic places I've ever been to.

Telephone cabin Yangon-style (credit It says tourist)

Farewell Indonesia

Time to say goodbye to Indonesia! One last song by Ms. Ayu Ting Ting and we're off to Myanmar. The guy in the red t-shirt should have his own tv channel, by the way.

Bira pink

We stayed in Bira for about a week and loved every second of it. In the absence of photographs, let me describe some scenes and people I will never forget.

Mr. Achmed

Pimps of the world, beware! No matter how badass you think you are, there is a man in Bira who outshines you all. Mr. Achmed is his name and he makes Kool Keith look like a school girl. Sitting comfortably on the terrace of his boat-shaped restaurant with his crew, his luxurious hair almost reaching the ground, this former captain of the seas would drop truth bombs non-stop. For your benefit and education, I will share a couple of his more memorable phrases:

On karaoke ladies
“I don't pay for girls. If they find me attractive, I will sleep with them. But not pay. I'm sorry! I would be shy for myself.”

On his beautiful wife “
I love my wife only 60 percent. How can you love someone 100 percent? You wouldn't be able to love yourself. First, I love myself. I'm sorry!”

On his career as a captain
“I once took a German to the Banda islands on his small boat. Thousands of miles away. When I get there, they ask me for my captain's license. I don't have it. They told me I couldn't sail this boat to their port. I told them: 'I just did, I'm sorry!'”

Bira blue

In my previous post, I mentioned that our camera got stolen on the night bus from Rantepao to Macassar, the capital of Sulawesi. The thing hardly rated as a high-tech gadget and was easily replaced, but its memory card carried all the photos we took during the first month of our travels.

This could have been avoided if we had made a back-up. In fact, a few days before the theft we were about to commit ourselves to some serious archiving, when someone said “Let's do something else” and we forgot all about it.

But in travel, as in wife swapping, your luck can change. To illustrate, let me tell you about the day after that unfortunate nocturnal journey.

Tana Toraja

When I was a kid, my father worked for the marketing department of a German car company. This meant that my sister and I spent an inordinate amount of time at motor shows and race circuits. Unfortunately, we found most of those events rather boring. Too young to drive or drink champagne, we routinely resorted to a savage pillage of the various promo stalls that accompany any car function.

Gunung Rinjani

There it is, leaning back nonchalantly in a pillow of clouds. Even covered in fluff, Gunung Rinjani, the second-highest volcano in Indonesia, looks freakin' awesome. “We're gonna climb that thing?”, asks Hannelore. Hiking is sort of against her religion, as are most activities involving ugly footwear.

Yes, we are climbing that thing and we're starting from a small town called Senaru. There we find a trekking outfit and meet the people we will be spending the next three days with: porters, guides and six other unfit members of the tourism tribe.

Kali Bambang

Now, walking through the jungle is quite monotonous. It's green, you know. You don't see any animals, because of the green. Beneath the foliage it's hot and humid. Also, very green. The trees are called Klak and Kali Bambang, which sound like names for mixed drinks to me. Which might explain why, during the first four hours of the climb, I feel as if I had too many cocktails before dinner.

That all changes when we reach the tree line. Suddenly the air becomes cooler, the fog that hangs like drapes between the shrubs miraculously lifts and we are standing in a wide and open space that reminds me of the Scottish Highlands. The soil is black here, with a stubble of yellow grass. The few windblown trees that remain have enough room to stretch their branches wide. I don't know what it says about me, but I find this charred landscape infinitely more romantic than the wilderness we just left. A poem is called for, me thinks.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Cumulus commuters

Onwards! The sky is beginning to bruise, night must fall and we shall be forced to camp. A strong wind is blowing, so the guides decide we should pitch our tents in a narrow gorge that offers some protection from the elements. At 2700 meters above sea level we can see all the way to the summit of Gunung Agung in Bali.

The sun drops like a hot air balloon and the clouds hurry from the valley below towards the Java Sea, a string of cumulus commuters on their way home. Dinner - nasi goreng and a banana pancake for dessert - is shared by a small campfire, while the stars make their grand entry. It's good to be a tourist.

And it gets even better. The next day we trek towards the crater. The higher we get, the looser the ground we tread. It's heavy going and for a minute I'm worried that Hannelore might go volcano on me and start spewing rocks in the general direction of my head. But she keeps her cool and is rewarded with the view of a lifetime.

Jules Vernesque

Gunung Rinjani's caldera is a world within a world. Looking down on it, you feel as if you've unwittingly stepped into a Jules Verne story. An abundance of trees, a sky blue lake and a wizard island with its own small crater contribute to the effect. Descending into this idyllic microcosm down a rocky path, you notice the sound of birds whistling and realize you hadn't heard birds since you crossed the tree line yesterday. There are fish in the water, obviously. At this point you wouldn't be surprised if Bigfoot came up to you and asked what you were doing in his crib.

At the bottom of the crater we take the time to bathe in a hot spring and have lunch. Then we start climbing again, but this time our destination is the real summit of the volcano. Our tireless porters   set up camp for the second night at the far side of the caldera's edge. If all goes well, we will be standing on top of Gunung Rinjani, 3726 meters above sealevel, by daybreak. A Kodak moment that should inspire some formidable posing. 

Fairdeegowks!

I wish I could tell you we made it to the top. When I woke up at 3 AM for breakfast - Hannelore had wisely decided to let this one pass and catch up on some sleep - the wind was howling and our guides carried worried looks on their faces. A few years ago an unaccompanied German had fallen to his death just a few hundred meters from the summit. They didn't want us to recreate the experience.

After some deliberation, we decided to try our luck anyway. Equipped with a flashlight and all the warm clothing we could find, we started the ascent. After a while, the gale calmed down and we were beginning to feel pretty good about ourselves. Those fools in their tents would be hearing about this for a long time! Lazy, no-good fairdeegowks!

But after two and a half hours of climbing, just as we were nearing the summit, the wind picked up again. In that coldest hour of the day, just before dawn, we were forced to hide behind a large boulder and wait for better weather. Shivering and running out of Jaffa cakes to distribute, our guide finally suggested we should return to camp and we all happily agreed.

The way down was pure bliss. More of those Scottish hills, some Asian savanna scenery and a minibus waiting at the foot of the mountain. Looking back from the rearview window, I had to admit: this volcano was just too freakin' awesome.

Tetebatu

At first, there's just one voice. The lone tenor travels strenuously through the midday heat and slips into our fan-cooled room. Soon it is accompanied by a second, then a third. They set each other off like dogs in a kennel. A multitude of wailing, Arabic exclamations that seem completely at odds with the lush environment.



As one more muezzin joins the call to prayer, I exit our little bungalow and take a seat on the terrace in front. It gives out on an impossibly green rice field. Yesterday we saw black monkeys in a nearby tree. Today, however, there are none.

Mr. Philip Morris

At one edge of the field sits a traditional brick factory, of the kind that went out of fashion in Europe over half a century ago. The family who owns it hasn't stopped working despite the pious singing. A young girl, maybe twelve years old, piles an impressive stack of red bricks on her head and carries them out of sight. I consider how great it would be if my brain could carry more bricks. 

There's not much to do in Tetebatu, this small village in the center of Lombok. You can hike through the surrounding paddy and tobacco fields (Grade A crops for Mr. Philip Morris) to a nearby waterfall. You can navigate a motorbike over bumpy roads towards one of the nearby villages and buy some pots. That's about it. Tetebatu is blissfully quiet, apart from the muezzins and the symphony of frogs that commences at the first hint of dusk.

Penis-shaped sword

The manager of our hotel - really a small cluster of bungalows - worked in a Dutch IT-company for many years, but decided to come home because he missed the lifestyle. One day he tells us we shouldn't look for him on his porch this evening because he will be performing a sacred ritual behind closed doors. He's a follower of Wektu Telu, a religious mix of Islam, Balinese Hinduism and the animism of the indigenous Sasak people. Our broad-minded host eats pork, only prays three times a day and will be honouring the spirit of his ancestors tonight by kneeling in front of a penis-shaped sword.

For dinner we usually go to a little restaurant called Bale Bale, owned and operated by a character straight out of a Gabriel-Garcia Marquez novel. He's a permanently lovesick quadragenarian in the  throes of his third unsuccessful marriage to a much younger girl. With his sullen eyes and slow gait he really is a pitiable character, but he also makes a mean Sasak-style chicken. After his shift is over his mood magically lifts, a horribly out of tune guitar appears and we enjoy his very tolerable rendition of the reggae classic Lombok, I love you.

Lombok, I love you

This is something we first noticed in Kuta, the surf town on the southern coast of the island (not the surf town on the southern coast of Bali with the same name): everyone in Lombok can play the guitar and they all know the words to Lombok, I love you ("Manjakarapoo Hunghablamapo oh oh").

Kuta Lombok is a lot more charming than Kuta Bali, by the way. The town itself has a number of low-key bars and guesthouses for tourists, but the beaches to the east and west are completely deserted. I myself tried surfing there for the first time and ended up in the doctor's office with a cut above my left ear. Not to be outdone, Hannelore spent too much time in the sun and assumed the colour of a ripe strawberry. Never try, never know, as my surf instructor would tell you.

Bali revisited

Four weeks after our initial visit, we briefly returned to Bali because we had to catch a flight from Denpasar airport. There was some extra sightseeing on the east coast and a trip to the Bukit peninsula to watch the surfing crowd. By then I was more relaxed and could appreciate certain aspects of the island, but I still wouldn't encourage anyone to honeymoon there.

Kyoto blues

Bali, in my experience, is somewhat like Kyoto in Japan. The imperial city and the tropical retreat are both hyped beyond belief. While hype isn't necessarily a bad thing, careless development most definitely is.  The allied forces didn't bomb Kyoto during World War II because they considered it too beautiful to ruin. They left that to the Japanese, who disposed of entire traditional neighborhoods in favor of some truly hideous modern architecture. Now, despite its innumerable temples and shrines, the city lacks cohesion and character. Same story in Bali, where an influx of foreign investment washed away what all the foreigners were excited about in the first place.

Pockets of loveliness

Now, I'm not saying paradise is completely lost. The straw roofs of family temples still peek over garden walls in the smaller towns. Even on the heavily developed Bukit there are some idyllic beaches left. You might accidentally walk into a temple where a gamelan orchestra is practicing or wake up early in  your family-owned lodgings to watch the women of the house prepare the little offerings to the gods that pop up everywhere. Small pockets of loveliness persist, despite the overbearing presence of sleazy commercialism.

I hope I'm wrong about Bali. We didn't spend much time there and left much of the island unexplored. Amed, on the eastern coast, is supposed to be lovely. The magic just didn't happen for us.

Done Bali is an Australian documentary about the island's paradise image. Might be worth a looksy!

The original island experience

Bali. Mention the name to a Vitamin D deficient European like myself and images of palm trees and doe-eyed girls in flimsy bikinis will instantly cloud his mind. Advertisements for shower gels and numerous travel shows had convinced me that this particular spot on planet earth, this tiny speck of land in the Indonesian archipelago, was paradise. Plus, Hannelore wanted to go there, so I didn't really have a choice. We both looked forward to the original island experience. What better way to start our journey through Asia?

Kuta del Sol

We arrived very late and decided to look for a place to sleep in Kuta, a beach town close to the airport on the southern coast where - Lonely Planet informed us - we might take some surfing lessons. The moment our taxi dropped us in one of the neighborhoods favored by backpackers, I was planning our exit strategy. This was definitely not the Bali I had imagined.

Basically, Kuta is a developing world version of the Spanish Costa del Sol. Narrow, traffic-clogged streets fill with the hit sounds of the eighties and Aussie laughter at night. Homeless kids peddle their merchandise in front of the numerous 7-Elevens. The beach is littered like the grounds of a music festival – a recurring theme in Indonesia.

We stayed one night and then moved to Ubud, the place where most tourists go to experience the Balinese take on Hinduism. You can't walk two blocks there without bumping into a Legong dancer or crossing a sacred courtyard.

Best pig ever!

However, for us Ubud was primarily the place where celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain had - and I quote - “the best suckling pig ever”. Before we left home, we had decided we were going to find the restaurant he visited and sample its famous babi guling. It was practically the only firm resolution we had for our trip. Giddy with anticipation, we set out on our culinary odyssey. We figured it would take us a few days to locate this legendary eatery, but the first English speaking person we talked to pointed across the street and told us it was right there.

Ibu Oka it is called. Protected from the elements by a banyan tree and a corrugated iron roof, a bunch of lovely ladies serve one meal only and they do it well. Was it the best suckling pig we ever had? No. That honor goes to an open-air restaurant in the German town of Berchtesgaden. You know, where Adolf lived. The Bavarian pig - more tender than any meat I'd ever eaten - was accompanied by large glasses of delicious Helles Bier, while in Indonesia we had to make do with Bintang.

Nagging does work

All the same, it was an excellent, ridiculously cheap meal and I was beginning to feel better about Bali. I bought a book about the rites and customs of the island. The next couple of days we visited some galleries, wandered through the surrounding rice fields, attended a dance show or two. It was agreeable.

Still, I couldn't help feeling a bit restless. This was the beginning of a four month trip, our great adventure. And here we were, in an environment that was decidedly unadventurous. So I nagged a bit and convinced Hannelore to take the ferry to Lombok, the island directly east of Bali. There, I told her, we could enjoy empty beaches, climb a volcano without being assaulted by touts and discover 'the real Indonesia'. Soon she caved in and we left Bali.

The forgetful tourist

I write, because I forget. At the tender age of thirty, impressions and ideas slide off my brain like water off a duck's back. So when my girlfriend Hannelore and I traveled through Southeast Asia and Australia this winter, I kept a journal. It allowed me to better remember what we saw, tasted and felt puzzled by in these faraway lands. Now that we're back in Belgium after four months on the road, I thought I'd share some of my notes as a travelblog.

This will not be a day-to-day account of the whole trip. I'll skip, gloss over and neglect. But I'll also add book tips, share field recordings and make lists (who doesn't like lists?). Hannelore, a graphic designer by trade, will add a much-needed touch of visual sophistication.
 
Since English is not my mother tongue, I apologize beforehand for any errors I might make. However, I'm sure some leeway is granted: most native speakers I know show serious negligence in the spelling department.

Here it is, our brief escape from the daily grind. Hope you like it.