Ten of us set off looking for such an adventure in Karen State, eastern Myanmar. We had no goals other than to ride alongside the Salween River as far as the track would take us.
It rained right away. After cycling fewer than ten minutes we had wide stripes of grit up our backs. Amused spectators called to us from a house on stilts. We joined them until the downpour stopped. Under the house hung a few hammocks. On the wall upstairs hung pictures of Aung San Suu Kyi and her dad. Everybody smiled. We didn’t talk much, just listened to the rain. A cute toddler entertained everyone. New faces kept emerging from the back room of the house to shyly initiate variations of the same conversation. When we got ready to go, a grandma came out to wave goodbye.
A paved section of the road appeared, then ended as quickly as it had come. From somewhere beyond the steep riverbank came the sounds of noisy boat engines. Steam rose off the puddles.
In our padded shorts, fingerless gloves, and plastic helmets, we were a curiosity. Few villagers in Myanmar had probably seen the likes of us. Coming out from the comfort and protection of their shady homes to watch us ride past, the people waved the way Americans wave to parade floats and their pageant kings and queens. From the children we heard “bye-bye!” (meaning, delightfully, “hello!”). Adults of all shapes, costumes, and ages greeted us with the Burmese good morning/afternoon/evening: “Mingalaba!” Everybody smiled.
The road became a track. Then, as John Mason's photo shows, a path.
Spicing the air were the river’s many moods. Leaving
onlookers behind, we passed caves, steep cliffs, and countless shrines
to the spirits that many locals believe live on hilltops and in trees.
It seemed the trail might peter out any time.Suddenly, a temple gate framed our route. Just when we thought we had left civilization in our wake, here was a wat, complete with sparkling decorations and colorful murals. A few meters further we came across a school, a sports field, and people wandering from various corners to check us out.
Where were we? And how much further upriver could we continue to cycle? The growing crowd greeted our gestured questions with a good deal of cheerfulness, but not much understanding. It appeared that nobody in this remote place could speak any of the many languages our group knew, not even Burmese.
The answers weren’t crucial. We knew we’d probably return the way we came. Lunch awaited us back there. It just would have been nice to communicate.
Then up rode a guy sporting a familiar symbol. “Hello,” he grinned in English, “I am the local representative of the International Red Cross.”
It turned out that he rarely passed that way. The chance encounter allowed us to chat with the people of the temple. They learned why were dressed in such strange outfits. We learned that a venerable monk from the next village had recently passed away. His body would soon be carried downriver along the same track we had just taken. Everybody smiled. Which is another thing you want in a mountain bike adventure.
