Mrauk U is Pretty Coo

Way west of Yangon, way up a river, way high on the ridges are planted hundreds of gorgeous pagodas that comprise what’s left of the proud Rakhine Empire. Mrauk U, the ancient capital, lorded over a wide area between the 15^th to 18^th centuries. The port city was one of Asia’s richest, receiving many foreign traders.

This past weekend three of us checked out the remains. We knew it was probably a good time to go to Mrauk U but we didn’t know how good. May Day and a full moon meant several festivals were going on. Carnivals! Boat races! Wrestling matches!

Even en route we could see we had done the right thing. We chugged upstream from Sittwe for five hours along an increasingly enchanted waterway. As the light dimmed and the river narrowed, new colors and subtle movements emerged. Our mental baggage fell overboard.

One friend brought enough camera equipment for all three of us. In fact we needed all three to schlep it up the nearest ridge for our first sunrise. We climbed in the half daylight without knowing exactly what we would find on top, but feeling confident that at that hour anything we saw would be dazzling.

All morning the kingdom’s former grandeur trumpeted from the hilltops. Spires and golden umbrellas atop the stupas glanced down at the town to remind foreign tourists and local shoppers alike of Mrauk U’s gone-by splendor.

Later, a horse cart driver took us to the town’s outskirts to see some larger temples, including the one known as the Temple of 90,000 Buddha Images. Only serious kingdoms build on that scale. At its height the empire controlled half of today's Bangladesh, and half of lower Myanmar, including all of Rakhine (aka Arakan) State.

Now the Rakhine people are waiting for their turn to come around again. It may be a while. Where the former palace stood are several square blocks of vacant ground. We knew some of the history but you can never know enough in a place where past glories conflict with present politics. It was fun to make up our own theories and then try them out on the locals, who are famous for wanting to quarrel. Nobody could agree. It’s a good thing they schedule wrestling matches from time to time.

These grappling contests differed most from anything we had seen elsewhere. Competitors scrap in a large outdoor circle until the red-robed referee calls the match. Then they circulate among the crowd, collecting tips in the form of different colored coupons that members of the audience are encouraged to buy as part of their entrance fee.

We slowly understood that such festivals and other commonplace rhythms in Mrauk U are what separates this attraction from a place like Bagan, where workaday life doesn’t really take place. Here, farmers and plumbers and goat herders all mix casually below and between the ancient structures.

Not that things look today anything like the way they looked five centuries ago. Crude archeological restoration has left some of the ruins looking more like fortresses than religious structures. And small Christmas-tree-like decorations on top of many of the temples told us they had been “Burmanized”—a quasi-colonial calling card

from Myanmar’s currently dominant culture that can be found in many of the country’s ethnic areas.

Most of the temples seemed undervisited, giving us the chance to park and focus and make pictures. The best images here were captured by Charlotte O’Sullivan. She has a small photography business in Yangon.

For the moment Mrauk U tourism will likely remain quiet. Ethnic conflict and a long boat ride remain big obstacles to luring visitors away from Myanmar's more well-known sites. Plans for an airport are on the drawing board but likely years away. We thought our timing was great.

Luang Prabang is an Old Pal

Luang Prabang greets you like an old pal. It’s a calming welcome. The notion of “dispelling fear” is even built in to the city’s name.

This visit was my third to Laos’ former capital. I went mostly to see two old pals who had just moved there after 24 years in Phnom Penh. They didn’t know many people yet. One guy I knew there from a previous trip met us for coffee one morning; it was funny to be the outsider, introducing two neighbors.

We talked about recent changes to the town. On the surface there weren’t many. But of course the surface is protected by UNESCO World Heritage Site rules. Among the criteria for Luang Prabang’s 1995 designation as a heritage site was its “exceptional fusion of Lao traditional architecture and 19th and 20th century European colonial style buildings.” Buildings must be painted certain colors; new construction must conform to certain styles, heights, and techniques; and signage must be chiefly written in Lao.

This last regulation appears to have been diluted in the case of “FOR SALE” signs, which show up more frequently than I recall from previous visits. Such ads generally are dominated by Chinese or Vietnamese script.

A Lao guy struck up a conversation as we were walking around town. I asked him if he had ever traveled. He said his only journey outside Laos happened when he was in high school and was selected for a government-sponsored trip to Budapest. “Never to China?” I asked. “Vietnam?”

“I don’t have to go to those places,” he answered. “Those places are coming to me.”

Kayah State is a Land Like None You Know About

Kipling spent a total of only three days in this country but it left a long impression. After first entering Rangoon in 1889 he wrote that “a golden mystery upheaved itself on the horizon,… a shape that was neither Muslim dome nor Hindu temple spire…. The golden dome said: "This is Burma, and it will be quite unlike any land you know about."

Our small group of bicyclists felt something similar this past week on a lovely trip upcountry to Kayah State. None of us had ever been to this smallest of Myanmar’s seven ethnic states that lies along the country’s eastern border. Only recently has the government lifted its formerly strict restrictions about foreigners going there. The area has seen a good deal of fighting during the past several decades.

We began in Shan State and rode south through a fertile valley along a mostly-paved road that was wide enough for one truck. Mysteries upheaved themselves on the horizon. Every few miles, for instance, the people seemed to change costume. Were these the Palaung? The Pa’O? Perhaps the Karenni (who, like many of the groups here, go by more than one name)? Everyone was bundled up like we were—cold morning temperatures meant we started riding each day in long sleeves and full-fingered gloves. Their headgear came in as many different colors as our helmets, depending on tribe or marriage or probably many categories that would never occur to me.

Limestone bulged out of the valley in bunches the size of several trees. Towns seemed to form around the oddest-shaped rock pitches, many of which were topped with small pagodas whose temple bells tinkled and flashed at sunset. When we learned that our first night’s hotel only switched on the electricity after 7pm, we climbed to the rooftop and delighted in the shapes surrounding us that were “neither Muslim dome nor Hindu temple spire.”

The next morning, we were greeted as we walked around town by another fine shrine, captured in this great photo by Lisa O’Donnell. Later, as we rode from Shan State to Kayah State, Roman Catholic churches began to pop up. Italian priests in the 19th century had converted many animists. Not long after passing a massive cathedral, we came across a small patch of open ground that was peppered with tall poles. In this spot, those who worship natural objects hold their annual reading-the-chicken-bones ritual. I wondered how many of the local people hedged their bets and showed up at both venues.

A local fellow explained these ceremonies to us. We had noticed him following us on a motorcycle

throughout the third day. He hung back, always in view but never passing. By this time we had reached Loikaw, the capital of Kayah State. Our presence had been noted as we circled the city and followed the old railroad line that carries a four-car passenger train once a day in each direction between Kayah State and Shan State. It felt a little strange to have a minder, but we had heard that the local police were still a bit wary of outsiders. After a while we forgot about our escort. He seemed harmless enough to us, and we must have seemed the same to him, because when we stopped to look at the poles, he caught up and more or less became our guide.

Altogether we rode about 200 miles, to and around Loikaw. Not many roads lead there, so we had to go back the way we came, eventually joining up with the road that goes to Mandalay. It felt a shame to leave. As Kipling wrote, "If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."

The Golden Rock is Gratifying

In most parts of Myanmar, the narrow dirt motorcycle tracks linking villages are perfect for bicycling. If you surround those tracks with a few bamboo and rubber plantations, sprinkle some oxcarts along the way, and map a route in the shadow of the Golden Rock, you’ve got the recipe for a rewarding three-day outing from Yangon.

Fourteen of us took that trip last weekend. We guessed at intersections and rode through streams. When the way got too rough at one point, we abandoned our bikes and went swimming.

All the while, the Rock barely balanced on a ridge three or four thousand feet above us. It was too close not to check it out. I had gone up that ridge by truck just ten weeks before. This time, we chose to reach it on foot. An eight-mile-long trail leads from the village of Kinmon to the shrine. We set off extra early to arrive in time for sunrise.

Naively I expected to have the trail to ourselves. Why would anyone else get up at 2am for a walk in the dark, when they could wait a few hours and pay to be driven the whole way?

Clearly I don’t think like a pilgrim. Thousands of people passed us in both directions, often holding children or candles or both. Many were coming down from the Rock after sleeping on the marble plaza the night before. Some were likely trying to squeeze the journey into two days by catching the first bus back to the big city.

Just as the sun peeked over the dark ridges in the distance, we reached the final stairway. It was shoulder to shoulder with pilgrims and monks and vendors. A few older visitors had paid four porters to be carried on palanquins. On the plaza itself, still thousands more were waking up. Two or three dozen visitors were already adding yet another square of gold leaf to the stone.

I felt night-and-day different from my first visit a few weeks earlier. As the Rock began to glow, its power to inspire sacrifice struck me clearly. Last time, our not-so-hidden agenda was to receive a special blessing through our visit. On this trip I found myself simply grateful that the Rock had not tumbled in the meantime, and hopeful that future generations could also come to appreciate it.

For most of the thousands around me, the journey was not about tourism or recreation. Many of them had probably struggled to get there, or at least stretched their finances. In this land of making do, travel is usually a luxury. Yet acts involving sacrifice may be what Myanmar people feel are most valuable during this challenging time in Myanmar's history.

The Golden Rock is Glorious

Lest you think it not worth the trip five hours from Yangon to see a painted rock perched precariously on the edge of a minor Myanmar cliff, think again. It is absolutely worth it. Make the journey. Plan a long visit.

Stay the night at the top of the mountain. The views alone will reward your efforts. Not that the voyage is difficult. First you ride pleasantly through rice fields en route Kaeiktyo. Next you transfer to an open-top truck, along with 70 other passengers, for a nearly straight uphill on a kooky curvy road.

The engine groans as the route crests false peak after false peak. You traverse sharp ridges. Fog descends, waterfalls pound, air brakes squeal. This section confirms your decision to see for yourself what else the place offers beyond what the postcards show.

Finally, on foot now, and without shoes, you ascend a flight of steps until you reach a glistening white plaza. Along the way you pass a series of lesser stones. You glimpse smoky hilltops in the distance.

At last, the golden boulder dawns. The size and position of the photogenic Rock makes a fitting climax to your journey. Four tall Westerners, or five short Asians, could stand on each other’s shoulders and still not touch the top of the shining egg. Adding another couple dozen feet to the spectacle is a chedi, which from a distance looks something like a court jester’s cap, but on closer
inspection reveals itself to be a proper crown.

Some pilgrims believe the site is holy because long ago a hair of the Buddha was embedded in the Rock to keep it from pinwheeling over the edge toward the wide Sittaung River below. Just in case, you hold your breath so that you’re not responsible for a “holy roller.”

Then you sit. Breathe. Smile.

Popa is Resplendent

Solstice in Southeast Asia generally doesn’t make much of an impression—night and day are always just about the same length.

Yet recent mornings here in Yangon have stood out. The light has a quality I’m not used to. At daybreak the sun’s rays seem to filter down through the trees and strike the earth at a different angle than they do in Thailand. This city’s latitude isn’t too much different from Bangkok’s and Chiang Mai’s… perhaps Myanmar’s weird in-between time zone makes this place an exception, like Harry Potter’s Platform 9¾?

New Year’s morning offered up some special magic. A few friends and I chose to welcome 2014 at Mount Popa, an inactive volcano near the center of Myanmar.

We traveled by overnight bus. It was before dawn on the 31st when we arrived. For starters we just practiced the slow art of teashop-sitting. As daylight appeared, the little town at the base of the mountain woke up. Now and then a truck idled in the street, hoping to be noticed. Fruit sellers spread out their produce on little mats, only to abandon them in favor of gossiping by the roundabout. The colors were brighter than in the big city. The birds had more personality.

That afternoon we toured a temple perched up on a kilometer-high pillar that geologists say is a volcanic plug, left over from a long-ago eruption. Locals say this wide rock column is the epicenter for nats, Myanmar's special brand of supernatural beings. Many of these mythical spirits are thought to congregate here, exerting their animist pull on the Burmese Buddhist cosmos. Sunset drew near, and the resident monkeys began to screech. We surely felt there was something extra- about the place.

With only a few hours of bus sleep under our belts, bedtimes were early—to hell with New Year’s Eve. Besides, we set our alarms for 3am. That’s the time you have to be awake and climbing if you want to greet the first rays of the year from the peak of the volcano.

In the dark we took a wrong turn or two. We worried we might arrive too late. No other hikers seemed to have the same idea, so there was nobody to ask except for some dogs we met along the way. They were no help.

Half-light began to make the trail obvious. Grassland replaced forest. We could tell we were getting close.

Enough glow leaked from somewhere to keep us from falling into the crater. It was exactly in between night and day. Officially, 2014 had arrived about six and a half hours earlier.

For us, the new year got off to a memorable start when the sun peeped over the horizon, making the soft edges sharp. Bright orange reflected off the cliffs and into the valley. Down where we began, the golden roof of the nat temple glistened.

Inle – Is It Interesting?

All this time I understood the name for this popular Myanmar destination to be “Inle Lake.” After arriving I found that saying “Lake” is redundant. “In” already means lake. The “-le” part makes it diminutive, like the “-let” in “piglet.” Which leaves us with “Dear little lake?”

Except that it’s not really any of those things. “Cultivated Wetland” might be a more appropriate term. Much of the “lake” is in fact a garden. Farmers take weeds from the bottom and use them to build a floating foundation for their crops. The garden beds slide up and down along long bamboo poles that are stuck deep in the mud, supporting eggplant, tomatoes, beans, cauliflower, cabbage, melons, and bananas.

This ever-expanding semi-land, combined with silt pouring in from deforested surroundings, mean that some day the word “lake” may be even less necessary. Right now the average depth is about 7 feet, which explains the unique style of paddling used by local boatmen. Many stand and wrap one leg around their oar, the better to scan the route ahead to avoid getting stuck among reeds growing in the shallow water.

While the gardens and the paddlers and the purple hills in the background make for a nice day’s outing, to me the region bordering the water is more interesting than the lake itself. I’ve seen Scottish lochs and

American ponds that I’d sooner go back to than return to Inle. Certainly the town at the lake’s outlet offers nearly nothing to write home about. Yet there is one time each year, in September and October, when Inle earns the “dear” in its name. Buddha images from a special temple are toured around Inle on a bird-like boat, guided by several leg-rowers paddling in sync.

Kalaw is Endlessly Explorable

Perhaps the most pleasing Buddhist temple in Myanmar’s Shan State sits in a valley slightly southeast of Kalaw, gently tying together the paths and ridges that together create an endlessly explorable web of walking possibilities. The temple’s spire shimmers at the center of everything, like the moon does on magical nights.

We first saw this perfectly proportioned structure after cresting a small hill. We had walked a dozen miles since beginning a three-day trek that morning. Between us and the temple’s village was a grassy bog, ideal for birdwatching. Someone with a painter’s sensibility had spanned the wetland with 300 yards of railing-ed wooden walkway that would have been right at home on Cape Cod.

Of course this village, which might be called Ywa Pu, or possibly Sait Kyar Kone—people here are used to things having more than one name—is halfway around the planet from Cape Cod. It’s a couple of days’ hike from a body of water, Inle, that in these parts is nearly as famous as the Cape. Two rows of stilted wooden houses on either side of a muddy path make up the whole of the village. One or two of the homes boasts electricity that comes from solar cells; in the rest people use candles at night, or simply go to bed with the sun. Televisions at the electrified homes kept even small kids awake as late as 10, but everyone seemed to be up with the roosters in the morning nevertheless.

I got up too, still wearing the smile I had worn since getting off the hour’s flight from Yangon two evenings earlier. Arriving in the cool north, where the air has none of the steam and soot of the big city, revitalized and uplifted me. I needed a fleece jacket at night, even at the end of rainy season.

No road passes this way, but it’s hardly wilderness. Our route passed next to terraced ride paddies, through pine forests, along open ridges, beneath apple orchards, and across rolling fields. Nearly all the land that’s flat enough is under cultivation. We skirted ginger plants and sesame flowers and turmeric roots and several more crops that I couldn’t identify without help from our two teenaged girl guides. Amidst the bright emerald colors of the rainy season, we also spotted tan cliffs, shady caves, and the flash of unexpected silver that signals an ingenious irrigation system.

Now and then we encountered a hamlet. The language spoken there might have been any of a dozen possibilities; our guides knew lots of the local tongues, and they claimed to be able to guess which one to use by facial features alone. Us newbies, to tell a Danu from a Palaung from a Pa’O, had to rely on the color of the turban or whether or not the men were wearing longyis.

Village activities that first night seemed pretty uniform: taking care of animals and children, farming intensively, celebrating harvests and funerals. Such a schedule keeps people busy. When we asked, none had traveled far from home. Indeed, the folks living in WhereverWeWere could rightly have asked people like us, Why go anywhere? After all, on full- and new-moon days, most of the surrounding region comes to them, as hosts of the loveliest temple for miles around.

Dubai is Not Dangerous

Before flying to the U.S. for 4th of July reunions, I packed some presents from Myanmar and Thailand that I planned to bring to friends and family. Included amongst those goodies were a few aromatic Thai inhalers. These camphor-filled cylinders must look like bullets to an airport x-ray machine. The Bangkok security team pulled me aside.

At first I couldn’t think what they could be worried about, but when the guard and I opened the suitcase and discovered the inhalers, we both had a good laugh. Strangely, at the Chiang Mai airport, before taking the short hop to Bangkok for my connection to the States, I had sailed through unchallenged.

A few hours later I approached the third check of the day. In Dubai, all transit passengers must re-scan their carry-on bags. This time a large woman wearing a head covering stood up from her position at the x-ray machine. She was not smiling as she waved me over to a table near the conveyor belt. I knew she wanted me to feel scared of her, but I just smiled and prepared to explain.

Even when she pointed at my second bag, which contained no inhalers, I still couldn’t feel concerned. Then she announced, “You have knife.” It was not a question. I opened the small pack to show her a harmonica that sometimes confuses x-ray readers. She shook her head, taking over the unpacking. It was an awkward moment. I knew I had nothing to hide, she knew she had seen a knife. The more I smiled, the more she glared. 

She removed a book, laptop charger, toothpaste, hat. Finally all alone at the bottom of the pack was a small bag containing Burmese snacks… and my mother-in-law’s six-inch-long kitchen knife.

I was stunned. The last time I had seen that knife, about three weeks earlier, it had stowed away in a package I was bringing back to Chiang Mai from Jip’s village. I could imagine a few different ways it could have ended up in this daypack, but in fact I wasn’t sure. I was sure that nothing I could say would sound convincing to the intimidating man who replaced the intimidating woman. He took my passport and boarding pass with him to a desk, where he began documenting my crime. I began crafting the speech that would explain the true story of the knife’s journey.

“Well, sir,” I imagined saying, “my mother in law loaned me some old photographs. We used a knife to cut the string when we wrapped them in newspaper. Without our noticing, the knife became lost in the package. I didn’t find it until I untied the pictures at the photo shop where I scanned them.

“Later, I tossed the knife in with a large bag of food gifts that I purchased in Naypyidaw. All of these bundles traveled home with me on the bus. Now I’m taking those same gifts to the U.S. It never occurred to me that the knife would still be in the bag….”

I didn’t move as I rehearsed this speech. Something told me to avoid doing anything they might consider furtive. My connecting flight departed in under an hour. I wondered if I would be allowed to get on it. The ominous man walked back over to me to start his interrogation.

“What…” he began.

I opened my mouth to explain.

“…is your nationality?” he continued.

Surely this was a trick. He was still holding my passport, face up. He had just written down my information. There had to be a catch. But on short notice I couldn’t see it, so I simply answered, “I’m American.”

To which he nodded, handed me my documents, and walked away. I made my connecting flight. Before passing through Dubai on the way back to Thailand, I believe I’ll triple check the bottom of my luggage.

Naypyidaw is Not Like Anyplace Else

Quick—what’s the capital of Myanmar/Burma?  If you said Yangon/Rangoon, you’re half right. Practically speaking, much of the country’s future gets charted in the city that the British chose as the capital in the 1800s. It’s still the economic center, and all of the embassies are based there.

But officially the government moved its headquarters 250 miles north to the middle of nowhere about eight years ago. Nobody got much notice. The inauguration of the new capital kicked off at 6:37am on 6 November 2005, less than two weeks after most of the Yangon civil servants who would be working there had first been given the news that they had to move. Secretive planning for Naypyidaw—the name translates in English as “Abode of Kings”—reportedly grew out of conversations between the generals and soothsayers.

Outside Asia, many people still haven’t heard of the city that one critic has called “more a sprawling army compound than a functioning metropolis.” Indeed, this planned community without any community has aspects of a fortress. Naypyidaw’s suburbia-style street grid simplifies crowd control. Being between mountain ranges makes it much easier to defend than a river town like Yangon. And rumor has it that connecting the many ministries and mansions are miles of tunnels.

I had a chance to stay in Naypyidaw this past week as a helper to someone attending a major financial meeting, the largest event ever held there. Had it taken place anywhere else, I wouldn’t have been interested. Because this place simply isn’t like anywhere else.

Vast, and too quiet, Naypyidaw is functional but not fun. The city is able to host the South Asia incarnation of the World Economic Forum by day, but unable to provide any entertainment by night. In the words of one Korean attendee, “It’s easy to get around here, but there’s nowhere to go.”

The roads are wide, empty six-lane highways in both directions. City blocks stretch for nearly two miles, lined only with a few dozen 100-room hotels. There are no food carts, no beauty salons, no bookstores, no bicycle shops, no tour companies, no dogs, no traffic, no clinics. Just hotels. And not a Marriott nor a Hilton among them.

Surreal, yet oddly attractive, Naypyidaw’s appearance is clearly intended to impress. The city’s landscaping budget reportedly dwarfs that of all the country’s other municipalities combined. A large lawn surrounds the parliament building, which appears to be two or three times larger than the one in Thailand. Streetlights stay on all night, unlike most cities in Myanmar, where electricity is sporadic. Five golf courses allow for open-air financial negotiations between government officials and businessmen seeking favors. Everything is spread out under a big sky, complemented by silhouetted peaks in the distance.

I got on the back of a motorcycle to head for the ministry zone. My errand was simple: hand-deliver a couple of documents. Mostly I was looking forward to passing through something resembling a city center along the way. No such thing. Those clever generals perhaps wanted to prevent Arab-Spring-style gatherings, long before such movements arrived in the Middle East.

Soon the motorcycle driver and I found ourselves wandering from Finance to Communications, stopping along nearly vacant roads to ask directions of gardeners. The individual ministries are spaced every half-mile or so, always set back from the streets far enough that they can’t be seen. Which may be a good thing. Viewed up close, these buildings have already begun to decay. Mold and wrinkles cover the exteriors. Inside, you find sparse furniture and an air of listlessness that goes beyond the level you might expect, even of a developing country bureaucracy.

Though Naypyidaw doesn’t have a downtown, or really anywhere that could be considered a public square, there is a telling cultural symbol occupying what appeared on my map to be the exact geographical center of the city. You’re probably thinking: a large monument to a hero? a religious edifice of some kind? maybe a flagpole? No, it’s a museum… yet not one that celebrates particular moments from the country’s past. Rather, Naypyidaw offers pride of place to the natural resource that partly provided the millions spent to transform a jungle into row upon row of pattern-built office space. Yes, it’s the Museum of Gems.

Scotland is Survivable

A walk of any distance involves ups and downs—especially in Scotland, where the topography can get hilly and the rain horizontal. Yet the rewards of hiking there far outweigh the drawbacks. Minor annoyances like flies and downpours tend not to bother the locals. Scotland’s grand and endlessly varied landscapes inspire the walker even when conditions are, to use an ancient but still-popular Scots word, “dreich.”

Weather that qualifies as dreich, we were told on a recent hike, has at least four of these characteristics: cold, dismal, dreary, drizzly, dull, miserable, misty, or overcast. The term also implies “survivable,” as in character-building.

Four of us from the States tested our characters last week on a glorious wee wander known as the West Highland Way. This 95-mile ramble along lochs, across moors, and over bens thoughtfully links up several historical walking paths that show off much of the nation’s best scenery and history.

We set off on a crisp Sunday from the center of Glasgow. Our route would quickly take us north out of the city, but we were in no hurry to leave. We passed imposing old stone bridges and blossoming botanic gardens that fit their surroundings as naturally as a thistle on a mountainside. Urban walking doesn’t get much better than this.

The next day, now fully in the hinterlands, we were joined for a while by seasoned English hill walkers. These guys figured on covering in four days the same distance we planned to do in seven. Listening to their speedy itinerary did not faze us. We knew what we liked and what we liked was taking a long lunch while watching ospreys dive. Or stopping at the Glengoyne Distillery for a wee dram. Maybe posing for jump photos using the camera’s timer delay. The West Highland Way is not a race.

The Way’s daily changes in character offered no shortage of backgrounds for our photos: long valleys, brown ridges, table-flat fields full of newborn lambs. We normally added or subtracted a layer of clothing during our stops, to match the weather’s many moods. The big sky was rarely a single color. Sometimes its mix of chalk and slate and coal could hide an eagle.

The rough countryside invigorated us. We imagined our ancestors tramping into the same wild winds, navigating by the same craggy knobs. In no time, we became nationalists, belting out “Flower of Scotland” at the tops of our voices, and resolving to drink only the native soft drink, Irn Bru.

(Note to would-be Wayfarers: good whisky is nice, but it is criminal to visit Scotland without partaking of its other national drink. In no other land, it is said, does the local carbonated beverage outsell Coca-Cola.)

The week went on. Although the skies darkened, our moods became lighter. We breathed in deeply the northern air, wishing we could bottle its heather-tinged scent to bring home. Breaks in the clouds became more special for their scarcity. During one evening’s emergence of the sun, two of us dropped packs and scampered up a nearby peak for such panoramas as could be found in the mist, while the other two carried on through a glen that glowed with golden beams. At night we dreamt of worthy challenges.

We wished not so much for better weather as for more time to savor the wild goats, the Highland oxen, the romantic place names. Strathblane! Balmaha! Inversnaid! Bridge of Orchy!

Throughout much of our final afternoon, a slashing rain chased us. We knew without counting up the attributes that this was “dreich.” The torrent of shrapnel-like drops would have kept a car’s rear wipers busy. Our feet sloshed and wrinkled inside our boots. Opening and closing farmers’ fences required almost more energy than we could manage.

As the drenching continued, we thought stout thoughts. We repeated aloud the motto for Irn Bru, which is, “It gets you through.” We reminded ourselves that it could be worse—all of our packs were waterproof, none of us was hypothermic, and a warm pub supper awaited us somewhere. Indeed, we knew we would not only survive, but also finish the trail better people than we began it.

Chenaud est Beau

We came in search of France’s most beautiful village. To our surprise, over 150 places claim that official designation. Each one gets to hang a little sign on the edge of town, certifying its membership in the club known as “Les plus beaux villages de France.”

Of course it makes sense to have dozens. How else to reconcile one person’s preference for ramparts, another’s for seaside, and still another’s for vistas?

Over a fortnight, my parents and I managed a pleasing mix of all three while wandering from one Gallic charm to the next. The combination of castle and donkey delighted us at Beynac-et-Cazenac. In Saint Suliac, bordering a splendid estuary, we ordered everything on the menu at La Crêperie Guinguele. The gallettes there were so tasty that when we finished, we almost decided to wait until we were hungry enough to start all over again. Domme’s panorama above the Dordogne River made us want to paint.

We also enjoyed the familiar-as-an-old-sweater kind of village. An old friend invited us to stay a couple of nights in her family’s summer retreat, just outside the Aquitaine hamlet known as Chenaud. About 70 kilometers northeast of Bordeaux, the community is a checkerboard mix of oak forests, purple vineyards, and rolling meadows. Who needs a chateau, we decided, as we drove past a classic old mill, then over a one-lane bridge.

Home to 320 people at last count, Chenaud doesn’t bother with street names or house numbers. Occasional signs point toward beige cottages named with the French-language equivalent of “Hillcrest,” or “Badger Grove.” Our friend’s place, “Bon Jouan,” dates to the 18th century, making it a relative newcomer in the neighborhood. The stone village church has stood for over 800 years.

Bon Jouan’s three farmhouses all feature massive ceiling beams and bats in the attics. A barn stores all the treasures that the extended family can’t bear to discard—bicycles from the 1960s, lawn chairs with only one leg missing, a leaky boat christened “Sauterelle.” Countless styles of windows, shutters, and doors intermingle on each of the structures, all of them effective. Indoor temperatures were several degrees cooler than outdoor during the warm spring afternoons.

At the head of the long drive a waist-high granite Mother Mary protects the compound. Protect from what, you ask? Perhaps from the witch who lives at the bottom of the wellspring. For extra security, we tossed pebbles in that deep hole whenever we passed by, to break the witch’s teeth so she can’t harm any children.

Our friend explained that pilgrims formerly passed through Chenaud while walking the Way of St. James, better known by its Spanish name, El Camino de Santiago. We imagined ourselves doing the same as we took long evening walks along the country lanes, encountering more deer than cars.

I got up early one morning to watch as the sun gradually brought out the yellows and greens of the River Dronne valley. Chenaud’s tile rooftops glistened. Outside the mayor’s office, just opposite the church, nobody else was about. I thought to myself, Those other places can hang out their little signs if they wish—I’ve found the true “plus beau village de France.”

Salween is Superb

What you want in a mountain bike adventure: enough smooth to balance the rough, a bit of wide to appreciate the narrow, and some unexpected to keep the known from becoming too predictable.

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.

The Mekong is Marvelous

The Mekong River ranks among the world’s widest. By the time it becomes a delta in Vietnam, the river has split into at least nine individual strands, most too broad to see across.

The Mekong is also powerful. As it divides Cambodia down the middle, the river is strong enough to push back against incoming rivers, notably the Tonle Sap, which actually reverses course several months of the year.

But even wide, powerful creatures must start out as kids. In the Mekong’s case, childhood happens in Tibet. The river becomes an adolescent in Laos, absorbing nearly every drop of rain that falls there. Along one Lao stretch, between Huay Xai and Luang Prabang, the Mekong even zigzags just like a teenager.

A boat full of us, 60 or 70 passengers in all, set off along that stretch on a fine November morning. Roughly half the paying customers carried luggage, intending to make the entire two-day journey. The rest carried vegetables, having just come from their regular shopping expedition in Huay Xai.

People from this second group would occasionally rise, tap the boat driver on the shoulder, and say something to the effect of, “You see that young man in a canoe up ahead? That’s my nephew. Slow down a bit, can you?” At which point Nephew would paddle up alongside our long, cigar-shaped craft, and throw a short line up to one of the crew. Auntie would then wriggle over the side, dropping in beside Nephew just ahead of her potatoes or cabbages or whatever else she had instructed us to toss after her.

In a flash the canoe was then untied, our engine revved, and off both boats would go, neither having had to dock or even to slow appreciably.

The wilderness river relished its newfound freedom to roam, within limits. Upstream, it had no choice but to run canyons. Now, among the mountains of Laos, it had the option to take running leaps over previously untouched boulders, as if testing its growing limbs. Perhaps it thought nobody was around to notice when it shimmied and slalomed and snuck peeks at its reflection in occasional mirrors of its own making.

I had expected flat water and lots of other river traffic. Instead we were alone, except for the occasional fisherman, nephew in a canoe, and the daily “express.” This hideous speedboat, designed for travelers who can’t spare two days to cover the 300 kilometers between end points, uses a serious outboard motor to hurtle its victims along at a spine-crunching tempo. Helmets and ear plugs are required on this foolhardy trip.

Having seen the Mekong further downstream, where it serves to irrigate and delineate and satiate, I was also surprised by the lack of commerce. The only outpost of any consequence we encountered on that first day showed up on the left bank as darkness began to fall. This was Pakbeng, a one-industry town that appears to exist mostly because the boat route does. At night the lone street in Pakbeng comes to life—well, at least until about 9:30—feeding and watering and housing the primarily Western voyageurs who will carry on the next day to Luang Prabang.

Among those traveling the whole distance were a Chilean, a Finn, two Germans, two Swedes, two Swiss, and a tour group of a couple dozen Poles. The Polish group’s leader, making the journey for the sixth time this year, pointed out the lack of birds. Also absent from the forested river banks: dogs, schools, temples—any sign at all, really, of Auntie and Nephew’s villages. We weren’t sure where our former companions had disappeared to after paddling away from us, but we suspected the protein in their diet was partly supplied by the birds we didn’t see.

As a few of us ate dinner in one of Pakbeng’s smaller restaurants, a woman approached to introduce herself as the proprietor of the bar up the road. “It’s me or nothing,” she explained, pointing to her wristwatch to suggest that she wasn’t sure how much longer she would stay open that night. Our restaurant’s owner didn’t seem to mind the intrusion—he said the woman made the rounds every night. One can only guess what happens in Pakbeng by day—probably lots of not much.

But not for long. The neighbor to the north is everywhere in evidence. People throw about the word “colonization” to describe the current relationship between China and Laos. Some even go so far as to say, “annexation.”

Within minutes of beginning this journey, our boat passed beneath a hulking, sparkling bridge. Expected to open for traffic early next year, it is a key link in a route that connects Bangkok with Kunming. If the Chinese have their way, the same two cities will someday be joined by high-speed rail. Landlocked, cash-strapped Laos will surely find it difficult to turn down China’s offers to finance most of the construction, despite the many strings that are rumored to be attached to the money.

The second day of moseying down the Mekong unfurled just as uneventfully as the first. Two or three times we paused to let off passengers who had joined us in Pakbeng. They carried no bundles from the upstream markets. Also, this time we could see the settlements they were heading for. Our eyes simply followed the line of kids and cousins who came running across the mudflats that grew increasingly wide and frequent.

By mid-afternoon all but the Westerners had abandoned ship. We trudged up the steep path at Luang Prabang city, bearing the backpacks and rolling luggage of the globetrotter class. Ahead of us, beyond the smallish World-Heritage-Site-protected zone, waited a ring of newly minted Chinese hotels. Behind, the Mekong churned on, gathering strength to push aside all challengers on its way to the South China Sea.

Chae Son is Spontaneous

Plenty of daylight remained at Chae Son National Park—certainly enough, I thought, for a leisurely saunter up to what sounded to me like the park’s star attraction. (How can you not love a waterfall named “Wet Mother”?) The falls were described on displays at the visitors’ center, but they didn’t appear on any of the maps. I asked directions.

“Where’s your friend?” answered the uniformed personnel. I confessed that I was by myself. “Better not go alone. Might get dark.” Behind the smile seemed to be information that I would not be offered until we had formed a weightier relationship.

Which was fine, because at that moment I was still navigating the day by feel and planning to be back in my own bed before Sunday became Monday. It was easy to convince me to take the path more traveled by.

And that, of course, made all the difference. No, I didn’t slip and break my leg or run out of gas or steer the truck into a ditch. All I did was follow the well-trodden and well-signed track to the top of a nearby six-stage set of baby falls—Wet Mother’s young daughter, if you will.

I came across singing insects and hot springs and goofy trees and massage mats and any number of other delights that served to sharpen my appetite for ChaeSon. The place was simply too nice to drive away from. By the time I had tracked the cicada sounds and soaked the feet and photographed the epiphytes, the decision was made: Gotta stay another day!

Earlier that morning, I had left Chiang Mai planning only an afternoon jaunt to the countryside. It was just me in a borrowed truck—no toothbrush, no fresh undies. The owners of the wheels had asked that I give their burly ride a bit of exercise while they were away.

I figured I’d only make it as far as the next district, where I would sample a bowl or two of the local specialty before circling back to the barn. But somehow each new ridge kept crying out “find out what’s behind me!” until I found myself at the entrance to this charming mountain park that I recalled somebody saying once had lots to recommend it.

The proprietor of a funky country inn was glad to see a customer on a Sunday night. He had a map that gave a few hints about how to find Wet Mother. In the morning I was on the trail just after the playing of the national anthem. I reached the base of the falls by 10. The rainy season had washed away a couple of bridges (maybe that’s what the park official had hesitated to tell me?), but I got across the stream every time without risking life and limb.

Made it home for dinner Monday with a wide grin that I’m still living off of!

France is Fraternal

France, always a destination très belle, becomes even more attractive in the company of old friends. The espresso at the outdoor café tastes somehow existential when sipped across the table from pals of decades long gone by. Strolls through outdoor markets alongside long-standing chums stimulate many sentiments agréables.

Inspiration for this trip came from my goddaughter, someone I haven’t known especially long, or even well. What better excuse to deepen our connection than her graduation from high school? This lovely kid comes, naturellement, from a lovely family of four Americans who now live in St. Germain en Laye, one of Paris’ royal suburbs.

Even a tarnished country would be brightened by these fine folks. But France! In May! A time of year when that oddest of traditions—sculpting trees into lollipop shapes—feels perfectly appropriate. A season of cloudless skies and obscure public holidays.

Another godfather, coming from the States, arrived around the same time. His godchild is the other daughter, who was both celebrating a birthday and appearing in a play at her French school. On top of the family fêtes, then, and the dinners in the Latin Quarter, and the bicycle rides past places that photographers are forever putting on picture postcards, France also offered up the joys of a godfather reunion.

We all go back a long way but rarely cross paths now, living as we do on three continents. All of the adults had spent time in Europe as students. Our conversations, multilingual and abounding in time-capsuled references, began outdoors with the croissant course. My generation discussed solutions to the world’s ills—at least, as far as we understood such things. (The goddaughters gently brought us up to date about what was really important.)

When the sun grew warm, we moved underground to le Métro. There we listened to our fellow passengers expound with Gallic certitude on vital issues of the day. An accordion player sauntered through the subway cars, passing the hat after each tune. Now and then we got off and shopped for cidre, fromage, and other necessities.

Our wanderings tired us out by evening—no twilight boat rides along the Seine or midnight plats du jour in Montparnasse for our age bracket. (My goddaughter, by contrast, didn’t even start getting dressed to go clubbing until around 10pm.) We made an exception on the night of the school musical, a unique fusion of “Picnic at Hanging Rock” and “The Mikado.”

Set in Australia, and peppered with songs supposedly sung in Japan, the production wasn’t aiming for a French connection. The director’s program notes explained that she wanted to explore “liminal space”—in-between places like geographical borders, transoceanic flights, and adolescence. We all had experience with such places. Watching the ambitious efforts of the young actors, flanked by my time-honored mates, I felt a véritable source d'inspiration.