Cuba is Compelling

Would I ever return? I left Cuba with lots of unanswered questions, mostly about the people’s self-reliance and the economy and tobacco’s role and the economy and the cooperatives and the economy and household Santeria shrines and the economy and….

So I could imagine coming back some day to try for answers, and particularly to learn more about what our presence as outsiders means for local people. One story we heard after arriving suggested that tourism has deprived locals of essential nutrition, because food supplies on the island are limited by sanctions, and market incentives drive the most nourishing items to visitors.

Especially if I had more Spanish, it would be fun to again plan overnights at home-stays. Putting up tourists in local homes became legal only recently, partly because demand outpaced local hotel supply. In Trinidad, our very kind hosts told us (I think I understood correctly) that nearly all of their neighbors were trying to raise the money to renovate their houses to the standards that travelers expect. In Viñales, entire streets had already converted to offering home stays, hanging out shingles that advertised simply by the owners’ names. In one block I recorded Tito y Yanet, LaPrieta y Mario, Carlos y Mariela, Jovita y Papo, Roberto y Lola, Maria Jesus y Raul, Damian y Magdy, Santiago y Tona, Estrella y Celestino, and Drs. Rosa y Juan.

The idea of coming back to Cuba of course assumes that the government will continue to welcome my passport. For now, the spirit of the agreements signed by Obama led our guide to say of Cuban-American relations that “We are friends but not that good of friends.” Everywhere we cycled during our visit, we couldn't miss being reminded by monuments, billboards, museums, and slogans (“Hasta la victoria siempre!”) of la revolucion’s triumph over the yanqui imperialistos. Even if this trip turns out to be my only one, I can imagine taking armchair excursions via the wide variety of Cuban literature.

Cuba is Contradictory

During the early part of our Cuba visit, we heard about and noticed benefits that the Cuban government provides all its people. Cuban health care has a reputation for being both effective and low-cost. Schools we cycled past appeared to be both orderly and dynamic. And the country passes my informal “curb test”: to me, one marker of development in a country is whether or not it spends its resources to add curbs to the streets in populated areas.

Somebody looked up Cuba’s rank on the Human Development Index, which considers numbers related to longevity, health, living standards, and access to knowledge. The country falls in the top 40% (Myanmar, by contrast, has a rank almost exactly double that of Cuba, placing it in the bottom quarter of countries on this scale.) Birth rates here are lower than in most countries with similar resources, in part because people expect all of their children to live. Noticeably absent, at least compared to what I’m used to seeing in Southeast Asia, are the logos of international NGOs and the UN. Perhaps the help here is homegrown?

Yet lately we are coming to understanding that countless products and services taken for granted by much of the world aren't available here. The cars and buses we see come only from a bygone American era, or from Eastern bloc assembly lines. (This afternoon a taxi's door handle came off as I pulled on it.) Cement is scarce, leading to difficult choices about what to renovate and what to abandon. Power cuts are frequent, especially during the summer. U.S.-led sanctions likely explain a great deal of what’s missing. 

One guy in our group, unfortunately, had occasion to test out the health system. Riding his bike perhaps a bit too fast, he misjudged a rural road’s curve and went into the ditch. In the next town, which was tiny, the government clinic docs very capably cleaned up his battered face and set his broken thumb. But when they sent him on to the country’s fifth-largest city for x-rays at the regional hospital, we found that it lacked fairly basic equipment. The radiologist had to step outdoors and hold up the film toward the sun rather than use a light box to read the image. In Cuba, apparently, it’s best to be injured during daylight hours.

Occasionally we came across large crowds that we couldn't explain. Asking around, we learned that a free internet signal was nearby. The chance to access the web for free attracts big throngs, often in town plazas. Paying for internet service can cost as much in one hour as about two weeks of a typical government salary... and about three-quarters of the population works for the government.

Cuba is Quirky

Few countries come colored by more expectations than Cuba. Still, I didn’t foresee the fishnet stockings on the airport security personnel. Nor the animal carcasses in the park—allegedly part of a ritual connected to the religion known as Santeria. There’s no telling what day two will bring!

Ten of us are here for a week to cycle in a few parts of the island—Bay of Pigs, Trinidad, Santa Clara, Viñales, and places in between. None of us knows much about this country. We signed up for this tour because we enjoyed each other’s company on previous trips together, on other islands.

As visitors with a guide, we’ll likely find it easy to navigate Cuba’s crumbling streets and dodge its classic cars. We have a support vehicle full of drinking water and spare innertubes. Comprehending what we see, though, may not be quite so simple. We come from near and far – U.S., Canada, Thailand, and Myanmar. 

Already I can tell that my Myanmar-tinted glasses dictate the way I look at Cuba. Trying to instantly create coherent stories about this place, I see colonial pasts, international sanctions, and human rights issues. Both countries surely provoke outsiders into strong reactions. Yet the parallels I’m hatching probably don’t mean what my snap judgments think they mean.

For example, the more we’ll learn about the Cuban state-run economy, the less we’ll likely understand it. Stopping for a rest in a small town this morning, we peeked into a ration shop that sells goods listed on the citizen ration card. Buyers pay for these goods in Cuban pesos (CUP), the national currency for everyone except tourists. At the end of the month, if the shop still stocks the item they want, Cubans can buy extra quantities of it by paying a slightly higher price than at the beginning of the month. 

If locals happen across some convertible currency (CUC), which is the only kind of money we tourists are allowed to spend, they can purchase premium goods at a premium price in the nearby CUC shop. (These products aren’t really so special—just a small cut above the basic essentials on offer in the ration store). In a third shop, which sells only fruit, a seller who wouldn’t have had the right to be in business ten years ago accepts either kind of money.

Not that people living here have money to spare, nor that people really do much of their business in shops. We’re told that salaries don’t come close to covering expenses, so that everyone “resolves” (takes the tiny little bit extra that “falls off the truck” when it happens to fall their way). Or, they get by with remittances from Florida or New Jersey (roughly one-fifth of the planet’s Cuban live in the U.S.). This will be a thought-provoking week.

New Zealand is Domestic

In New Zealand, we learned a thing or two about raising sheep. We now know, for instance, how to tell a lamb from a hogget (a new word for us—essentially, a teenager) from a two-tooth ewe, and so on. Flocks mostly consist of the same graduating class. They stick together from birth until retirement. 

Over a lifetime, we were told, sheep will likely be sheared about every eight months, not so much for the wool, but more to prevent their becoming cast (another new word, meaning unable to get back up after tipping over because their coat becomes too heavy). In the polyester era, farmers get less for wool than it costs them to shear it.

So the money in modern sheep raising comes from the meat, the quality of which depends on the quality of the grass. Figuring in costs like preventive health care, water, and occasional feed (depending on how well the grass is managed), farmers in New Zealand net about $100 per animal.

These tidbits came to us via our South Island hosts, a family that for nearly 150 years has shepherded 5,000 souls at a time on 1,000 acres near Waikaka. Their farm has been in the family for nearly 150 years, ever since Grandpa came over from Ayrshire. Dad and firstborn son work together to make sure the grass appears in the right places at the right times. Together with two or three dogs, they move the sheep from place to place. “I feel less alone back in the gully with a couple of dogs,” Dad told us, “than I do in a big crowd.”

For breakfast there, we ate sheep liver and bacon, served on toast with gravy. Tasty! Then we drove over to Gore, the nearest town of any size. Popping in to the agricultural cooperative store, we wandered aisles that were marked as follows:

AG Chem
Wool Shed
Pet Supplies
Equestrian
Animal Health
Dairy Supplies
Electric Fencing
Fencing
Hardware
Farm Safety
Livestock
Workwear
Clothing

Today, the country’s sheep population has fallen to under ten per person, down from over twenty at the peak, about 35 years ago. Lots of former sheep land has converted to dairy. Sure enough, for dinner we were offered a delicious roast. The beef was paired with turnips that Sister had pulled up earlier in the day as we accompanied the dogs on their rounds. We had only just arrived. Already we felt right at home.

Tokyo is Sensational

Don’t you love the music of place names in Japanese? Asagaya! Kichijoji! Ogikubo! Those three marvels popped up along the subway line I took on the first day.

On the second evening I was invited to a Tokyo neighborhood called Tsukishima (“Moon Island”!). New and different sensory delights awaited me at a sake bar. It was the kind of bar where you stand at a long chest-high table, and you order the fruity or the dry. The bottle is cerulean blue. It appears huge, bigger than a wine bottle or a whisky bottle, yet also perfectly proportioned. Adding to the exquisiteness is the bottle’s ample label, with its stylish calligraphy.

My friends explained that nobody pours their own sake. You can ask somebody else to pour you some, or somebody else can offer to top you up, or you can do the honors for others (pour until it overflows into the saucer), but it’s rude to just reach out and help yourself.

We tried the fruity. Now I was intrigued. Nothing for it but to move on to the dry. But first… to decipher its brand name. One friend is second-generation Japanese American; the other, Hong Kong Chinese. They both grew up halfheartedly learning kanji characters and now wish they had studied harder. Sometimes his memory of what he learned at Saturday school in New York doesn't match the meaning here in Tokyo. Likewise, there’s a big gap between her Hong Kong teacher’s translations and her Japanese teacher’s. Thus it was fun to listen as they tried to puzzle out signs and menus. He translated the name of the dry as "Green House." She had it as "Eight Fairies." Neither sounded right to me. We asked the waiters but their English wasn’t good enough to break the impasse.

The ballpark offered more curveballs. I joined another baseball fan at Jingu Stadium for an afternoon contest between the Yakult Swallows and the Seibu Lions. No peanuts and Cracker Jack for this crowd. Instead, tempura and sashimi sold well… at least when the fans weren’t busy singing and towel waving and umbrella pumping (under cloudless skies), all in celebration of various local heroes. A wave of grumbling went through the stands when a gaijin pitcher hit a Japanese batter but neglected to bow in apology. The home team’s followers were rewarded in the end by a 5-4 win.

I realize that it's commonplace to discuss Japan's uniqueness. And I admit to arriving on my first-ever visit there in hyper-touristic mode, with all senses tuned to detect the distinctive. Yet I challenge newcomers to feel any other way. An endlessly examinable place!

Pindaya is Polycultural

The hilltop plantations near Pindaya consist of pagodas. Trees there aren’t quite outnumbered by temples, but the count may be close. Pindaya’s polyculture makes this part of Shan State a prime place for photographers with wide-angle lenses.

It’s not just the pinnacles that arrest the eye. Sharply plotted terraces and covered flights of steps civilize their way up the gentle slopes. Varicolored checkerboards extend to the horizon. 

Pindaya is also known for a local legend that explains the existence of the town’s most famous attraction, the Shwe U Min Cave. According to the story, seven bathing princesses were sealed up in the cave by a giant spider, only to be rescued by a passing prince. 

The legend unsettled us as we read it aloud before visiting the cave. We thought the prince hadn’t really done the princesses a favor. Not only did he turn out to be one of those cocky conquerors that you often find in mythology, but he emerged as a womanizer to boot. We liked his personality less than the spider’s.

That mindset even tainted our circuit through the Buddha-filled cave. At first, we thought we were seeing penis heads at the tips of some of the long slender fingers on the images. The light wasn’t perfect, and we didn’t want to stare, but the whole idea made us feel a bit queasy.

I’d gladly have our perceptions corrected. Please write me if you can suggest alternate explanations. Pindaya is too nice a destination to spoil with misunderstandings.

Kalaw is Assorted

Almost immediately, we began to keep a list. Every few minutes along the trail from Kalaw to Inle, our guide stopped us to identify a new plant. From the outset we could tell that he knew his stuff. Agave, Broom, Camphor.

The guide’s name was Robin. His history, as a Nepalese Gurkha born in Myanmar, soon became a separate list. As we learned of specific flowers, herbs, and shrubs, we were also linking them to events from his life. Danson, Eggplant, Fig.

About gooseberries, he asked us, “Would you like to try one? You will not like it. But you will get addicted to it. I eat 20 per day.” By the end of the first morning, we had each made a gooseberry joke. Hazelnut, Jasmine.

Lunch, shared with a family Robin knew along the way, consisted of chapatis and Nepalese curries. Our hosts explained that the Kalaw area has become a major enclave for the "Burmese Nepalese," who now number roughly half a million. Lemon grass. Lentil. Mint. Oak.

Robin pointed out Papaya, Peanut, Pennywort, Potato, and Prickly Pear. He told us of ancestors coming to Burma as soldiers during various waves of British occupations here. His turban made it easy for us to picture him as part of a long line of recruits.

We answered with stories of our own. One of us had hiked this in this area before, although with very different guides. Three of us had been friends more than 35 years. We had walked together on four continents. This time, as we trekked across Shan State, we re-bonded over several striking new species. 

By the end of the three-day walk, our list included 38 items. Of course beans, garlic, ginger, and rice were part of it, along with cauliflower, celery, chili, and coffee. But sesame?! Who even knew how it grew?

Robin called our attention to trees – tamarind, tangerine, tea, and teak – as well as trumpet flower and turmeric. Not to mention datura, fennel, galenga, and hibiscus (“say what?” we said). By the time we came across the watercress, nearly the entire alphabet had been accounted for.

Ticino is Terrific

A most wonderful trip with friends in southern Switzerland
By Tom Cook, with John Henderson

Europe for Americans often means a mix of the familiar and the fairy tale. We recognize most foods, architecture, religion, and landscapes here, but somehow at the source they feel slightly dreamlike. We savor experiences as if we had tasted them once as appetizers in the U.S., and now have the chance to indulge in the whole meal. 

The “menu” on this trip included the cleanliness and order of the Swiss, alongside the style and Catholicism of Italy. This is Ticino, the southernmost of Switzerland’s 26 cantons, and the only one where Italian is the official language. The region includes clear streams, gorgeous lakes, steep hills, and snow-topped mountains.

We had local hosts. This arrangement often produces the best of all possible travel results. Going where you know people means eating at the hidden-away café, taking the road with no English sign, or understanding the invisible nuance. In our case, Arnoldo and Elena, who live in the little valley of Maggia, near Locarno, choose hiking trails and bike paths for us.

A special highlight was exploring historic stone houses in the mountains. We poked around restored villages that perfectly reflect the place they occupy, being made of the same rock that defines the alps behind them. Some nights we slept at high elevation in stone cabins known as “rifugio” or “rustico.”

Since the late 18th century, generations of Elena’s family used these tight, tidy structures while grazing cows and making cheese at more than 2,000 meters above sea level.

Recently a village and state effort converted some of the cabins to huts for hikers. After long days of ridge walking with backpacks, we enjoyed hot showers and solar-powered lighting, marveling at the European priorities suggested by this proud act of preservation.

Pleasure seemed especially abundant on this trip because all of us are old friends who have shared much in life. By now both good and bad events are sources of easy conversation. We discussed work, children, purpose, and even the end of life. For whatever reason, a happy, transcendent mood blossomed and our hearts were full.

Lingering over long breakfasts of fresh bread, jams, cheese, fruit, yogurt, and good coffee, we solved in our minds many of the world’s issues. Bicycling and walking gave us time to consider our views, both outer and inner.

We ate our best dinners in what locals call grottos—small, outdoor restaurants that serve traditional meals of gnocchi or polenta. In one, the chef came out in mock protest at our ordering a cheese plate before dinner, and not after. “This is a catastrophe,” he joked about this American habit. None of us felt that the backwards appetizer took anything away from the very fresh trout, pasta, and wonderful sauces that followed.

One day we took a boat to Isole di Brissago, an ideally sited small island in Lake Maggiore that was developed as a private botanical garden in the late 19th century. Now it is a public park with a diverse and showy collection of plants from around the world, including some special hydrangea, cypress knees, and a shady fern and pine tree collection.

Another time, three of us walked down a nearby road to a grand viewpoint. Along the way we saw a painted crest and a plaque dated 1942. Later we learned that this road, along with several other paths, were built by Polish refugees. Thinking about the war spurred us to ask our hosts many questions. Some still have no answers. People here in neutral Switzerland, said Arnoldo, wondered about sealed boxcars coming up from Italy in the middle of the night. These trains passed through the Gotthard Rail tunnel on their way to Germany. Sometimes moans could be heard from inside the cars.

During the final three days of our stay we conquered a three-day trek that ranks among our most breathtaking and challenging walks ever. The trail is known in Italian as the “Via Alta.” Its first section, traveling north, follows a ridge line from above Locarno. Our day began early, parking Arnoldo’s car at a friends’ office, crossing the street, getting on a funicular, transferring to a high-altitude tram and then chair lift, and finally hiking off into mountains. Where else in the world but Switzerland can you do that?

We climbed up, down, and around four peaks, taking in gorgeous views that stretched to the south end of Lake Maggiore in Italy, Monte Rosa to the west, and the Finsteraarhorn above Bern. Nine kilometers took us nine hours. The altitude was lower than other parts of the Alps, or the mountains of the Western US, but we felt it.

Near the end of that day our focus was sharpened by several no-kidding clambers. Swifts buzzed past us and threads of river flowed way below us, either side of the knife edge. It was a relief to finally arrive at Refugio Alpe Masnèe, where we could dream about our good fortune as the Swiss and Ticinese flags flapped in the night wind.

We descended. There was a mountain lake, countless striking outlooks, and even glimpses of helicopters delivering building materials to other cabins under renovation. Arnoldo described the pilots’ ability to place a beam or a picnic table within inches of where they were needed. As we approached their town, the well-used path became a marvel of stone steps that must have been constructed hundreds of years ago.

On the hillside a few hundred meters above their house sat a small chapel. We took in a final set of views. Throughout the hike we had been intrigued to find giant crosses on mountaintops, and several kinds of religious images in unlikely places. Here we found a trinity of faces, sharing four eyes, that seemed to us particularly odd.

We were sad to leave Ticino. This lovely corner of the world had stretched and delighted us. For everything that contributed to this wonderful week, from the perfect weather to the generous hosts to the grappa di pino after dinner, we felt grateful, grateful, grateful!

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.