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.

Ethiopia is Eccentric

You gotta love a place where the alphabet, calendar, and cuisine are all unique. These Ethiopians are different, and they’re proud of it. They may not say that they’re the best (in the main language, Amharic, it’s hard to form a superlative). But stay a few days and the confidence shines through.

It doesn’t take long before somebody mentions that Ethiopia is the birthplace of the species, or the capital of Africa, or the only country on the continent never to be colonized. Any of these claims can be disputed, but the truth doesn’t matter as much as the self-belief. This is a place with big plans: “middle-income country by 2020”; “Internet subscribers quadrupled every year”; “HIV incidence cut in half by 2015.”

This last statistic explains why my colleague and I were there on a work trip. I was enthralled enough that I’m sure I’ll be back as a tourist some day. The place may look very different by the time I get there again. We were told that government planners are taking the South Korean economic miracle as their development plan. Landlocked and without any oil, Ethiopia still managed over 7% growth in its economy in 2011, much of that thanks to livestock and coffee exports. Neighboring Kenya currently exports three times as much with just half the population. So if Ethiopians really get their plan implemented, then watch out.

Whether or not the country improves its GDP, it already contains lots to like. I enjoyed the gracious, welcoming people. They appear to get along well with each other despite the jumble of languages (more than 80!), ethnic groups (ask people here where they’re from, they tell you their tribe first), and religions (majority Christian, one third Muslim, a handful of Rastafarians).

Their time-telling system seemed quirky at first, but after somebody explained that they begin counting at around sunrise, it made more sense than what I’ve been using all these years. Our 9:00 morning meeting, for example, took place at 3:00 Ethiopian time. All of the months have 30 days, leaving an extra five or six days at the end of the year to be bundled together as the 13th month. Somehow over the years this calendar has gotten out of sync with other Christian ones— in Ethiopia, this year is 2004. People joke that they feel younger as soon as they get off the plane.

The food, dominated by a tasty sourdough pancake called injera, matches any fare anywhere. I’m convinced it’s the secret behind the success of the country’s famous marathon runners. We downed it with an equally distinctive and flavorful honey wine known as tej, and finished meals with the traditional course of coffee and popcorn.

We had some free time for sightseeing over a weekend. The flight we thought we had booked to an upcountry tourist town turned out not to be real. Instead we wandered around some dirt-poor streets in the capital. As in many developing places, plenty of people wouldn’t leave us alone until we paid them. We wondered why we see so many dogs in Thailand but so few in Ethiopia. Signs everywhere suggested that outside support from Cuba is being replaced by investment from China.

It didn’t take long to figure out that coffee is central to relationships in Ethiopia. Following our nose, we made our way to a shop we’d been told has been the best in town for more than fifty years. Tomoca Coffee’s lone room didn’t look anything like a Starbuck’s. We had to ask how things work there.

A handsome, friendly student explained that customers order at one counter, pay at another, pick up at a third, and then stand at one of the high narrow tables, waiting for somebody to come through with shakers of sugar or salt. The little cups of strong coffee last as long as you have. An hour after we arrived, my colleague was still talking to the student. Something tells me that whenever I return to Ethiopia, not much else will look familiar, but Tomoca will be unchanged.

Sangkhlaburi is Sonic

Sound carries well over water, uphill, and during the early evening. These gifts combined perfectly for us in Sangkhlaburi last weekend. We sat in the middle of the long wooden bridge, nearly 200 meters above the river, listening to the arrival of nightfall.

Cooking noises from the rafthouses below wafted our way. Grandmas shouted at boys to quit sliding down the riverbank before it got too dark to see. Girls on a dock laughed about a sarong trick—let it catch the air when you jump into the water, and it buoys you up just as well as an innertube would.

Somehow we hadn’t moved more than a stone’s throw from the bridge all day, even though we had been in town since lunchtime. Following the five-hour trip west from Bangkok, nobody felt like straying too far. It was good enough just to cross the bridge, photograph it, cross back over it, eat alongside it, and then finally to close our eyes and let the night noises mingle at the middle of it.

Yet it is a truth universally acknowledged that a tourist town in possession of only a single attraction must be in want of a new way of life, so the next day we struck out in search of what else might be on offer over at Thailand’s western border. It seemed to us that we should at least check out the nearby entry point to Burma, known as Three Pagoda Pass, just to say we’d been there. I’d read about this place for years, and had expected giant stupas marking a dramatic cut in the mountains. Nothing of the kind! Baby pagodas! And no sign of a pass.

Likewise, nothing too special about a former temple that is under water during part of every year thanks to a dam several miles downstream of the bridge. The local coffee shops we dropped in on were OK, but maybe not worth a special trip out from the capital. Somebody said that mountain biking in the area was rewarding—maybe next trip. This time, for us it was enough to return to our favorite overlook and just eavesdrop on the evening.

Ladakh is Lightheaded

Up north in India, pushed up against a couple of tense borders, lies a parrot’s-beak district that would be Tibet if some mighty tall Himalayan mountains weren’t poking up in between. The approach by air reminded me of the stunning entry to Lhasa—peak after snow-covered peak, giving way suddenly to a brown valley full of more prayer flags than trees.

People in Ladakh speak a variation of Tibetan, eat Tibetan, dress Tibetan, and worship Tibetan. The peaks appear to unite rather than divide the two regions. Some peoples would be put off by a soaring natural boundary, but not Tibetans. As a friend pointed out, they like it up high—“what they don’t like is having to come down.”

For the first day or so, a slight headache told my friend Edie and me that we were above 10,000 feet. Once we acclimatized, it remained to get used to the lack of water, noise, and warmth. The skies were clear but the temperatures wintry. Not much grows there. Despite the peaks, and the river Indus (tumbling through from its source in Tibet on the way to becoming Pakistan’s main artery), Ladakh qualifies as desert.

Edie and I took a trek over several 13,000-foot passes. We often stopped to add or subtract layers. Our guide, a 22-year-old Ladakhi woman, never did that. She simply wrapped a free end of her long scarf over the top of her head and kept walking.

In Ladakhi villages we followed long belt-high stone walls, edging terraced fields or guiding streams. Sometimes we found wall remnants standing alone, built for reasons long forgotten. Taken together, the walls form the skeletons of the villages. They need frequent upkeep; the municipal health depends on their strength. Shorter, stouter walls appeared here and there, topped with dozens of slate slabs bearing the inscription “Om Mani Padme Hom.” I remember also seeing these devotional offerings to the local spirits in Tibet, where they’re known as “mani walls.” We always passed them on the left.

Like in Tibet, we gravitated toward monasteries. Usually monks and nuns seemed to be hard at work, but not too busy to stop for tea with us, or to unlock a room. Unlike in Tibet, such places were plentiful. Even the smallest villages seemed to have more than one. Pictures of the Dalai Lama were displayed frequently.

All the cultures of the huge Trans Himalaya Region were mixed up together in Leh, Ladakh’s main town. Mosques mix easily with monks there. People hawking apricot seeds set up on the curb outside internet shops. Everyone seemed able to speak at least three languages. After staying for four days in 100-person villages along our trek route, the pace in Leh felt pretty fast.

In total we spent just over a week in Ladakh—about the same amount of time I spent a couple years ago in Tibet. Both places have many lessons to teach the world. Both places are chock full of soldiers (the dicey border areas nearby Ladakh have led the Indian government to create countless security outposts). And in both Ladakh and Tibet I worried for the disappearance of a culture.

The Indian government of course has no formal policy aimed at extinguishing “Tibet-ness.” It just happens. Even though in Ladakh—unlike in China—the Tibetan brand of religion is freely practiced, a new generation of Ladakhis is growing up less interested in traditional local ways than in the ways of the world. And as much as people like Edie and me might come and try to learn about Ladakh, we inevitably import our own ways that the locals try to adapt to or imitate. The tools we use to understand Ladakhi culture, such as airports, internet shops, and trekking agencies, also all play a role in the dilution of that culture.

Myanmar is Dormant

What will become of Myanmar? Will the Union disintegrate? Will sovereignty perpetuate?

I look forward to using this trip as a basis of comparison when I return to explore, say, the Golden Rock, or Myitkyina and the upper Irrawaddy. My guess is that things there won’t get worse. Barring another Cyclone Nargis, I have confidence that the 21st century, along with the Lady and her ilk, will eventually loosen the stranglehold that the generals have on their “subjects” (can’t really call them constituents). It also wouldn’t surprise me if the West’s economic sanctions were removed in the near future. I can’t claim enough understanding of their consequences to know whether or not lifting of sanctions would improve the lot of the average citizen, but I doubt it would hurt.

Democracy has little chance of taking root any time soon. (Keep in mind that the government lists as one of the people’s desires the “Crush[ing of] all internal and external destructive elements as the common enemy.”) Perhaps the majority would be best satisfied, and maybe even best served, if the country moved toward some version of “socialism with Chinese characteristics”: a repressive regime that allows for a wider and wider piece of the pie to end up somewhere besides its own pockets. Such a future would match my own sense of the people’s desire.

In the end Myanmar wasn’t as weird as I expected. Sure, the men wear garments that to outsiders look like long skirts. And yes, you have to feel despair over the wackiness of its dictators. Yet I also sensed in Myanmar a normalcy that might be a reason for optimism about the future (if it doesn’t become an excuse for inertia).

At the risk of sounding like a Chicago Cub fan, it’s just hard for me to believe that a place with this much going for it—assets, history, celebrity—won’t rise again. Any country can have a bad century, right?

Bagan is Monumental

Five tips for making the most of a visit to Bagan:

* Vary your ride. On day one you’ll likely want an overview of the entire plain. Choose either horse cart or air-conditioned taxi, depending on the heat. (Come to think of it, you will be lucky to find an air-conditioned taxi here.) For your remaining days, your best mode will be bicycle—preferably equipped with fat, knobby tires for traction on the sandy roads. (Come to think of it, you will be lucky to find fat, knobby tires here.) Wheels of some kind will be better than trying to see Bagan on foot—distances are too long for comfortable walking, and you’re an easy target for postcard/painting sellers if you don’t have a getaway vehicle.

* Keep your distance. Going inside the temples needn’t always be your goal. Few of the interiors are as rewarding as the outsides.

* Take extra-long siestas. The ideal schedule has you up and out before sunrise. Delight in the dark silhouettes against the changing colors of the morning sky and the mists among the desert plants. If you’re a breakfast person, grab some food about the time when you no longer need your windbreaker. Between roughly 11 and 4 you’ll want to seek shade. Late afternoon / early evening is another magical time to be out on your bicycle taking in the floodlit spires of the most-favored chedis (though you’ll need a flashlight—darkness descends quickly!).

* Remember the river. A sunset cruise on the Irrawaddy finishes your day in Bagan just as nicely as a climb up an elevated perch. Pushing off around 4:30 gives you time to motor upriver from the jetty past Bupaya, briefly pull alongside the massive steamer Road to Mandalay, and then pass Shwezigon just as its shiny gold top appears to age slightly, changing from dazzling new to lustrous antique with the changing angle of the sun’s rays. Eventually the boatman will cut the engine and let the craft float back down. If you’re close to the right, temple-less bank, you’ll see farmers hand-watering the lettuces, onions, and tomatoes that will appear at the morning’s markets in Nyaung Oo. At this hour the star attraction is Tan Kyi Taung, the gold stupa-ed paya atop the ridge on the sunset side. All day long this temple’s many cousins across the river have held the spotlight. Now, as the sun descends behind it, Tan Kyi Taung appears to be the last man standing. (People from Myanmar who visit Bagan often do so partly to make merit at four sites in particular, representing the cardinal directions. This temple stands at the western extreme, and is generally saved for last during a morning-long dash to get to all four.)

* Lose your socks. Or else you’ll get awfully tired of putting them on and taking them off all day.

Bagan is Heavenly

Can there be a grander way to begin a day than by balloon? Not by our reckoning. As we lifted above Shwezigon Pagoda, powered by hot air, watching the sun come up over the mountains in the distance, we thought perhaps we were getting a sneak peak at the view from heaven.

For most of the next hour we glided one or two hundred feet above the Bagan plain, high enough to reveal the majesty and scope of this fantastic ancient city, but not so high that we couldn’t make out any number of present-day goings-on: brick-making, crop-planting, water-carrying, breakfast-cooking.

We found the view to be only part of the wonder. The brain trust at Balloons Over Bagan has designed a pre- and post-flight ritual that stimulates all of the senses. We felt the sound and fury of the fans and gas jets as they inflated the 12-passenger vessels before takeoff. Champagne and croissants took the sting out of what our pilot described as a “controlled crash”—also known as a typical balloon landing.

To say that the company had thought of everything would be like saying that the ancient rulers of Bagan thought on a big scale—neither statement is really comprehensible until you’ve been here. Miss this ride at your own peril. You’ll never forgive yourself.

Bagan is Benighted

Reasonable people might recount our evening bicycle ride on the plain of Bagan using very different descriptors—thrilling, frightening, unusual, unwise, heart-warming, heart-pounding. All would probably agree that we earned our supper.

Along the way we passed through a technological existence far removed from our day-to-day. The road crew applied hot tar and gravel by hand. Goat herders whistled their charges along sandy paths. West Pya-Saw village was built of thatch and bamboo, lit by candle.

We reached our intended sunset viewing pagoda just in time to catch the afterglow. The Shan Mountains turned to silhouette, and distant temples began to light up in glorious and varied styles across the plain. Some of the largest brick-only structures had their outlines illuminated with fairy lights. Those with more gold in their spires were spotlighted as if they were parts of a film studio logo. The lovely Dhammayazaka, which seemed to glow from within like a giant tree ornament, guided us home.

We surely needed its landmark as we rode back through the nearly pitch-black and suddenly quiet village. Our progress was slowed by a flat tire and the dune-like conditions of the track. Only 45 minutes earlier, the same route was a busy swirl of livestock and cooking and evening gossip. The rhythms of that pre-modern place, like its close neighbor Pya-tha-da Pagoda, must be governed primarily by the sun.

After finally reaching the paved road we hugged its edge. Depending on your point of view, we were either invisible or invincible. We pulled off whenever we saw a car approach, at one point nearly colliding with a large gravel pile that the road crew had left near the shoulder. Note for next time: no leaving home without the headlamp.

Myanmar is Multifaceted

I confess to arriving in Myanmar predisposed to look for its bizarre side. Everyone says it’s a weird country, which of course is music to the ears of most travelers. Why else do we go places, if not to see and do things that are out of the ordinary?

I told myself to rely on conversations rather than proclamations. The posted stuff does tend to be what you encounter first, though. Here and there were signs announcing:

Our Three Main National Causes

• Non-disintegration of the Union
• Non-disintegration of national solidarity
• Perpetuation of sovereignty

The in-flight magazine published a few government-approved lists, with titles such as “People’s Desire.” Among these desires are “Oppos[ing] those relying on external elements, acting as stooges, holding negative views.” The list of “Four Economic Objectives” concludes that “The initiative to shape the national economy must be kept in the hands of the State and the national peoples.”

Naturally, neither those subjects, nor any of the “Four Social Objectives” (“Uplift of dynamism of patriotic spirit,” etc., etc.), ever came up in chatting with people. Rather than non-disintegration of the union, everyone we spoke to seemed interested in non-disintegration of, say, their phone service or their bank account. Nearly all of the folks we met were lovely, generous, realistic, and industrious, making lemonade from lemons.

More than once we were approached by people who claimed to be students or academics. Their desire for English conversation and connections to the outside world bordered on the desperate. One self-described science professor spotted us walking along a side street and pulled over her car (twice!) to (double) check that we really wanted to be on foot. Her offers to drive us where we were going felt awkward for all concerned—we knew we didn’t really have a destination, and she knew she didn’t really have much waiting for her at the office. Getting ahead through education seems futile in Myanmar, where the government apparently closes universities and colleges on a whim, sometimes for months at a time.

Maybe the slice of the population we met wasn’t representative. Maybe in Myanmar there’s no such thing. Much more than its neighboring countries, it seems to be a place full of many ethnicities and landscapes and agendas. I was surprised by the variety of faces we encountered. The number of people whose people seemed to come from India and China was higher than I’m used to seeing in Bangkok.

Another surprise was the perfection of Shwedagon Pagoda. I knew it was going to be gold-plated and glittering, but I didn’t expect to feel so many forces swirling around, from the spiritual to the artistic, the touristic to the pilgrimatic. All roads lead there. A place to become restored, in case one’s faith has waned. Maybe the most stunning site in Asia.

Yet the same spot delivers quirkiness. Encircling the head of every single Buddha image on the Shwedagon grounds is a disconcerting neon halo. These recently installed rainbows, swirling and pulsing and spinning in endless different patterns, turn the serene into the silly.

We divided our eight days equally between Yangon and Bagan, not counting a quick break from the boundless Bagan to see where the road south goes from there. Abandoning ourselves to serendipity nearly always worked out, even though we often had no idea what was going on or what was being explained to us.

There was the time we got a little lost during a long hot stroll and ended up in the back of a pickup truck surrounded by 30 or 40 school kids and their lunch tiffins. The boys climbed onto the roof, the girls squeezed in wherever they could. Only one flat tire later, we arrived safely at a road we recognized.

We wondered at one point about the history of a handsome wooden monastery, but signage and local knowledge was in short supply, so we simply soaked up its beauty and called it good. Another time, the roly-poly abbot of a temple school mystified us with palm readings and palm-leaf Pali texts, before providing us a sparkling blessing in response to our donation. Sometimes we felt, by the time we got back to our hotel, that we hadn’t really done much. Oddly, Myanmar rewards not doing much. You just walk around for a while, take in the abstruseness, and end up feeling satisfied.

Suan Phung is Serene

In Ratchaburi Province, to the west and slightly south of Bangkok, lies a district whose green, rolling hills call to mind Vermont. We drove out to Suan Phung on a Sunday morning, mostly because one of our crowd had heard about a chi-chi resort that was offering two-for-one coupons, good any night but Friday or Saturday. We all had Monday off because our office was closed for one of those American holidays that nobody else in Thailand celebrates.

Now I say chi-chi. What I really mean is a place that looks as if it were designed by a recent architecture grad. A cross between funky dorm room and Anasazi kiva. The dozen or so whitewashed cottages have little stars and moons carved into the walls. From the rooftop patios, reached by outdoor staircases, the view features sheep in the foreground. A long twisty driveway leads to the open-air breakfast room.

Everything felt newly unwrapped, as if the place had been a present from well-off Bangkokian parents to a child wanting to put art-school theory into practice. We had passed dozens of weekend getaways and stylish coffee shops with a similar vibe and vintage as our car left the plain and climbed Suan Phung’s slopes that morning.

It occurred to me to wonder who had lived there before. Signs of farming-for-a-living were scarcer than most places I’ve been in Thailand. An orchid nursery owner told us he had been in business for more than ten years, supplying stems to wholesalers in the big city, but to me that didn’t count as traditional agriculture. Burma is only a few ridges away—was this smuggling territory? The well-maintained roads had clearly been built for something besides tourism. Maybe mining? Military? The district doesn’t seem to be on Lonely Planet’s radar. We didn’t see any other foreigners.

Nothing much was happening. The six of us, and the two dogs we brought along, made up more than half the guests. We watched the dogs chase the sheep. We picked up the sheep. We posed with the sheep. On Monday, we photographed a lamb born during the night. That afternoon we headed back the way we had come, pausing for coffees and pictures and scenery.

Iznájar is Idyllic

All of the towns in this part of Spain are postcard towns. Their white houses have thick walls, small windows, and red tile roofs. The houses cascade down the hills on which these towns are nearly always built, but the houses do not flow onto the plains. At the bottom of the hill, the town stops and the agriculture begins. The people seem to prefer living close to other people and far from the fields where they work, rather than the other way around.

Perhaps the reason they live this way has to do with safety in numbers. Historically, these towns had to be defended. Or maybe in this region, where the dominant agricultural products come from trees rather than barns, it makes no sense to plant buildings when you could plant olives or almonds or oranges or whathaveyou. It has been lovely this week to hike along the ridges, looking out across several valleys dotted with ancient stands of produce. The views are old views, probably not much different than they appeared three or four centuries ago.

We are here celebrating our birthdays, 18 of us who mostly were born in the same year and then graduated from college together. It’s true that gathering in Albuquerque would have been simpler for most of us than getting to Andalucia. In the American Southwest we might have found similar landscapes. If we were really lucky we could even have rented a farmhouse similar to the one we’re enjoying here, where we wake up late and buy wine and cheese at a nearby market and set no goals other than to take one siesta per day.

But there are no postcard towns near Albuquerque like Iznájar, the tranquil hilltop village that presides over a nearby reservoir in this part of southern Spain. We climb the narrow streets of Iznájar, passing exquisite doors, courtyards, and plazas decorated with colorful tiles and pots. At the top we find the Arab castle-turned-church that dominates this fine photo taken by John Beach and the neat watercolor by Jay Mead, both of our group. We can see for miles. Swallows circle. Below, a cemetery clings to the side of the hill, its inhabitants stacked atop one another in the style of post office boxes.

We feel unplugged. Our lives here require no broadband connection. For a few moments we can concentrate on the picturesque, the flavorful (who knew that anchovies could be made to taste delicious?), and best of all, each other. We luxuriate in strolling the squiggly alleyways that seem only to exist in Europe, reverting to a pre-email era when to stay in touch we wrote… postcards!

Our viewpoint affords us a point of view we rarely seek out anymore, that of ourselves as teenagers. Old pals who reunite often become again the age they were when they first met. Surveying the olive hills that stretch to the horizon, we know without a doubt that we will live forever, that our friendships will never fade, and that if we ever return to this hilltop, the view will be unchanged.

Koh Tarutao is Captivating

Here I am in the place once known as Thailand’s Alcatraz. Evidently the deal was that if you were a political prisoner back in the ’30s and ’40s, you got sent to paradise. The catch was that you had to find your own food.

This island near the Malaysian border was thought to be perfect for banishing the inconvenient. About one third of the convicts died, but those who survived sometimes ended up OK, spending their non-foraging time on projects of their own choosing, from experimenting with agriculture to writing dictionaries. One of the most well-known prisoners was fictional, a soldier who remained loyal to the king in a book that most Thai people know called Four Reigns. I read that story last year, which is why the island’s name jumped out at me when I saw that the Siam Society was organizing a trip there.

Koh Tarutao is now a national park made up of more than fifty islands spread over a wide area. Many of these are ringed by coral reefs that disintegrate and form fine-looking beaches with sand the consistency of Coffee-mate®.

We are here during the region’s nicest time of year, the non-monsoon. While we have to be careful to slop on the sunscreen, pleasant winds make temperatures ideal. We spend our days snorkeling (one source claims that the park contains a quarter of the world’s fish species) and eating and watching the sun set. Not a bad four-day exile.