A Keyhole into Burma – The ass-poundingest transport on Earth

I’m not gonna lie to you. Getting around in Burma is quite literally a pain in the ass. What with my trip involving so many long haul voyages in so little time, I was verily spanked into submission by a variety of seats, chairs, benches, and stools, reducing me to standing for dinner by the end of the trip.

Arguably, the brunt of the damage was done on the first trip, an 18 hour bus ride from Yangon to Inle Lake. I was the only Pinkie on the bus (indeed, the only Pinkie in the bus station), which left at noon in 104 degree heat.

It was supposed to be an air conditioned bus, and it did indeed have air-con, but the air flow was at such a pathetic trickle that you couldn’t actually feel cool air unless you put your hand directly on the vent. Moreover, when the bus was moving the air flow all but ceased, as if the bus was outrunning the air oozing through the shafts before it could reach the overhead vents, except up front directly next to the driver where sweet, cool air blasted out at gale force.

The bus was packed. Every seat was taken, including the fold-down, death seats in the aisle that virtually guaranteed a trampling-related injury if anything more serious than an urgent bathroom episode arose.

Though I suffered greatly (and wrote about it at a length that would eventually cause others to suffer equally) it was on this trip that I saw something that made me (briefly) forget my discomfort. Not long after leaving Yangon, we passed a bus that had been altered into a double-decker without adding any ceiling space. A slap-dash infrastructure had been welded together, splitting it into two tiny, cramped levels. The bus was full to bursting. People were folded up and jammed in like cookies with only enough space to sit on the floor in a permanent squat. If we hadn’t been passing it at 80 KPH, I would have taken a picture for evidence to send to human rights groups.

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When we hit the mountains the sealed, relatively smooth road ended and the precipitous, climbing and descending, narrow, dirt, unprotected, winding, glorified donkey cart trail began. Passing oncoming vehicles was delicate at the best of times and I was grateful to be seated far enough back in the bus that I couldn’t see how we were about to die until after we’d narrowly avoided it.

The train from Mandalay to Bagan was unfathomably worse. My ‘upper class’ ticket that Lonely Planet promised would get me into a reclining bucket seat, only bought me half of a maliciously designed wooden bench, with a seat pad the thickness of toast. Still, it was heaps better than ‘second class’, which meant sitting on the floor of a box car. The unforgiving bench and the rattling, spine grinding ride kept me miserably awake and in pain for the entire nine hours.

Airplane seats are the same cushion-free caliber as the buses, though at least you don’t sit in them for double digit hours. I had no idea that passenger planes came with seat options this harsh. The upshot was that they actually served a meal. Tuna sandwiches. As potentially sorry as this sounds, they were very tasty, making me realize that I really missed tuna, of all things.

Leif Pettersen, originally from Minneapolis, Minnesota, contributed three stories to the upcoming anthology “To Myanmar (Burma) With Love: A Connoisseur’s Guide” published by Things Asian Press. His personal blog, Killing Batteries, and his staggeringly vast travelogue could fill a lifetime of unauthorized work breaks, if one were so inclined.

A Keyhole into Burma – “Buy the ticket, take the ride”

The local buses in Yangon have to be personally experienced to truly be appreciated. This singular ordeal is a grand departure from the otherwise laidback way the Burmese conduct themselves.

Bus drivers careen around town with one foot on the gas and the other foot, seemingly, on the horn. One gets the sense that these men are drafted directly from the outpatient program at the local suicide prevention center and paid with bags of betel chews.

The driver’s sidekick, an only slightly less sadistic announcer/conductor, hangs out one of the “doors” (frequently the actual door has been detached), screaming the bus line number and direction to the people standing at the bus stops as the bus pulls up. He then hastily pulls people on the bus, while simultaneously shoving others off. Age, gender and physical disabilities have no bearing on how one is treated. Often the bus never actually stops rolling.

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The reason behind this crazed, panicky behavior is that Yangon has several independent, competing buses companies working the exact same routes and so, quite simply, the faster they go, the more customers they snatch from the competition. The result is that their precious passengers are crushed, yelled at and manhandled for the pleasure of a death-defying trip across town.

Moreover, violence notwithstanding, actually squeezing into the bus an ironic luxury. Rather less appealing is the alternative of dangling out one of the side or back doors or, at worst, clinging for dear life to the roof or hood. All in a day’s commute.

Leif Pettersen, originally from Minneapolis, Minnesota, contributed three stories to the upcoming anthology “To Myanmar (Burma) With Love: A Connoisseur’s Guide” published by Things Asian Press. His personal blog, Killing Batteries, and his staggeringly vast travelogue could fill a lifetime of unauthorized work breaks, if one were so inclined.

A Keyhole into Burma – “I am Burmese!”

My guide in Yangon insisted on giving me a lengthy Burmese most-often-used phrases lesson at dinner one night. This turned out to be pure gold for me during the remainder of my stay.

I wrote down and later memorized such phrases as “thank you,” “delicious!” “it is very hot!” (referring to the weather), “hello, how are you?” “I’m fine,” “what is your name?” “how old are you?” “You are very beautiful,” “I am ## years old,” “how much?” “too expensive!” “I already bought that” (to be used on the kids selling postcards), and “Discount! I am Burmese!” (this line brought the house down every time). I also memorized the numbers and the refreshingly easy large number counting conventions.

This small arsenal of language drove my already skyrocketing popularity through the stratosphere. Seeing a Pinkie speak Burmese was the funniest thing in the history of the universe for most people. I added to the list of phrases as my trip progressed. Eventually I could ask directions, bargain with hawkers, flirt with girls and order food (I usually had no idea what kind of food I was ordering, but the point was that I wasn’t starving to death).

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I made small talk with guys, caused whole groups of women to shriek with delight, scared the ca-ca out of little kids… I was a one-man show, no admission, 15 encores.

Wielding these phrases, I came away from Burma with dozens of brief, but poignant encounters, many of which still rank as my all time favorite travel experiences (and not just because I was constantly the center of attention, but that didn’t hurt). As a result, I made a new resolution to memorize similar phrases for every new country along the way. Even France.

Leif Pettersen, originally from Minneapolis, Minnesota, contributed three stories to the upcoming anthology “To Myanmar (Burma) With Love: A Connoisseur’s Guide” published by Things Asian Press. His personal blog, Killing Batteries, and his staggeringly vast travelogue could fill a lifetime of unauthorized work breaks, if one were so inclined.

A Keyhole into Burma – Shwedagon Paya, the mother of all payas

While in Burma I would eventually see more payas (temples) in 10 days than most people see in two lifetimes, including most Burmese, but none of them could hold a candle to the monstrous Shwedagon Paya in Yangon.

Aside from the towering main stupa (A.K.A. “pagoda” – a solid dome, often gold, sometimes white washed, that usually tapers into a weathervane-like spire at the top), there are 82 other buildings in the complex, including simple zayats (small rest houses) with a single modest Buddha and numerous pathos (temples) that are exceptional in their own right.

The main stupa is over 1,000 years old according to archeologists, though Burmese will testify that it’s closer to 2,500 years old. With various royalty and Burma’s rich and famous donating their own weight in gold leaf to cover the stupa over the centuries, it was estimated in 1995 that there was 53 metric tons of gold covering the thing with only the security of a bunch of monks watching over it. Very telling of the Buddhist mindset, eh? A similarly rich and unprotected fortune like that wouldn’t last seven seconds in any major city in the US.

We walked around Shwedagon for hours, during which time I rarely shut off my camera. Every structure, every Buddha, every angle was stunning, unique and seemingly going to be the greatest picture ever. One building had a photo exhibit of the paya, including close ups of the staggering amount of gold, silver, jade and jewels hanging off the top of the main stupa (allegedly over 5,000 diamonds and 2,000 other rubies/emeralds).

Wandering the compound, we encountered a ceremony for children being inducted into the monastery. Families offer their children to monasteries at a shockingly young age to begin their Buddhist training. The novice ceremony kicked off with a woman leading a procession, throwing out candy to the children spectators. Then the inductees, kids that appeared to be between the ages of four and eight, paraded by, carried by a parent. Bringing up the rear of the procession, the young, female, virgin escorts (my favorite part).

The kids were dressed in ceremonial robes, orange for the boys and a peach-like color for the girls, and all were wearing decorative hats. Arranged in front of the main stupa, the kids were put through some kind of oath while a team of photographers and videographers documented everything including, at one point, me as I stood to the side taking my own photos.

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After the sun goes down, huge spotlights are trained on the main stupa. This is the only time that one can hope to catch a glimpse of the jewels shimmering 321 feet above. My guide tried his very best to position me perfectly, even taking my head in his hands to fine tune my angle, but I was never able to see anything more than a non-descript flicker or two. Though the general sight of this gargantuan illuminated gold spire was enough of an overall thrill for me.

Leif Pettersen, originally from Minneapolis, Minnesota, contributed three stories to the upcoming anthology “To Myanmar (Burma) With Love: A Connoisseur’s Guide” published by Things Asian Press. His personal blog, Killing Batteries, and his staggeringly vast travelogue could fill a lifetime of unauthorized work breaks, if one were so inclined.

A Keyhole into Burma – You’ve got something on your face

There’s just so much to process for a new arrival in Burma that often anything short of basic survival (money, food, clean water) has to take a backseat until reasonable acclimation has been satisfied. I reached this stage after several coffees on day two.

Once I’d solved the riddle of the gum disease epidemic, I moved on to crack the Mystery of the Smudged Faces. The majority of women in Burma walk around with gold/yellow powder smeared on themselves. Usually just the cheeks are covered, but some, children in particular, often have it on their foreheads, noses and even their arms.

I tapped the encyclopedic knowledge of my guide in Yangon for enlightenment. Conveniently, we were in a market – where I’d just concluded a triumphant meet-and-greet with a gaggle of rotund, amorous ladies at the shredded fish booth – so he led me to the stall where they were selling lengths of sand wood. My guide explained that, once ground down to a powder, the sand wood is believed to protect the wearer from sun exposure, while being generally good for the skin. Furthermore, when prudently applied, sand wood powder performs the same vanity functions as make-up does for Western women.

That explained that. I certainly understood the need for relief, after all it was April, the height of the hot season and the sun was searing. Oh hey, I burn easily. Should I put some on my arms?

Oh no. Sand wood is only meant for women and children [pause] “and sometimes men, if they are the gay”.

Never mind.

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The beautification effects of sand wood on the face eluded me for several days. However, once I’d grown accustomed to it, I found that a few judicious swipes indeed had an alluring effect. Even better, having often known the singular pain of sitting on the couch, 30 minutes late for dinner plans, while my date lingered at the mirror, I happily noted that applying a little sand wood powder took a fraction of the time of a full make-up ritual. Burmese boyfriends and husbands are undoubtedly more sane as a result.

Though admittedly far less dynamic than a full make-up kit, a small amount of creativity can be employed with sand wood powder (which is almost certainly the upper limit that most men will attain in make-up awareness anyway). Basic, yet charming styles or designs can be achieved by simply using a comb to make dozens of perfect, smooth parallel lines or shaped sponges, used rubber stamp-style, to make flawless circles or squares.

Western women take note (I’m just saying…).

Leif Pettersen, originally from Minneapolis, Minnesota, contributed three stories to the upcoming anthology “To Myanmar (Burma) With Love: A Connoisseur’s Guide” published by Things Asian Press. His personal blog, Killing Batteries, and his staggeringly vast travelogue could fill a lifetime of unauthorized work breaks, if one were so inclined.