Travels In Myanmar: Under A Night Sky

I had no idea what to expect that morning in Yangon. Inside the city’s once grand but now decrepit train station, a few lonely bulbs fought weakly against the dark. Across the arrivals hall was the silhouette of my transport, an intimidating iron locomotive. I moved hesitantly towards this slumbering rusty giant, past anonymous passengers squatting on the cracked cement floor, huddled in the chill of pre-dawn. The station’s shadows whispering with nervous energy. Who knew where this day was headed?

In the vague outlines of my journey, only one detail was certain: I was in a country called Burma (or was it called Myanmar?) and determined to witness a mysterious festival of “Fire Balloons” in a distant Shan State town of Taunggyi. Beyond that, I knew little. The previous day I had wandered into a travel agency hoping to find a way to get to the festival. Buses and flights there were full, and the agent had suggested heading north to the rail depot at Thazi to arrange further transport. It sounded like a half-baked plan. But with dwindling options and a burning desire to witness this strange festival, I had agreed.

As I considered my uncertain itinerary, the shaky locomotive rumbled its way out of the station in a fog of anxious dawn. The ancient carriage embraced a landscape of endless, monochrome-green farm fields, shrouded in a mist of faint light. A treacherous white-hot sun soon pierced the horizon, igniting a furnace of unrelenting heat. Out the window I could make out distant water buffaloes lumbering across shimmering rice paddy fields, trailed by men hidden beneath sun hats. Amtrak this was not.

Inside the train car, red-robed monks stripped to the waist in the warmth, fanning themselves with wilting sports pages. Meanwhile, men puffed on fragrant cheroot cigarettes, the smoke curling its way into every orifice and fabric. Young boys roamed the aisles hawking glistening nooses of freshly plucked chickens, while the heat painted sweat stains in mosaics on my pants and shirt. I sat stewing in this pungent mixture of sweat, billowing cheroot smoke and grease, drowning in second thoughts as the reality of the unknown journey inched forward.

My motivation for visiting Burma had so far escaped introspection. Romanced by visions of countless travel writers and the exotic, I had left my job and life behind, traveling alone to this reclusive Southeast Asian nation in search of something different. I wanted to have an adventure and discover some deeper meaning to my journey. But as the hours bobbed and squeaked past tiny wooden villages and muddy brown farm fields, fat and thick with monsoon rain, I felt invisible and wracked with uncertainty. I desperately craved something familiar – an anchor to the reality I had discarded far behind in my relentless search for discovery.

Twelve dripping, exhausted hours later, a small triumph shook me from my daze. Thazi! I made it! But Burma wasn’t ready to let me off easily. The plan was to meet some other travelers in Thazi and find a ride – but I was the only one there. Come to think of it, Thazi didn’t even have a bus station. It was no more than a dusty main road littered with stray dogs and wobbly Japanese pickups. It was nearly dark and I was fenced in by my stupid choices. Growing nervous with dwindling options, I stumbled to a nearby pickup truck owner and pleaded for assistance.

“Can you…take me to Taunggyi?” I asked haltingly. The man sized up the tall foreigner in his midst, grinning at his luck.

“Maybe tomorrow. 20,000 kyat.” he spat out, with a smile.

My shoulders sagged. The vehicle was barely upright, let alone roadworthy – the cream-colored exterior was polka-dotted with rust. Four balding tires looked ready to deflate or burst, I couldn’t tell which. But the prospect of spending the night in that strange city, alone, drove me to further action.

“I’ll pay 10,000, and I want to leave tonight,” I countered.

The owner grimaced and crossed his arms in thought. Meanwhile a visibly intoxicated man and several kids crowded behind us, intrigued by the transaction. The cost was worth less than a dinner back home, but it felt like something large was at stake.

“OK, we go – but very far. You pay 15,000.”

Adrenaline surged. Taunggyi was now within my grasp! How naive I was. The truck still needed to fill with passengers and goods before it would depart. We waited for what seemed like hours. Six women climbed into benches in the back. Three more men perched themselves above the truck’s metal scaffolding. A precariously stacked bundle of wicker baskets was lashed to the roof. The truck looked less like transport than a vehicular Jenga game ready to topple. I sat on the curb, eyes wide and mouth agape. The drunken man from earlier hovered over me babbling, gesturing at the pickup and chuckling.

The evening was well under way before we departed. I climbed into the pickup’s front cabin with the owner and a young camouflage-clad man named Mikey, my knees jammed against the dash and head poking against the cabin’s roof, backpack shoehorned beneath my knees. The intimate seating arrangements encouraged Mikey to strike up a conversation.


“Where you come from?” Mikey inquired in his halting English.

I got asked this question a lot while I was in Burma. Frequently the desired answer had less to do with learning your citizenship than simply conjuring your state of mind.

“Man, it’s been such a long day, I can’t even remember anymore” I groaned.

We set off shakily, our pickup struggling to gain speed with its massive load. A horse-drawn cart rolled past, leaving our shaky vehicle in the dust. Shortly after departing Thazi, the pickup had its first breakdown. An hour later, the owner stopped to secretly siphon gas into the tank from a roadside oil drum. As we drove, Mikey chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes blowing smoke in my face in between eruptions of flatulence and cackling giggle fits with the driver. Spending the night in Thazi began to look like an attractive option.

Despite the setbacks, I realized my earlier anxiety was gone. Each unexpected stop seemed less like a challenge than a bizarre novelty. I found myself smiling at the ridiculousness of it all. Mikey even bought me a can of iced coffee, trading a grin and thumbs up of solidarity. As I sipped my shockingly sweet Coffee King beverage, I happened to glance up at the night sky, which had unfurled itself behind the Shan foothills like a blanket of twinkling brilliance. Sparkling meteorites zipped and swooshed with startling frequency. Distant constellations seemed to pulse and move like the rhythm of a cosmic ocean. In my semi-lucid state, I stared in wonder, mouth agape. At that moment, all the doubts, insecurities and vanities of my journey faded. This was exactly where I needed to be.


After each repair, we were back on the road, our ride wobbling ever higher in the foothills of Shan State. The smooth pavement became a dirt road treacherous with potholes. It was not much more than a single car wide, and we had to share with the hulking Chinese semis lumbering past, showering our vehicle with aromas of diesel fumes and dust. It was all I could do to keep from gagging on these noxious clouds, fortifying myself with the knowledge that clean night air would soon return to my window, along with that luminous sky.

Seven hours passed before the lights of Taunggyi shined in the distance, glittering like a city on a hill. It had been over 20 hours since I left Yangon that morning. I found the nearest guesthouse, banged on the door until it opened and collapsed on a bed. My longest day soon faded into the memory of the stillness of night.

Life frequently requires us to make decisions without fully understanding their impact. I keep asking myself the same questions about my purpose and finding no clear answers. Where am I headed? What’s the point? With so much uncertainty and doubt, it’s easy to believe I’ve lost my way. Except that I haven’t. Whenever I have these moments of doubt I remind myself to take a deep breath, and look up at the night sky. Suddenly I find myself transported back to that night in Burma when I rediscovered my purpose, gazing up at a blanket of stars shimmering with light.

Photo of the Day: Workers on a bench

The best photography captures candid moments – those split seconds between fantasy and reality when our subjects’ guard comes down and we get a glimpse into their true nature. That’s why I liked today’s photo by Flickr user t3mujin – his shot of workers relaxing on a bench in the Burmese city of Yangon feels like one of those candid moments. I love how each man’s body language is slightly unique yet quite similar – the two on the ends with their knees up act almost like “bookends” to the men in the middle with both their legs down.

Have any great photos from your own travels? Why not add them to our Gadling group on Flickr? We might just pick one of yours as our Photo of the Day.

Thoughts on Myanmar, travel and change

On Sunday, citizens of the Southeast Asian country of Myanmar voted for the first time in 20 years. This week also marks the one-year anniversary of my own visit to Myanmar in 2009. At the surface level, these two events have nothing to do with one another. But as I struggle to make sense of what I saw and learned during my visit inside this cloistered country, I find that today’s historic vote is more meaningful than I expected.

I don’t claim to be an expert in the politics and history of Myanmar. I’m a traveler first and foremost, and the three weeks of my visit was barely enough time to give me a fleeting glimpse of the country’s fascinating history, warm people and awe-inspiring sights, let alone understand its complex political situation. But often travel has a way of forcing you to confront the issues you don’t want to see, and you find yourself drawn into them in ways you wouldn’t expect. In Myanmar, my window was through its people – their stories have stayed with me and touched me in ways I never expected.I remember the two enthusiastic young monks who accompanied me up the thousands of stairs that flank Mandalay Hill. They had left their families behind to take up a life of devotion and study. Then there was “Mikey,” the Burmese man I sat smashed next to in the front seat of a pickup for 10 agonizing hours as we bobbed and weaved along the treacherous dirt roads towards Kalaw. His broken-English banter and jokes sustained me through that exhausting ride. And Nain, who followed me all day across the sweltering, chaotic streets of Yangon, helping me buy train tickets and showing me around. He refused to take any money from me for his help.

There is much that could be said about the state of affairs in Myanmar. The lack of political freedoms and poverty echo the problems seen in developing countries around the world. But what has stuck with me the most from my experience in Myanmar is the stories of these ordinary individuals. These interactions brought the hard realities of life into focus in a place few travelers visit. As I think now about the election, I find myself seeing this event through their eyes and hoping, on their behalf, that some good will come of it.

Will the election create any meaningful change for the people I met in Myanmar? I’m not sure, but it looks doubtful. What about my visit? Did it have any affect on their plight? No, I don’t think so either. But what I believe has changed is my awareness. Myanmar is no longer just another news story for me on the BBC website. It’s a land inhabited by real people I met, affected by real issues. Change is possible. But often that change doesn’t occur in obvious ways like elections. It’s the accumulation of seemingly insignificant interactions, day-by-day and year-by-year that, over time, ultimately add up to something much larger.

Through the Gadling Lens: photographing the children of the world

I was recently instant-messaging a friend of mine, asking him if he had any suggestions for what we could talk about this week here on Through the Gadling Lens.

“Why don’t you talk about taking photographs of kids?” he asked.

I demurred.

“Umm, I really try to keep this column about travel,” I explained gently.

He looked at me like I was stupid. Well, as much as one can look at someone else on instant-messaging.

“Karen,” he said patiently, “people travel with their kids. Besides, there are children all over the world. Children make great subjects. You should share how you capture kids on camera.”

Well, duh. He’s right, of course. So this week, with the additional help of some fantastic images in our Gadling Flickr pool, we’ll talk about how to capture the essence and innocence of childhood while traveling. A couple of points to remember, before we begin:

1. Be sure to ask permission before you snap any photos, particularly if the children are with their parents or other adults; and

2. Remember the rules about shooting strangers in general (you can see some general guidelines here).

And so now, let’s get to it:
1. Expressions.

I think one of the main reasons that most people are drawn to photographs of children is the way that they tend to be so honest with their emotions — it’s not usual that you meet a child who is really adept at hiding his or her feelings. Because their expressions tend to be obvious, their faces make for great subjects. Here are few great examples:

These angels were captured by LadyExpat and shared in our Flickr pool. She writes: “Mabul Island was full of children, and they all loved having their photos taken. I love the looks of delight on these two young ones. “

Man, so do I. This is a great shot. Notice how tightly the image is cropped, which exemplifies the number one rule of portrait photography — don’t be afraid to get in close. Because of this tight image, there’s nothing extraneous that competes with the light in their eyes or their wide smiles. Very well done.

Here’s another example of a great portrait of children, this time far less posed:

This photo, aptly titled “Fragile Innocence,” was shared with us by photographer madang86, and was taken in Vietnam. In this case, the children seem unaware of the camera (the best way, obviously, to get a natural shot), but what makes this photo particularly stunning is (a) again, the the tight crop on the children’s faces, and (b) the masterful use of colour — children’s clothing almost blend seamlessly into the background of the photograph, allowing their brightly coloured collars and their lovely faces to be the focal point. Again, well done.

Then, of course, there’s nothing like getting a kid to ham it up for you:

This great shot was shared by fiznatty in our Gadling Flickr pool (and by the way, get used to that name — this is a man who clearly gets how to capture photographs of kids. This is the first of several I’ll be featuring in this post). He writes: “School children beckon to have us join them in their classroom.” Obviously, the lovely beckoning hand and engaging face of the young boy to the right of the picture is pretty hypnotic, but after you stop looking at him, notice the laughter on the face of the boy to the left, partially obscured by the window! A really great image.

And now, the second of fiznatty’s images:

Words really can’t describe how much I love this image, captured in Rwanda. Fiznatty writes, “Despite being dressed in drab, second-hand clothing, [the lead boy] exuded a confidence that I feel reflected his countrymen as a whole.” And yes, I would agree that the boy’s confidence (bravado?) is probably the first thing you notice in this image. And I particularly love the choice of shooting the image in black-and-white — it conveys the starkness and difficulty of life in war-torn Rwanda. Wonderfully shot.

2. Movement.

In addition to their wonderful expressions, probably the characteristic most notable in children is their inability to sit still — they always seem to be on the move, which can often make it difficult to capture their photographs. In my experience, the best thing to do is just go with it — capture images of children doing what they do best. To wit:

This beautiful image, shared by jonrawlinson, totally captures the exuberance we can only imagine this young boy must be feeling as he leaps into sea off the coast of Gibraltar. The feeling of freedom, conveyed by the boy’s outstretched arms, is only enhanced by jonrawlinson shooting the image straight into the sunshine, which emphasizes the boy’s silhouette. Great shot.

And again, by the ubiquitous fiznatty:


This image, also shot in Rwanda, is of “probably the most enthusiastic member of the dance group” — and if this, I have no doubt. You can just imagine this young girl swing her arms with abandon, and her face registers pure joy. This girl lives to dance, no question. Seriously, can you even look at this photograph without feeling really happy?

3. With parents

Sometimes, what you might find you want to capture is not just the expressions and movement of the children, but their relationships to their parents — their helplessness and dependency, and the love of the parents for them. Here are a few great images:

This image, shared by Un rosarino en Vietnam, positively took my breath away. It’s a classic example of how the way you shoot an image can sometimes convey far more emotion that the subjects themselves. In this photograph, the faces of the subjects aren’t even visible — and yet, somehow, you get the distinct impression that this parent (Mom? Dad?) is quite devoted to his (her?) young child. By removing the colour from everything other than the central figures, the aridity and dustiness of the region in Cambodia is beautifully conveyed. Well done.

And taking another look at the parental r
elationship, look at this lovely image:

This image was taken and shared by uncorneredmarket, photographed in Burma. I love the wide-eyed curiosity of the baby, and the wary, protective expression on his mother’s face. She seems to be saying “Yessss…. I *suppose* you can take his picture … but just one.” And really, is there anything more lovely than witnessing a mother’s protection of her children?

4. The condition.

Finally, often nothing conveys the standard of living of a community than its children. And the following image conveys this concept so powerfully:

This image, as you might imagine, stopped me dead in my tracks. This photograph, captured and shared by lecercle, is of a child worker in India. Photographer lecercle writes:

Suresh works in this purgatory six days a week.

Nine years old, nearly lost in a hooded sweatshirt with a skateboarder on the chest, he takes football-size chunks of fractured rock and beats them into powder.

The dust on Suresh’s face, the darkness of the industrial building behind him, all help convey the “purgatory” of his situation. Amazing image.

How about you — do you tend to take photographs of the kids in the locations where you visit? If so, feel free to share your best in the comments below. And as always, if you have any questions or suggestions, you can always contact me directly at karenDOTwalrondATweblogsincDOTcom – and I’m happy to address them in upcoming Through the Gadling Lens posts.

Karen is a writer and photographer in Houston, Texas. You can see more of her work at her site, Chookooloonks.
Through the Gadling Lens can be found every Thursday right here, at 11 a.m. To read more Through the Gadling Lens, click here.