070 MYANMAR (1) - LOSING A PASSPORT

MYANMAR (1) - LOSING A PASSPORT
764 Kilometres – 27 Days
30 March – 25 April 2015

MAP

PHOTOS

 

 

Mae Sot, Thailand - Myawaddy, Myanmar - 10 km

Mae Sot, Thailand, was a mere five-kilometre bike ride from the Friendship Bridge, which served as the border control point between Thailand and Myanmar. Since I already had a visa, I only needed a stamp in my passport.

It always amazes me how crossing a line on a map could lead to such a vastly different environment. The people, clothing, food, currency, and language were all different from what I was used to in Thailand. After completing customs and immigration procedures, my next task was withdrawing Myanmar currency from an ATM. The exchange rate was 1,000 kyats to 1 USD, and I had to buy a new wallet to store all the notes.

Myanmar surprised me with its unique culture. Men still wore the traditional longyi, many had red-stained teeth from chewing paan, and almost everyone used face paint.

The weather was scorching, around 40°C, and by the time my business was done, it was already past midday. I thought it a good idea to find accommodation instead of heading over the mountains in the midday heat, but this decision ultimately proved to be wrong.

Once checked into a hotel, the owner informed me that the road out of Myawaddy over the pass was in poor condition, narrow, and steep. This meant that traffic in and out of Myawaddy was only allowed on alternate days. Unfortunately, the traffic from Myawaddy to Pha-An was that day, meaning I had to wait a day before getting underway. Little did I know this was just the beginning of a problem-studded visit to Myanmar.

 

Myawaddy

I woke to a racket from the street below and hurried out the door to check what was happening. Following the clanging and drumming, I encountered a ceremony filled with colour and spectacle.

During the summer school break, boys enter the Buddhist Order for a week or more. These young boys, dressed like princes to imitate Lord Buddha, a prince until setting out upon his spiritual path, were carried shoulder-high through the streets to the temple. According to my understanding, they spent the entire day being carried around on the shoulders of their older male relatives. The procession included cars and trucks with deafening music, followed by what seemed like the entire village on foot, chucking popcorn and sweets at the youngsters. It was all rather festive, and I felt fortunate to have caught this unique ceremony.

Food in a foreign country becomes an adventure, which is undoubtedly true in Myanmar. ‘Wet thar dote htoe’, or pork-on-a-stick, consists of pork offal, which can be anything from pig lungs and intestines to tongue. It’s cooked and eaten fondue style in soy sauce and skewered onto a bamboo stick. Wet thar dote htoe was almost always eaten on the streets while huddling on small kindergarten plastic stools and dipping the skewered meat in the bubbling, black sauce—no ordinary meal.

 

Myawaddy – Pha-An

After the fear of God was put into me regarding the road to Pha-An, I weakened and took the bus. Their concern was justified as the road was narrow and in poor condition, to put it mildly. With the route only open to traffic every second day, buses, taxis and trucks formed a continuous line over the mountain. Though traffic moved in the same direction, the road was narrow, and the corners tight. Three-point turns were required in places.

I subsequently discovered that a new road had been built (not indicated on the map), but most people preferred the old route as the new highway was considered costly due to toll fees. Experience should have told me to refrain from listening to advice regarding whether a person could cycle a particular route.

Hpa-An had a plethora of guesthouses, so locating accommodation was straightforward. Moreover, one knew Myanmar was a hot country as clay jars filled with water were scattered around town, something I last experienced in Sudan.

 

Pha-An – Thaton - 50 km

In the early morning, my clothes were already clinging to my sweat-soaked body as I cycled further north from Pha-An. The route between Pha-An and Thaton was fascinating. I shared the way with motorcycle traders loaded to the hilt, bicycle taxis with sidecars, and three-wheel motorbikes carting passengers to and from their destinations. Although the road was considerably better than the previous day, the way remained narrow. Nobody seemed in a hurry. The entire route was lined with stalls selling paan, snacks, and rice dishes, but mainly paan.

Upon arrival in Thaton, I planned to visit the renowned mountaintop pagoda. However, I soon realised that the pagoda was in the next village. I wasn't too bothered, as my early arrival allowed me to spend a relaxing day at the guesthouse and explore this fascinating and unfamiliar country.

 

Thaton – Kyaikto - 68 km

I tried to get underway before the sun started beating down. This relatively early start allowed me to witness barefoot monks walking the streets, collecting rice and food from villagers. The road was surprisingly flat and in good condition but extremely narrow. There wasn't a great deal one could do but stick as close to the side as possible, and the mirror came in handy. As soon as I spotted a truck, I veered off the road, allowing it to pass.

In Kyaikto, I bunked down in Happy Guest House, and my 16,000 kyats got me a comfortable, air-conditioned room with breakfast. The plan was to go to the mountaintop pagoda, but the oppressing heat kept me indoors, as I was in no mood to cycle to where trucks headed up the mountain.

 

Kyaikto – Bago - 90 km

April is the hottest month in Myanmar, and the ride to Bago, the one-time capital of Burma, was in blistering heat. Even though I left early (according to me), the heat soon rose from the road while also baking down from above. Mercifully, the road was dotted with numerous places to fill up with water. Still, it virtually remained impossible to stay hydrated. But, again, the road was surprisingly good, albeit slightly narrow.

Once in Bago, one couldn't miss the bright green Emperor Hotel along the main road. I'm sure there were better places, but the manager's helpfulness made me stay put. They should have called it the Everest Hotel, as the stairs were nearly vertical. Luckily, a large storeroom on the ground floor made it easy to store the bicycle, and the kind staff carried my panniers upstairs. They must have seen I was in no mood for those stairs.

 

Bago – Yangon - 90 km

Determined to escape as much of the sweltering weather as possible, it was early morning when I stuck my hat upon my head and headed to Yangon, the former capital, once referred to as Rangoon and frequently confused as the current capital.

Cycling was along a ‘highway’, for lack of a better word, and the road came with two lanes in both directions and a shoulder. The shoulder was bumpy with a few potholes, but it was a shoulder, nevertheless. The shorter route appeared to lack a shoulder and, with all the trucks, the larger road seemed a better choice. Although I expected traffic, I didn’t anticipate it to be as heavy as it turned out.

Cycling the last 20 kilometres into Yangon was the stuff of nightmares. Even on a Sunday, the traffic remained horrendous, and finding the Ocean Pearl Inn was challenging. The hotel wasn't the cheapest, but I was thankful for the comfort of an air-conditioned room.

Discovering my passport missing came as an utter shock. I searched through all my bags and even called the Emperor Hotel in Bago, but to no avail. I surmised the passport fell out when taking a picture or buying water.

By evening, I met John from New Zealand, who was staying at the Ocean Pearl. He'd rented a car and driver and planned to visit Bago the following morning. When he offered me the chance to join the ride to Bago, I jumped at the opportunity, thinking I could recognise some of my many watering holes and ask if they had found a passport.

 

Yangon – Bago – Yangon - By car

By morning, I set off with John and the driver to Bago. Even though I was keeping an eye out for familiar landmarks, everything looked completely different from the back seat of a car and driving in the opposite direction. Once in Bago, John dropped me at the Emperor Hotel. I thanked him and went in search of my passport.

The manager at the Emperor Hotel was extremely accommodating. He drove me from police station to police station and from immigration office to immigration office. As none of the staff spoke English, he acted as my translator. Unfortunately, the town lost power amid all the drama, and the police couldn't type the letter I needed.

We had a delicious lunch while waiting for the electricity to be restored. It’s amazing how good food can be when eaten with the locals. After lunch, the power was still out and I used the opportunity to investigate the enormous Shwethalyaung Buddha, measuring 55 metres in length and 17 metres in height, and constructed in 994. Surprisingly, this gigantic Buddha was overgrown and only rediscovered in 1881. According to local lore, contractors stumbled upon it while building the Yangon–Bago railway line. Today, a vast canopy keeps it safe from the elements, making photography tricky.

The power was still out upon my return, so we took the letters to a pavement typist. By the time we returned to the immigration office, the street had transformed into a market selling everything from fruit to meat and spices.

Once the letters were signed, the officers instructed me to take the paperwork to the Myanmar Travel Tourist in Yangon. Both letters were in Burmese, so I did not know the content. Finally, the hotel manager, Tun-Tun, organised a taxi for my return trip to Yangon. Phew, what a day!

 

Yangon

The following day, I looked for the address I was given in Bago. The address was written in Burmese, so I had to ask around, and it turned out that it was the immigration office. It would have been much easier if they had just told me that in the first place. Once at the immigration office, they sent me to get my picture taken. Unfortunately, on my return, I discovered the office was closed for lunch. Despite all this, I eventually received a letter that contained my Myanmar visa number and entry date. The officials told me that this letter was as good as a visa, and that I shouldn't have any trouble crossing the border. However, this only resolved my visa issue, not my passport problem.

Meanwhile, I received an email from the South African Embassy in Bangkok stating that there was no South African Embassy in Myanmar. They advised me to approach the UK Embassy to obtain an emergency travel document. Off I trundled to the UK Embassy, only to find that they were out to lunch. How frustrating and exhausting!

After lunch, I returned to the UK Embassy and explained my predicament. This time, I was requested to have my letters (given to me by the police in Bago) translated. It was an interesting experience since typists, translators, and photocopiers were stationed on the pavement down a small alley. I had to wait in line with others and finally got my turn. With the translated document, I set off to an internet café to make copies to send to the South African Embassy.

The next day, I was advised to print out the email from the South African Embassy, which sounded more straightforward than it proved to be in reality. I needed to access my Yahoo account, but the code sent never came through. By the time all was done, the embassy was closed, and after lunch, I discovered the passport photos were the wrong size. There was nothing to do but return to the shop and make new ones. As Mark Twain said: "The truth can be stranger than fiction."

After filling out all the necessary forms, attaching the correct size photos and paying the required fee, the lady at the embassy was unsure how to proceed with this unusual request. She planned to contact the South African Embassy in Bangkok for assistance and promised to pass on any relevant information via email. We agreed I would remain in Yangon for the next few days if additional information were required.

 

Yangon

A walking tour of Yangon was a great way to spend my time. The city is home to many beautiful old colonial buildings, some of which have been renovated, while others are still being restored or are awaiting renovation.

I placed an advertisement in the newspaper with a reward, which would not have been possible without the help of an exceedingly kind Burmese man I met at the newspaper.

If you're looking for the best time to explore Yangon, it's at sunset. The streets become crowded with food vendors and markets that spill onto the bus lane. Each shop blasts music louder than the one next door, creating a riot of sound. At the same time, pedestrians push and shove their way along the crowded pavement. This was my favourite time to be out and about. Vendors were frying, cooking, and steaming delicious food, from yummy samosas to pork offal on skewers.

 

Yangon

The passport problem had, by then, become a royal pain in the ass. Still, it wasn't the end of the world; all I could do was wait. I wasn't the first person in the world to lose a passport, and I sure wouldn't be the last. So, waiting a few days made no difference to me.

The problem was that this happened right before Thingyan, the Burmese New Year and Water Festival, a festival celebrated over a four-to-five-day period. The phrase "son of a bitch" left my mouth with alarming frequency since I came across this little discovery. I couldn't have made this up, even if I tried.

In the meantime, Yangon was preparing for the festival, and it was time for me to move along. The embassy was closed during the festivities, so there was no point in sticking around. It was best to resume my travels while Myanmar celebrated the New Year.

 

Yangon – Okkan - 111 km

I didn't leave early and the roads were already congested by the time I got underway. I decided to take a different route to avoid the hectic traffic and although a roundabout way, my chosen path appeared less crowded. Unfortunately, once on Route 2 North, the road was extremely narrow and uneven. Coupled with heavy traffic, it made for a hair-raising experience. Fortunately, buses and trucks (even though moving at high speed) seemed accustomed to slower traffic, including bicycles, oxcarts, tricycles, and scooters. The only good thing was the shade, which made the ride slightly more comfortable.

I picked up 30,000 kyats ($30). The money must have blown out of someone's pocket as it consisted of three, 10,000 neatly-folded notes. Being a considerable sum for villagers, I felt terrible for the person who lost it.

In Okkan, the Okkan Hotel was frightfully expensive at 30,000 kyats but I put the money I picked up towards my accommodation.

 

Okkan – Gyobingauk - 90 km

Following breakfast, which was included in the room rate, the road headed north. But, again, the road was narrow, and the traffic was scary.

The water festival hadn't yet started, but already people were throwing water, which brought relief from the relentless heat. I swear, even the bitumen was melting.

Pyay was roughly 170 kilometres away, and Gyobingauk was conveniently midway, making cycling two relatively short days.

The Paradise Guest House was along a dirt road in Gyobingauk. The establishment wasn't much of a paradise but, surprisingly, it had air conditioning and, at $10, I didn't complain. Even if not super effective, the air conditioning kept the room slightly cool.

 

Gyobingauk – Pyay - 90 km

Due to the holidays, the difference in traffic was substantial, and I barely encountered any buses or trucks. Being the start of the Water Festival, kids were having a blast and, therefore, I couldn’t escape getting wet. Practically everyone I encountered was armed with a bucket or water gun, and in the heat becoming wet was a blessing.

You can imagine the kids' delight as they saw me coming along. They ran as fast as their little legs could carry them to fill up their containers, and I was thoroughly drenched by the end of the day. It felt like I got a double dose, but they kept me cool to Pyay, where the well-known Myat Lodging House was my abode of choice. It was a tad of a dump and not cheap.

 

Pyay

The previous day was Thingyan Eve, and on this day the actual festival started. Being a wet affair, taking any pictures became virtually impossible. Bandstands with hosepipes and huge speakers were constructed along the main road. No one could pass without being blasted both by water and sound. One couldn't even think of taking a side road, as young children manned the smaller bandstands and were even more vicious. I spent an additional day in Pyay enjoying the festivities. Everyone was having a blast, whether they were walking or riding in the back of pickup trucks, getting totally soaked.

Pyay

With my inability to wait, I left Pyay in a spray of water. Not much further, the bike's back wheel started making an almighty noise. I continued but the noise became progressively worse. Although I sprayed a generous amount of lubricant, it was to no avail. Ultimately, I returned to Pyay, hoping to find a bike shop. Finding a bike shop was wishful thinking as everything was firmly shut and would remain closed for the following four days. I was convinced the problem was the back hub. The squeaky sound had miraculously disappeared when the bike was dry.

I had no patience to wait until the festival was over and was convinced the problem would reoccur once it got wet. One could take a ride to Bagan, which had more bike shops, but it was an expensive option. The positive was that it would get me off the road, as I didn't care for the motorbike riders with bottles of whiskey stuck in the back of their pants.

 

Pyay - Bagan (By car)

The unthinkable was done, and I arranged a ride to Bagan. In hindsight, taking the ride was stupid, as little did I know this was the last day of the water festival. I was under the impression the festival lasted four more days. I was annoyed that the owner of the Myat was dishonest and gave me the wrong information, as he wanted to drive me to Bagan at quite a hefty fee.

The water festival made for a slow ride to Bagan, where accommodation was at the View Point Inn, a convenient place with many options and even a dorm.

Bagan turned out most intriguing and (to me, at least) fell in the same jaw-dropping category as Angkor Wat in Cambodia and Petra in Jordon. Between the ninth and 13th centuries, Bagan's kings commissioned more than 4,000 Buddhist temples, of which around 2,000 remain. This temple-studded plain stretched 40 square kilometres across central Myanmar.

The following day was New Year's Day, and all the madness of the previous days was forgotten. Everything was quiet and back to normal, apart from everything being closed. I set out by bicycle in the morning to explore the temple area. Still, the weather soon became unbearable and it was best to retreat to the coolness of a room. The sunset over Bagan didn't quite meet expectations or come with any of the anticipated beautiful colours.

One more day was spent in Bagan to snap a few pictures, but the light stayed the same. My search to find a bicycle shop was unsuccessful, and the single person I found couldn't find anything wrong. All I could do was hope the bike would hold up until I reach Mandalay. I was doubly annoyed with taking the ride as I missed out on a large part of the route. Add poor quality pictures, and it felt like I could do no right—all in all, a trying time in Myanmar.

 

Bagan - Myingyan - 55 km

Mandalay was about 160 kilometres from Bagan and Myingyan, conveniently midway. After such a long time off the bike, I should have been a ball of energy, but instead I felt lethargic and couldn't get going. A room at the Kaung Kaung Guesthouse at the entrance to the town was home that night. However, the rooms were pricy, and I was unhappy with the lack of Wi-Fi. Apparently, "Have Wi-Fi" didn't translate into "Have working Wi-Fi".

 

Myingyan – Mandalay - 110 km

The route to Mandalay was hot, dry, and dusty, and the going was slow. As I wondered if something was wrong, the road turned out to be a false flat as the second half of the day felt downhill. With the mercury hovering around 40°C, it felt like it was only me and the mad dogs out in the midday heat. Around midday, nearly all truck and motorbike drivers pulled over at shelters to have a snooze. I wanted to get to Mandalay so I put my head down, and soldiered on.

By late afternoon, I reached the end of the road to Mandalay. Mandalay wasn't as romantic-looking as Kipling made it out to be. Instead, it was a dusty, sprawling city. The cheapest bed in town was undoubtedly at the AD1 Hotel, situated amid the onion market. The market was an area where one could still get that old, timeless Asian feel, and as my $13 room came with an en-suite bathroom as well as air conditioning, I was more than happy.

 

Mandalay – Yangon - By bus

One more day was spent in Mandalay, and then it was time to retreat to Yangon to see if my passport had turned up. My visa time was running out fast, and I took a bus to Yangon. The bus was cheap at $10 and amazingly comfortable, with reclining seats and air conditioning. We hardly ever stopped and rolled into Yangon at around 5h30 p.m. Even the short cycle from the bus station to the hotel was a nightmare, as the traffic was horrendous and the streets dark.

 

Yangon

Sadly, no passport turned up, but the good news was that my previous passport (which I never discarded as it contained my American visa) was still valid! I assumed being issued a new passport would automatically cancel the old one. Thank goodness, the old passport still had two blank pages, and thus, there was no need for an emergency travel document. Discussing the situation with the UK Embassy, they agreed to refund the fee paid. Luck was finally starting to turn in my favour.

I bought a ticket on the first available bus to the Thailand border. Still, the next bus was only in two days as the traffic to and from the border was only every second day. Furthermore, being a night bus meant I would arrive at the border the day my visa expired, making it out of the country by the skin of my teeth. It sure seemed I had reached the end of my bad luck.

 

Yangon - Mywaddy (Thailand border)

Expecting the same bus as Mandalay to Yangon, and finding the bus precisely the opposite was an unpleasant surprise. The seats were extremely narrow and more suitable for tiny Burmese than bulky Europeans. Two people could barely fit next to one another.

The ride was uncomfortable and it was impossible to sleep in such a confined space. The lack of toilet facilities meant one couldn't drink water as the bus seldom stopped. The drive through the night was slow and, by daybreak, we had only made it to Hpa-An, from where the trip went from bad to worse. Shortly after a breakfast stop, the bus proceeded onto the mountain road. The narrow road with steep and exposed drop-offs into the valley below didn't instil a great deal of confidence. The route was so narrow and the corners so tight, the bus couldn't always make the turn and had to do three-point turns – actually, more like six-point turns.

Close to the top, roadworks caused lengthy delays. This wasn't your typical roadworks, as all work was done by hand and supplies were carried in woven baskets dangling from shoulder poles. The wait was therefore an exceedingly long one before eventually being waved through. Not significantly beyond that, and while negotiating an incredibly tight corner, one enormous bang came from under the bus and almost scared us all to death. As we were mere inches from the cliff's edge, people let out shrill screeches and instinctively moved to the opposite side of the bus. And I thought they were all asleep.

It turned out not the tyre, and the driver and his cronies crawled under the bus. We were on our way an hour or so later—this could have been in the 1800s. We were scarcely on our way, or the bus stopped at a temple where monks handed out drinks in exchange for donations.

We crawled into Myawaddy long past midday. As foreseen, clearing immigration took longer than usual as I left the country with a different passport. However, once everything was sorted, I was immensely relieved to cycle off to Mae Sot, Thailand.

So ended a problem-studded ride in Myanmar. It would be six months before I returned and could cycle to India. It was also the only time I managed to cross into India at the Tamu border, a notoriously problematic border that requires a permit. My priority was to get to the South African Embassy in Bangkok to apply for a new passport, as I believed the process would take a few months.