From Burma to Myanmar

by Lydia Laube

  Often we were close enough to the Australian shore to receive Telstra and Optus range. Dave, one of the other passengers, stood on the deck outside the bridge talking to his wife in Brisbane.

  After eight hours on our ship the pilot was ready to leave, his job done. We were through the Torres Strait. I stood on the bridge watching for the boat that would come out from Thursday Island, one and a half hours away, to take him off. A yellow dot appeared on the bare expanse of flat green sea that soon became the fast-approaching pilot boat. A speedy looking enclosed launch, it was painted in bright yellow and blue. Shaking the pilot’s hand, I wished him a safe ride back. He swung easily down the rope ladder that the crew had flung over the side, and the boat sped off into the empty sea.

  11 Singapore to Bangkok rail ride

  Once through the Torres Straight it was smooth sailing—bright days and lovely sunsets. I saw a few birds, otherwise there was nothing except the wide dark-blue sea.

  The ship’s table tennis Olympic finals were held. I attended, but I wished the crew wouldn’t treat me like a visiting duchess. When the basketball matches that were held in the swimming pool (dry!) finished, it was filled with water and looked inviting. The large Ukrainian engineer, whom I think I insulted once with a ‘Good morning’ in Russian, wallowed in it. The pool didn’t look much bigger than a large bathtub but a joker had hung a life belt on its side.

  The Olympic table tennis finals were won by the divine second officer, Handsome Harry, and the Ahn Do lookalike, and the Olympic Challenge was then held between the finals winners and the two male passengers, Dave and Rick. The passengers won, but I think it was rigged as an act of kindness. I should have backed them when the captain offered me the chance of a bet.

  Now the ship was slowly ploughing past many islands, Timor, Maumure, Sumba, Sumbawa, Flores, Komodo, Lombok and Bali, and I started to feel that I had been on it forever. A volcano appeared one day out of the distant gloom of smoke haze that had been colouring everything for a couple of days. The haze was coming from fires that burn every year at this time in Borneo and Sumatra.

  Then we began passing other ships that were heading, like us, to or from, Singapore. One evening we had a barbecue on the deck for the chief engineer who was leaving the ship in Singapore. I got the duchess treatment again and was photographed a lot. More karaoke in the crew’s mess followed. This ship was more democratic in the way the crew and officers mixed than other ships I had been on, due no doubt to the gregariousness of our captain.

  At last we arrived at Singapore, but only to an anchorage in the harbour where we spent two days waiting for a berth alongside. The ship sat rocking on a calm sea, and, without the breeze of our movement, it became hot and steamy. But there were beautiful sunsets and there was time for another party, this time to celebrate a crew member’s birthday and to farewell three others who were signing off in Singapore. Dave, Rick and I were also signing off and were told that immigration would come aboard at midnight when we docked to deal with us. What? Were they mad? Midnight! They did, but thankfully they didn’t need to see us, only our passports, which the captain had in his office.

  From Singapore I planned to travel overland to Bangkok, where I knew I could get a quick Burmese visa, and then I would fly to Yangon. It had not been possible to obtain a visa before leaving home because the form required proof of arrival and a departure flight. Travelling by freighter makes dates and times movable feasts.

  After breakfast we three passengers, farewelled by the crew, left the ship. Our communication with the taxi driver who took us was complicated by each of us wanting to go somewhere different, so he dumped us all in Bugis Street near the city centre. Here I ditched the blokes and as soon as I did, things improved. I found a nice security guard who directed me to the long-distance bus depot. It was close, only four Singapore dollars in a taxi. In fact it was five, but I had only four and the driver gave me a discount. Moral of the story: A woman is better off alone in Asia.

  Getting a bus to Kuala Lumpur to connect with a train to Bangkok was easy. The taxi dropped me at the door of the bus company’s office and I had to wait only an hour for a bus. Five hours later I was delivered to KL’s Sentral train station. Although everyone wanted me to take a plane, I finally convinced the porter who was trundling my bags about on a trolley to show me to the train ticket office.

  Only a second-class sleeper was available on the train to Butterworth that night, so I had to take it. This is the only problem with travelling without booking ahead. Malaysian trains run to Hat Yai or Butterworth near the Malaysian/Thai border. Then Thai trains take over, so it is necessary to make two bookings to reach Bangkok.

  I had to wait in KL until eleven that night for the train’s departure. Checking my bag into the left luggage store, I met a couple of Aussies. I had no money to pay the storeman and the male half of the couple offered me a five Malaysian dollar note, then upped it to ten when I said it wasn’t enough. From then on I followed them everywhere. I told them it was because a man who’s willing to part with his money so freely should not be lost sight of! But actually it was just coincidence that they kept popping up wherever I was.

  They went off to see Chinatown following my directions and surprisingly managed to find it. I met them again later in the station and we were in the same sleeper carriage on the train. We met again in Butterworth station, and on the train to Bangkok they had the sleepers across the aisle from me.

  I did not have a very good night. Second-class sleepers are not compartments and their only concession to privacy are curtains across bunks that are tiered in rows down the carriage. Although I was tired after being awake from about 3.30 am when the ship docked, I had an upper bunk and the ceiling light shone in my face, keeping me awake all night.

  The train arrived in Butterworth at 8.30 in the morning and I had six hours to wait for the Bangkok train. I tried napping in the waiting room, sitting upright on a hard wooden seat, and woke to find four locals standing in a row in front of me absorbed in the spectacle of my mouth wide open and ­dribbling. I ate lunch in a workers’ cafe outside the station where I was a novelty—‘Kangaroo!’ they called to me.

  Finally the train came. A young Singaporean man and I shared a seat that converted into bunks later, his on the bottom, mine on top again. The Australian couple I had been stalking ever since he gave me money were across the aisle and a nice hyperactive young American was next door.

  We arrived in Bangkok at 2 pm, two hours late. I said farewell to my friends and taxied to the Khao San Palace Hotel that I had chosen because I knew it would be near a travel agency where I could get a visa. It was an okay hotel but they don’t trust you not to skip out without paying the bill, so they made me pay up front plus a deposit in case I made off with the towels. Nice sort of people they must be accustomed to dealing with.

  The Kao San Palace Hotel may have been okay but the street of Khao San outside it is a nightmare of repulsive tourist activity. I slept for ten hours. And washed!! Two nights on trains and no bathroom. Yuk.

  Before falling gratefully on to the bed, I booked a return flight to Yangon with Thai Air International and arranged a Burmese visa application with a lovely girl in a travel agency at the entrance of the hotel. As the weekend was coming up, I had to pay sixty-six dollars for a fast visa. But it was painless and I had it two days later.

  I spent four nights in Bangkok. The horrendous traffic makes it slow to get about but taxis are very cheap. And so is food. Drinks were cheap too but not in relation to the food. On Saturday I went to the Weekend Market. It is unbelievably big and crammed with tourist stuff, but also has other goods like fine furniture. It was much bigger than I remembered from the last time I visited, but that was a very long time ago.

  I booked the Khao San Palace Hotel for when I came back from Burma, as well as a sleeper on the train south to Hat Yai. Going to the railway station to do this, the booking took a mere five minutes! Getting back took an hour and a half in the bedlam of finding a
taxi and getting through the traffic.

  My feet were about to do some serious walking, so I tried a fish foot massage. I put my feet into a tank of water containing thousands of tiny fish who nibbled away at them, supposedly removing excess skin. The poor little things had a hard time of it with my tough feet, which were covered in calluses from going barefoot whenever possible all summer, so I had a pedicure to finish the job. The young lady operator took to me with a scrubbing brush and sand paper, more suitable in my case than gentle little fish. I celebrated my new feet with a new pair of shoes. They cost six dollars fifty. And I found a new suitcase that walked with me instead of being dragged. I gave the old one, which was still serviceable, to the nice girl at the travel agency, who I felt sorry for after she told me they work ten hours a day six days a week and get no overtime.

  I left for Bangkok airport in a minivan. I was at the airport two hours before flight time as requested by Thai. I complied, having bad memories of what happens when you disobey a Thai Air order. The last time I had flown Thai was in 1988 and though I had vowed, never again, here I was again. They proved to be more agreeable now, but they didn’t have the service of former days—no orchids for the ladies, no frills at all. The one-hour flight to Yangon was okay. There were some bumps and cloud but it was soon over.

  Immigration at Yangon was a breeze and then there was the young man from Motherland waving a board with my first name on it. An hour’s drive to the guesthouse, and what a welcome I received. My room this time was way up on the third floor and not air-conned. It had only a fan, which was fine, it was cool enough. The rate for this room was twenty four dollars, one dollar less than the best rooms which have air-con and maybe even a hook or two.

  I heard rain on the tin roof outside my room and, opening the casement windows, I hung out to look at it, revelling in the warmth and fanned by a cool breeze as the rain fell straight down past me. Hearing a tremendous hooting, I realised that I was directly over the train line and there, clanging slowly along to the howling of the local dogs, came the train.

  Motherland’s ground floor restaurant is long and skinny and its entire eleven-foot frontage consists of wooden doors open onto the street. I sat before them eating my dinner as I watched the warm rain continue to fall softly down in the dusk outside. Now I knew I was back in Burma.

  I slept wonderfully, well aware of where I was and very happy to be there. Awake early, I headed for breakfast then walked to the nearby phone shop for a replacement SIM card. They had none and sent me to the Ocean supermarket around the corner where I had no luck either. So I taxied to Chinatown where I was assured I could find one. I still had the phone I had bought last year. After trying several shops, I finally found a young man who inserted a SIM card for me that had on it twenty dollars’ worth of calls for twenty-three dollars. Not bad.

  I walked about the downtown area thinking I knew where I was but I didn’t, so I taxied to the Central Hotel, had lunch in their blissfully cold air-con, then moved on down the road to the Bogeye Market. You get hassled a lot there but it’s not unpleasant. I bought a map of Burma, which proved difficult to read as the writing was so small. The Burmese must all have brilliant eyes. Then it was back for a rest—and to watch the rain again.

  Dinner in the restaurant that night cost a whole three dollars, but I made the mistake of ordering a fruit salad and got enough to feed a family of eight. Replete, I retired to start reading Charles Frazier’s Thirteen Moons, which Dave from the ship had given me.

  On my last Burmese trip I had travelled around the south. This time I planned to go north. I decided to take it in stages to get to Mandalay—I couldn’t face the train arrival time of three am. One of Motherland’s ever helpful girls organised a ticket for me on a bus to the city of Pyay, formerly Prome, about halfway. This was achieved with a minimum of fuss and before long I had two tickets for a bus that left at eleven the next day. She even phoned the Lucky Dragon Hotel in Pyay and secured me a room. It has become advisable to book ahead now. Burma has a problem with availability of reasonably priced rooms, so I also booked a room at Motherland for when I returned at the end of my twenty-eight days.

  12 Pyay

  I left for the bus station at nine next morning in a taxi. It was a very long ride in dense traffic. The two seats I had bought, one for me and one for my legs, were in a big purple bus. The ride to Pyay (pronounced phewy), took six hours with time off for good behaviour halfway there. Pyay is situated on the Irrawaddy River north of Yangon on the Bagan Road that follows the eastern bank of the river.

  At first we drove through the sprawl of outer Yangon for a long way. Then we followed an almost continual procession of little low village houses and shanty stores and stalls that lined both sides of the road, interspersed now and then with a monastery or gilded stupa. There were trees and grass on the verges and tropic-stained white stone walls.

  After about an hour, green patches of paddy began to appear, followed after another hour by large expanses of crops, mainly corn. There were goats and chooks, the odd pig, and many cows. Twice I saw groups of boys sharing a soccer field with a herd of cows. I had been told that cows are so expensive in Burma that they are smuggled across the border from Thailand. They always had a guardian—sometimes a boy would be sitting watching just one cow. If they really are so valuable I suppose it is necessary, but I wondered what it was like to sit and watch a cow all day.

  Then it rained; bucketloads of water fell. The pale grey sky along the horizon was slowly obliterated as dense charcoal-black cloud spilled in loops and whorls down into it. This cloud contained more rain that, when we made a comfort stop, descended with a vengeance. The path to the line of loos in the rear of the roadhouse was across an open yard, and a young girl kindly lent me her umbrella.

  The roadhouse was merely an open-sided shed containing rows of long wooden tables on which at intervals sat thermoses of tea and hot water and most unsanitary looking communal cups. From the selection of edibles on offer, I bought boiled eggs and a bag of unidentifiable sticks of what looked like biscuit material, passing on anything with claws and legs that could have been insects or spiders.

  On the bus music videos played nonstop on a screen that unfortunately, I sat almost in front of. The tapes were long and the songs all sounded the same to me, while the films that accompanied them were mostly of young men and their mothers who seemed to be doing the prodigal son act. After a while this became a bit of a worry. Did all Burmese boys have Oedipus complexes?

  I heard spitting sounds and then realised it was people ­spitting their chewed betel into the black plastic bags that hung by each seat. When full they were left, hanging, for the poor cleaner to remove. Betel chewing was also the cause of much spitting not just on the bus but everywhere, as evidenced by the red stains on footpaths. But somehow this spitting did not bother me like it had in China. It was a different kind of expectorant noise.

  At one time the train line ran beside the road and we passed a decrepit train lumbering along with people hanging out of window apertures (there was no glass) or sitting like cattle on open, flat bed trays with metal side rails.

  I was pounced on as I climbed down from the bus at Pyay and I agreed to a price for a ‘taxi’. This turned into a tuk tuk that bounced and blew me over the poor streets for what seemed much further than the four kilometres I was told it was to the Lucky Dragon.

  This hotel turned out to be terrific. It consisted of neat bungalows in a great position on Strand Road, which runs along the riverfront. The view to the water and the green hills on the opposite bank would have been lovely except for the long shed-like building that was being constructed on the other side of the road right in front of the hotel. I asked the receptionist what it was but she did not know. I said, ‘It has ruined your view’. She shrugged and said, ‘It’s the government’. That answered it I guessed.

  That night I chomped through a meal of chicken and vegetable, stared at all the way by the entire cast of the dining room and kitche
n as I ate with the flat shovel-shaped implement I had been given.

  In the morning I was served breakfast that had been fried a long time ago—the eggs were stone cold—and I was presented with imitation orange juice (powdered) but lovely fresh pineapple. The same breakfast almost as Motherland’s, but not as good.

  I went for an exploratory walk and found a train station in the town close to the hotel. But it was not the one for long distance trains, a pleasant man with a little English told me. He also gave me the unwelcome news that the train to Nay Pyi Taw, where I thought I would go next, left at five am. No way. Buses take twelve hours and leave at night. Even worse! The route is through mountains on not very good roads. I didn’t fancy that, so I decided to go to from here to Bagan which was also on my list. The train to Bagan departed at night and arrived mid morning.

  I hired a tuk tuk to ride out to the other train station, six kilometres from the town. It was a horrible bumpy grind in an utterly unsprung vehicle and it took a long time. At the station four men lounged on bamboo chaises in various attitudes of repose. These were the station workers. We established that I wanted a sleeper on the night train to Bagan. They assured me that they would try. The train came at 10.30 each night, they said, but it was not always on time. What’s new? This did not surprise me. I got back into the wreck of a tuk tuk and we shook, rattled and rolled back to the town again.

  Later I walked along the riverside under the shade of trees, some of them huge, up to a bridge about a kilometre or so from the hotel where I had read there was a waterfront restaurant. The river is edged by a low wall, on the other side of which a steep slope runs down to the water. This would be covered later when the river rose with the increase from the monsoon rains. All along here now lay what appeared to be the town’s rubbish from the past year, waiting for the water to wash it away. Among the litter, squatters lived in makeshift shelters they had constructed from bits of tin, blue plastic tarpaulins and pieces of bark and bamboo.