Roughing it in Burma (... most of the time)

Thursday, 10 January 2013

We finally arrived in Bagan yesterday evening after a day of 115 km. This is our 19th day of cycling without a break, totalling 1562 km. We are feeling exhausted and kind of filthy. We are VERY happy to be in Bagan! The prospect of taking a few days rest is sweet! This will also be a chance to do some laundry (about time), check our mails and update the blog at last. And also, of course, visit this stunning place which is a must-see in Burma, comparable to Angkor in Cambodia.

Every day since we entered the country on the 4th of January has been a small adventure. When we go for the last ascent - a 10 km steep climb - before Moreh, on the Indian side of the border, we are not too sure of what to expect. Our "special" permit is written in Burmese and unreadable for us. One thing is sure: we would hate to turn back and climb all those hills a second time.

At the Indian side of the border an immigration official throws at us abruptly: "You cannot cross! Foreigners have to turn back!". We explain that we have a permit and the civil servant reluctantly invites us into his office. A Burmese-literate immigration colleague decyphers our authorisation letter stamped by Burmese foreign affairs and their attitude changes. They are even evidently getting excited. After taking "Xerox" copies (the local expression for photocopies) of our passeports and permit they lead us on scooters to the Burmese side of the border and start discussing with their Burmese correspondants.

The same story repeats. First there is disbelief, even hostility. Apparently foreign travellers have pushed hard in the past - without success - and they probably want to end the discussion fast. Then the permit is handed out and goes from hand to hand; people come and go; phone calls are made. The dry officials become friendly, nearly obsequious at times. Eventually, after a long wait, our passeport are handed out to us with the much coveted entry stamp.

Despite the large "no picture" board we are allowed to capture this emotional moment on the camera, while all the officials are doing the same on their own mobile phones. An official speaking a bit of English explains to us that we are the first Westerners to cross in 50 years. We take our bikes and cycle away, relieved and exhilarated.

What follows is 30 km of very pleasant cycling. The road is flat and in perfect conditions. People are friendly and wave at us from the sideways. The traffic is very light, and vehicles don't blow their horn agressively when overtaking you, which is a refreshing change compared to India. We also take good note with thirsty eyes of all the beer adds along the road.The end of the day awakes us to a different reality. As the sun declines, we stop at a terrasse for a beer - the first since leaving Dhaka! - hoping to hear from locals about a place to spend the night. A scooter that had been following us also stops and after a few minutes nearly ten cops in plain clothes are gathering around us. Several have hardened and unfriendly faces. Our permit is handed out and "Xeroxed". Phone calls are made on smartphones. Through the mouth of an improvised translater we are told that we cannot stay in this town and that we must head to Kale 100 km South where accomodation will be provided.

We try to resist and explain that the purpose of our trip is to travel by bicycle, but the orders are coming from above and there is obviously no room for discussion. The night is falling and voice tones are becoming more directive. So we end up at the back of a pickup truck driving South. However, after 30 km or so, we are handed over to other cops (apparently a change in jurisdiction) who make us bike in the dark for 10 km in front of their scooter. We have a break in a colourless eatery where our permit is examined closely again. The whole situation is surrealistic. We ask for food and end up with an impressive collection of Burmese delicacies probably the best meal of the trip so far. Our moral is up. The officer in charge, not a bad guy, takes care of the bill. Thank you Total! We can now witness that corruption starts with the stomach.

A new journey at the back of a pickup truck brings us to Kale. On the way, we encounter a new control point where our permit in copied once again. At 23PM we are dropped at a business hotel in Kale that charges us 35 USD for the room, the most expensive so far, but with the confort of a warm shower for the first time in this trip. What a day!

The phone rings at 8AM the next morning: "you need to wake up". The police is already waiting for us. This hightens our concerns. Will we be allowed to take the country road to Monywa through a national park as planned? Will we be forced into a truck again at the end of the day? But the events will not follow this dreaded course. We are followed by two scooters (picture) only for two hours, probably to the limits of the local police district. The road winding along the river is lovely by the way. We then cycle to the bifurcation with the road to Monywa without encountering any police control point.

What follows is three days of hardcore cycling. The black top becomes rare. Instead, gravel, sometimes deep sand and stones are slowing us down. Even worse, the road is not as flat as suggested on Google maps. Instead, short but steep climbs are followed by imediate downhills. The sun is hitting hard. This road is killing us. We are starting to doubt strongly that we can cover the 200 km to Monywa. Fortunately, after some serious suffering the view opens up and we enter a flatter plain. The afternoon sunlight is drawing beautiful colours on the countryside. We order a meal and start to see things on a brighter side.

A small quiet man then presents himself as a local policeman and enquires on our plans for the night. He speaks no English, but is pretty good talking with his hands. We understand we can sleep two hours away but this is beyond our reach. We propose another option: maybe we can stay at the local Buddhist monastery?

The policeman respectfuly intercedes with the head monk and things work out. Bingo! We are allowed to spend the night on sleeping mats in a large ceremony room in front of the altar. An incredible place. The monks are discrete but very welcoming. Snacks are offered and we are invited to join the locals and a few monks to follow a FA British football match in the neighbouring eatery that has a Tata Sky satellite box.

The next day, our third in Burma, is equally tough. The plain ends (and with it our police escort for the morning, see picture) and road conditions get worse again. We find it difficult to exchange with the locals on locations, distances or road conditions. Even the most basic words are not understood. At the end of the day, the road climbs steeply (Mont Ventoux style). Judging by the large trees closing on us we guess we have entered the national park. The sun is declining and there is no prospect of reaching a village any time soon. Going back down is not an option, so we decide to bivouac on a small stretch of flat ground away from the road. We share a delicious Belgian dry sausage with some biscuits and fall asleep watching the stars above us.

Our luck with the road is back on the fourth day in Burma. The black top resurrects at noon : we are able to reach Monywa by the end of the day and enjoy a well-deserved fresh beer! We see a few tourists, the first since leaving Dhaka, and discover that this friendly town also hosts a sizeable Buddhist temple.

The purpose of the following day is to cover half the distance to Bagan. On the way we make a stop at what claims to be the biggest standing Buddha in the world. The massive dimensions of the construction are trully impressive (we didn't find any explanation in English on the exact size of the "thing"). The freshly painted white and gold stucco decorations suggest a gigantic meringue cake.

Inside, the many recent paintings cover the walls depicting a variety of after-life punishments to be expected by unrepentant sinners. They are sinister and leave on us a strange feeling: is there a subliminal message of the allegedly Buddhist Junta to would-be opponents?

At the end of the day, we end up far from any town and realize that we only have 1200 Burmese Kyat (around 1 USD) left, with possibilities to exchange money in only 90 km on the next day. Luckily, we are allowed in a monastery again and cook a bag of pasta on the petrol burner we are carrying with us.

Understandably, we are relieved to enter Bagan the following day on the 9th of January. We change money at last, sit down for a beer at a bar with wifi. A huge and crazy surprise awaits us: Veronique, a Dhaka colleague of Pierre that we just missed in Bagan has made a two-night reservation for us in what is probably the best hotel in town: the Thiripyitsaya (www.thiripyitsaya-resort.com). Veronique was planning to join us on a tandem with her son Gabriel but it did not work out. She is also a hardcore long-distance-travel-biker (check this: tandemlatina.blogspot.com) and this is her way of showing solidarity. Our appreciation is beyond words!!!