Myanmar is an oddly shaped land, resembling a very rough diamond with a long, curving tail. The northern tip of the diamond runs into the foothills of the Himalayas. The southern tip is the tangled delta of the Ayeyarwady (Irrawaddy) River, and beyond that the Andaman Sea. The tail reaches far to the south, sharing a boarder with Thailand, and splitting the narrow isthmus between the Gulf of Thailand and the Andaman Sea.

Traveling south to north is a slow process, as is any overland travel in Myanmar. Everything is slow. Aside from the main highway between Yangon and Mandalay, most roads are narrow and rough. A traveler cannot use distance as an accurate measure. First-World yardsticks of distance versus time are of no use here. Time, then, becomes the only measure. To get anywhere in this country, a traveler will need time, and usually more than he or she thinks.

North to south, Myanmar is divided by three rivers. The rivers are separated by jungle-clad mountains. From west to east, the rivers are the Chindwin, the Ayeyarwady, and the Sittaung. It was up the central valley, the valley of the Sittaung, that we would travel, bound for the small town of Thazi. This is the stopover for travelers bound for Inle Lake. The lake itself would be a long two days of travel, by train and vomit-van.

The rutted alley that leads to the Bago train station is lined with tea-shops. Let me tell you, friends and neighbors, there are few better ways to start the day than a busy Myanmar tea-shop. A man with the purple smile of a betel-chewer greets us at our table. He is wearing a dirty wife-beater and a longhi. The open-air shop is packed with local folks starting their day. Vendors, cops, taxi drivers; they are crowded around the decrepit wooden tables. Our tea arrives; thick, milky, and sweet. A plate of samosa drops to the table. You can eat them or not. On every table is a thermos pitcher of plain oolong tea. You drink down the first sip of the chai, then dilute it with a bit of oolong to cut the sweetness of the condensed milk.

Ready for our long day of train travel, we join the folks on the platform. The morning is already hot, with the promise of more to come. The train from Yangon is late. It is almost always late. I spend the time watching people, of course. There are no Farrang here, just local folks waiting on the train. The vendors are ready with baskets of food and drink. When the train arrives, they will storm it, hoping for a sale.

If you look at the picture above, you will see grass-grown tracks leading north. These train tracks are not some forgotten siding leading to nowhere. This is the main line, the Yangon-Mandalay line. Take note, traveler. The grass grows more quickly than the train rolls.

While we are waiting, an ancient two-wagon commuter train pulls into the station. Those aboard clamber down without benefit of platform or ladder. They have come from an even smaller town to do their business on the dusty streets of Bago.

The echoes of a train horn sound out over the sultry morning air. When the locomotive appears, it is like a machine from another era. This is not an impression, it is a fact. The Myanmar rolling stock, even on the mainline, is half a century old.

Today we are traveling in the Upper Class wagon. The leg from Bago to Thazi will take at least ten hours to cover a distance of 460 kilometers, or 276 miles. The math is simple: we will not be traveling quickly.

Upper Class means that a passenger will have padded, reclining seat. The seat will probably be reclined permanently, fixed in whatever position if was in when it ceased to function. Like the Ordinary Class, the windows are open. There are steel shutters that can be lowered against the rain. Mind your fingers if you chose to adjust the shutters. They will fall like a guillotine if mishandled.

If you need a smoke during the long trip, do not despair. The smoking section is near the open door. Take a seat on the floor, light up, and watch the rice paddies as they slowly roll past.

Slowly, that is the key word. My Heart and I relax as we watch the countryside roll past. Far to the east and west, green hills roll up into jungled mountains, but the valley to the north runs on forever. The train chugs along, stopping in small villages and larger towns. The rhythm of the journey blends together. Rice paddies and fields stretch out on both sides of the tracks. Snowy egrets stand like statues, waiting for a careless frog or fish. Everywhere the landscape glistens with mirrors of standing water, punctuated by emerald green. The vendors climb aboard, hawk their wares against the lurching of the train cars. Time ceases to move; it simply is.

Ten hours have passed, night has fallen, and still the train rolls north. The lights have come on inside the train, illuminating the car in a ghostly wash of fluorescence. The light attracts insects, clouds of which find their way in through the open windows. The smaller bugs mob the overhead lights, creating dancing swarms that swirl and bob. Huge dragonflies attack the swarms, careening about in a feeding frenzy. People are sprawled across the seats, swaying back and forth with the rocking of the train. The dragonflies perch on sleeping passengers, gathering their strength for another go at the insect buffet above.

I would love to tell you that the trip was all a pleasant dream, but that would not be the truth. Ten hours stretched to twelve, and the last two hours were hard. The novelty, the charm of train travel, both of these had worn thin. We were left with stiff muscles, grimed with dust and grit, and ready to be on unmoving ground. 

The night was full and dark by the time we reached our destination. We made out way out of the decrepit station and past the sleepy scrum of taxi drivers. It was a short walk to our guesthouse, past rows of open-air cafés and bars. Scooters raised clouds of dust as they passed us. Two-wheeled horse carts clip-clopped along the dark street, pulled by small, lean horses.

 We had paid the Travel gods for our passage. Now it was time for food and sleep. After stowing our bags at the very modest and friendly guesthouse, we found the nearest open joint. It was wonderful to dig into a dinner of Myanmar curry with all of the side dishes. Then is was time for sleep before the next leg of our journey.

The morning was bright and hot, the local tea-shop was busy, and the street theater was in full swing. Another day of travel lay ahead, twisting over the jungle and mountains to Inle Lake

The road distance from Thazi to Inle Lake is about 172 Kilometers, depending on who is doing the counting. The driving time is about five hours. That’s a heart-stopping speed of 34 kilometers per hour, or 20 mph for you folks on the far side of the Pond. Remember, Traveler, it is all about the time to your destination, not the distance.

There are two ways to get to Inle Lake: Bus (read Vomit Van) or train. The train is so slow that the Burmese call it “The Slow Train.” If they think it’s slow, you can take that one to the bank. My One put her small foot down in no uncertain terms. No more long train rides for a least a few days. That meant we had to deal with the dreaded Bus Manager.

The Vomit Van stop was next to our guesthouse. There are no set fares, no schedule; the vans leave when they are full. The sleazy bus guy quoted us an exorbitant price, and the hard haggling started. Once we got the fare down to the proper range, we had to wait on a van. There were some shenanigans with an actual bus that would barely run, and we the only ones one it. When we protested and demanded our money back, a functioning Vomit Van appeared, along with the smiling sleaze ball. Finally sorted, we crammed into a van full of locals; full being the operative word.

Vomit Vans are the ubiquitous form of travel for much of Southeast Asia. They are aptly named. The drivers get paid by the run, thus they are in a hurry. The roads are bad, and often twisty. Add in a few Farrang who are unused to the cramped conditions and non-functional air-con and, well, you can guess the rest. Fortunately, we were the only foreigners aboard, and the ride was not as bad as some I have been on.

Our little van climbed the hills, screeched around hairpin turns, and climbed some more. The road wound its way over steep hillsides, climbed deep river valleys. Thick jungle rose away on every side. The road itself was in what appeared to be a constant state of decay and repair. There was as much gravel as there was pavement, and what there was by way of pavement was rough chip-seal laid by hand.

We saw the workers laying the chip-seal. There were a few machines for the heavy digging and compacting, but most of the work is done by hand. Working in the fierce heat, women carry heavy baskets of crushed stone atop their heads. They dump it on the road, where others spread and rake the piles. On the side of the road, men cook barrels of asphalt and oil over open fires. The oil mixture is spread over the rock, by hand of course. The whole operation looked like one of the lower hell circles from Dante Alighieri’s Inferno.

Somewhere far up the mountains, we stopped for lunch. There is some complex kickback system that determines which drivers stop at which roadside café. I don’t understand it fully, but I know such a system exists. The food at these joints is surprisingly good, and cheap as well. There aren’t any special “Tourist Prices,” unlike our sleazy bus manager back in Thazi.

We reached the high country around Kalaw, a former British colonial outpost at an elevation of 5,000 feet. These high valleys were the site of tea plantations. It was odd to see the local folks bundled up in parkas and hoodies, trying to fend off the freezing temperatures of seventy degrees Fahrenheit. We made a quick stop, and couple of young Farrang women crammed into the van.

From Kalaw, the road drops back down the mountains, twisting and turning until a butt-sore traveler reaches the town of Shwendaung. This is the jump-off for Inle Lake. We formed an impromptu collectivo with the two foreign women, and negotiated a decent taxi fare into the small town of Nyaungshwe on the borders of the lake.

I liked Nyaungshwe from the moment we got there. It is a dusty little burg, laid out around a small central market. This is a popular tourist spot, but it was just the end of the rainy season. The full flood of the high season had yet to begin. This place is probably unbearable in mid-December, but at the time of our arrival, it was just right. There were plenty of good cafés and guesthouses, but not yet enough Farrang to make it feel cramped.

Our taxi dropped us at the guesthouse, and we discovered that My One had chosen wisely. The host was charming, and we ended up in one of those wonderful bungalows that are remembered long after the trip is done. Our travel days were over for the nonce.

The was travel done, the bungalow occupied, and dinner was found and consumed. It was time to enjoy the veranda and the sensation of sitting still. For me, that means a good evening smoke. I set aside my traditional cigar for the equally traditional Burmese Cheroot. These rustic smokes have a long history in Burma, now Myanmar. The outside wrapper is dried leaf of carbia myxa (thanal-phet). The filler is a mixture of bits of dried wood and crushed tobacco. The Cheroot features a filter of a sort; a rolled section of corn husk. The result is pungent and sharp, nothing that is going to win away fans of Cuban puros.

With two days of travel behind us, we were looking forward to local exploring from our new base of operations. Tomorrow: Inle Lake.

Thanks for your interest in my blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here, how about a free short story? My short fiction piece “The Cave” has recently been featured at the great English journal Storgy Magazine. You can check it out here:

“The Cave” at Storgy Magazine

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