Mount Popa & the Nats

I’ve not talked much about the cycling in this blog, so here's a cycling story.  After the bumpy tracks earlier in the trip,  around Bagan the off road surface changed to sand, which can stop bicycle wheels dead in their tracks.  Despite this, our lovely tour guides decide that the best way to cycle from Bagan to Mount Popa includes an 11km section off the main road on, you guessed it, sand!  You need the ability to stop suddenly and safely in these conditions so I spent most of the time pedalling with my heel to make sure my shoes don’t accidentally clip into the pedal cleats.  This precaution isn’t fool proof one ouf our group found out.  Taking a left turn over a small bridge his back wheel slipped away and he went over the handlebars, landing unhurt but much to the amusement of the family perched on the back of a bullock cart who had stopped to make way for us.  They had definitely chosen the best way to travel on this surface!

Back on tarmac we headed onwards and upwards to our hotel for the night, Popa Mountain Resort.  This was definitely the star hotel of our trip with fabulous rooms, a spa offering fantastic massage, and of course the view.  Our wooden veranda overlooked dense forest.  No traffic noise, just birdsong.  From the restaurant terrace the view was even better – Mount Popa itself topped with a golden monastery and the home of Burma’s Nat spirits.

Even after our visit to Mount Popa, and climbing its 777 steps, I’m not sure I understand the Nats.  They definitely pre-date Buddhism in Burma, which is over 2500 years old.  And they are still worshipped so seem to sit comfortably alongside the Buddha, in one tableau are worshiping him themselves.  But they are quite strange – 37 superhumans who appear to have gained their superpowers by meeting violent deaths, and then there are a kind of sub-Nat, who gained special powers by eating a dead Nat.  I think.  But they are obviously important to the Burmese – we saw two very old women being carried up and down the incredibly steep steps to the temple.  

The site is also home to macaque monkeys.  They greet us as the bottom of the steps.  We hear them jumping on the tin roof covering the walkway as we ascend, and they cheekily eat the flowers left by the Buddha images. 

There is a protocol for visiting holy sites in Burma.  No shoes, no socks, no shorts above the knee, no spaghetti straps or low cut tops. This is not a problem for me and I grow to enjoy the feel of cool marble or tile under my feet as we walk around.  Occasionally one of our group is caught out by the no shorts requirement, at which point our well-prepared guide steps in with a concealing longhi.  In this innocent country, this was the cause of much amusement.

The longhi is traditional dress for both men and women and daily wear for most of the population, especially outside of the major cities.  But there are differences between the male and female longhi – not just in their colour and pattern, but also in the way they are tied.  The female version is essentially a sarong; the male version, a cylindrical tube that you fold across the front of your body and tie over your tummy, is actually far more practical.  As our guides are male, the spare longhis are also male versions, which are given to the female members of our group when needed.  Without exception, every Burmese woman who saw them wearing the “wrong” longhi burst into giggles and nudged her friend to point out the silly tourist.  Another example of a land steeped in tradition. Long may it continue.

Rough tracks

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It has to be said that many of the roads we are cycling on in this area are not the best. There are a few roads with a decent tarmac surface, but they are few and far between.  Of the rest, some are rough tracks of dry mud (thankfully we are travelling in the dry season).  Others are crumbing, potholed roads.  While still others are tracks covered in loose gravel.  Around Bagan the mud tracks change to sand – which is ok for bullock carts, but not much else!  

My right hand, affected by carpal tunnel syndrome, is suffering badly as we bump our way along.  On the plus – and the minus – side, there is an awful lot of road building going on.  This means that the roads will be better for those coming next year, but if anything, it’s even bumpier for us through the roadworks.  

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Road building in Burma is labour intensive – possibly a necessary job creation scheme, but it seems hard labour for those involved, a few men but mainly women paid just US$4 dollars a day.  The women sort the stones by size and place them by hand to form the basis of the road surface before tarmac is overlaid to bond them.  The men wield pick axes and work the tarmac machines.  I’m not sure if both sexes are paid equally, but I doubt it.  In some temples, women are not allowed onto the platform containing the Buddha – though we are told this is not sexist!  There is much we can’t understand in such a short period of travel….

Burmese Days

 

We fly into Burma in the misty dawn light of 21 December 2013.  Looking down from the plane streaks of low cloud drift between the trees, with rising plumes of smoke pinpointing the villages below.

This is a land that is waking up in every sense.  Not just to herald the cool of another morning but now, after decades of military rule during which the Burmese generals and governments around the world mutually turned their backs on the other, under a relatively new and nominally civilian government the country is gradually opening its borders both to tourism and foreign investment.

Officially these days it’s the Union of Myanmar – the name established by the generals.  But in my mind it is still Burma.  I’m here with Robin and both our fathers fought here in WW2.  The Burma campaign was one of the most horrendous of the war.  Few who fought were willing to talk about their experience, my father among them.  He is one of the reasons why I wanted to visit the country, and I wanted to come now before there is too much 21^st century influence to get a sense of very different culture.

It doesn’t take long to start getting that sense of cultural difference. Yangon Airport’s international terminal is smart and well organised, making it easy to find money changers to change dollars into unfamiliar Kyat (pronounced chat). But we leave the orderly surroundings to find our fellow travellers at the less sparkling domestic terminal.

Because we want to get up close and personal with this amazing country, we are spending the first 12 days of our trip on a bicycle tour that will take us through the Shan Hills, the flatlands of Mandalay and the ancient capitals of Ava and Bagan.

Our cycle group comprises me and Robin, Mark and Jim (two Americans who have sold up home and business to travel the world forever), Barbara and Lisa (from Australia) and Marlene (also American but currently teaching in S Korea). We are flying to Heho, the nearest airport to Inle Lake, where our tour starts.

At Heho we are met by our tour guide (Chan Nyein), our cycle mechanic (Nate Win), Mr Moo and Mr Win who drive the support vehicles, set up the amazing snack stops, fill our water bottles and generally look after us in every way on the road.  They are all part of Grasshopper Adventures, who run cycle and photography tours throughout SE Asia – a company that, on the evidence of this tour, I highly recommend.

Go Ghana Cycle Challenge: Asubone to Kwahu-Tafo

Friday 7^th October 25km – Cycling Day 6

Distance                      25km

Calories burned          Should have had breakfast

Hilly roads                   All uphill

Degree of difficulty      8/10

Misery quotient            Banished by singing

Highlight of the day      School children’s welcome to the village

Lowlight of the day      Our scummy guesthouse

 

We are up early, waking with the sun and take the opportunity to walk through the fishing village down to the lake, where a boatman gives us a ride in his hollowed-out-tree canoe.  It’s perfectly safe, providing you keep baling water out...

But this is just a prelude to the triumphant day ahead.  We have just 25km to go to reach Kwahu-Tafo, our final destination.  The first 5km is the now familiar sandy track around the lake. We are pleased to reach tarmac, though our pleasure is tempered by the knowledge that it’s all uphill from here.  Looking up we can see the towering Bruku rock that keeps watch over Tafo.  It seems a very long way up, surely we must reach Tafo before we get to the rock?  But no. We cycle on past the rock until we see the cell phone masts.  You know you are at the top of a hill when you reach the cell phone masts.

It’s a long, slow, slog uphill, but Suzi, Claire, Tim, KM and I keep our spirits up by singing – The Long and Winding Road, Ain’t no Mountain High Enough, most of the Beatles song book, and finally a Ghanaian song Ralph teaches us, with very appropriate lyrics:– We are going, We don’t know where we are going, We don’t know how we will get there, We know we will. 

And we did get there, welcomed by cheering, banner-waving school children the sight of whom brings a tear to every eye.   We take half an hour to celebrate with cold drinks and dancing in Humphrey’s beautiful garden, but our day has barely started.  The celebrations continue and become ever-more surreal.  First we cycle ever so slowly in formation behind a marching band through the main street of the village.  We are joined by a number of over enthusiastic village cyclists who weave dangerously in and out of our number, and small children who join in likewise.  Amazingly there are no accidents.  Our destination is the Royal Palace – which seems to double as a lumber yard, with lengths of wood and steel piled up behind the plastic chairs that have been put out for us and the village chiefs and elders, and deliveries of copper pipe and more timber during the proceedings.  Ceremonial drummers sound out a welcome for us on the “talking drums”.  

 Humphrey arrives resplendent in his ceremonial development chief’s robes, followed by the chief of chiefs.  A fetish priestess arrives shaking talcolm powder from around her eyes. The ritual schnapps is delivered and opened – but thirsty cyclists are offered beer and coke. And then it’s time for lunch – yet more “delicious” rice, beans, overcooked chicken and the meanest looking fish I’ve ever seen.

Still in our sweaty cycle gear, we get back on our bikes to cycle to the Durbar Ground, where it appears that the entire village has gathered in our honour.  We are handed a programme.  It contains 24 items of “entertainment”.  20 of them are speeches, most in the local language, Twi.  We are in for a long afternoon.  I settle down and watch passing taxis overloaded with heavy sacks spilling from their boots, rear axles almost dragging on the ground while front bonnets point skywards.  After a good 30 minutes of speeches, we are treated to the local choir.  They sing like angels.  Unfortunately we cannot hear them as the MC talks throughout.  

 I miss the next a few hours of speeches as the piriton tablet I’ve taken to cool the heat rash on my legs kicks in and I fall into a deep sleep – even missing the entrance of the Fetish Priest accompanied by loud drumming.  I come to halfway through his performance to see him spinning round and round, with 3ft long dreadlocks splayed out like a wheel.  We are then pushed forward in turn to be cleansed by the priest, who dips a bunch of twigs in a boiling vat of water then drips them over our heads.  The water is meant to be cool, having run down the length of the twigs, but confused by the twirling the priest sprinkles scalding water over our heads.  Having survived this ordeal we are presented with our certificates – the wording of which are suitably commemorative of our cycling endeavours of the past few days.

Finally we are allowed to leave the Durbar Ground, and once again process behind the band to our accommodation.  It is nearly 6pm. We have been in Tafo for 6 hours.  We are tired. We are dirty.  We want a shower.  We are sadly disappointed.  Judging by the level of dust and dirt in the rooms, our guest house has not been used for many months.  In fact is it not a guest house at all.  It is a building with a few bedrooms and despite signs to the contrary (ie showers and taps) no running water, and no staff.  Eventually buckets of water are brought to the rooms, but there are signs of mutiny amongst the weary cyclists, who are expected to stay here for two nights.  The place is cleaned from top to bottom the next day and we do stay for the duration – but the clash of cultures is evident.  For our hosts a party is the paramount welcome – for us a clean and functioning bedroom and bathroom should take precedence.  Suzi and I lull ourselves to sleep with comforting thoughts of home – sprung mattresses, electric toothbrushes, hot showers and baked potatoes.