Month: January 2016

January 31, 2016

Vang Vieng: Shun City

The centre of town has more bars than a flock of Merinos in the top paddock- and this is tame compared to the past debauchery.

The sordid reputaion of VV competes with its breathtaking beauty. We have experienced the latter with awe and wonder through our hotel window, through the veil of anxiety high in a ballon, riding a tube on a freezing flooded cave labyrinth and kayaking down a winding river. Framed by the Karst mountains and the Nam Sing river this is a beautiful place. The mountains rise like sharp shark fins and lend a sense of the dramatic. The river twists and turns, through rapids and quiet deeper spots and aids and abets the shadowy reputation of this place.

Despite some light being shone, dark shadows remain.

VV had a reputation as the pleasure capital of Asia. It is battling to systematically both retain and lose this brand- an Indian arm wrestle with itself. Hedonism remains the dominant orientation of the invaders. A jarring conjunction with the natural beauty and the polite, ultra conservative, proud, shy and reserved locals.

This clash played out dramatically in 2012. An accident waiting to happened and it did again and again and again, until social responsibility, international exposure and local discomfort won out (in part) against the seductive power of the invader’s lucre.

If the river was the enabler of bacchus’ binge, tubing was the vehicle.

At its peak a horde of 4 hundred hippies, gen X Y and z ( are we up to the end yet, if so do we start again?) and a smattering of others embarked on a journey which had become synonymous with indulgence at best and depravity most frequently. The journey of 4 kilometres lasts at a minimum 2-3 hours up until a life time.

Dotted along the river were numerous bars. The owners like spiders with their silk thread, threw out ropes to drifting tubers to latch hold and be drawn in. Awaiting was a dizzying mix of free shots, (literally) buckets of alcohol, beer and drugs. I understand ‘shakes’ were available with possible mixes of opium, Methamphetamines, marijuana and alcohol.

30 seems to be the threshold. For after this number of invaders perishing on the river in one year, the authorities acted.

We are advised that the Lao Pres himself visited VV. He assembled all the bar owners and advised them that not only were they to be closed down, but they had to completely destroy all evidence of their enterprises. All without restitution. Only in a centralised one party state. Through some greasing of the Palms a few were granted “license” to continue.

We visited one today.

What fun!

If the river is the enabler and tubes the vehicle, then “beer” pong the gold medal event. In a rustic setting of boards, clinging to the river bank, on bare earth and slippery water surfaces, a rickety bar served novel concoctions (at least to us) accompanied to deafening doof doof music. Challenges were made, victories scored and hangovers accrued on the field of beer pong. Feeling my age and ignorance and despite great curiosity, I bat away offers to compete and chose to spectate the carnage.

Beer pong involves cups of agreed products at each end of a table and respective teams armed with ping pong balls. The object is to get ones balls in another’s drink, at which the opponents drinks up. The game ends when cups and opponents are obliterated.

I must say, despite the most intense competition (including lured sledging), the thronging mass of unclad pressed bodies and the obvious consequence of the game, everything was played in excellent spirit.

For today we were in an organised tour and therefore time poor. Our group assembles, mostly noisy entertaining Koreans, and departs the solitary bar we are to visit to Kayak on. We pass dazed, dozing, dangling and dapper tubers. Some handing out cigarettes with a sweet aroma.

We plan our own tubing extravaganza over the next couple of days, but it is unlikely we will visit all the remaining bars, try the smorgasbord on offer or even engage in the ritual sporting events. Because my travel companion and I are in our 6th decade (baby boomers is however a title we are trying to live up to); being stamina retarded; and having lived a sheltered existence which narrows experimentation, we plan to have one hell of a time. Even if it is gratuitous.

When in Rome, watch the Romans.

KG

January 28, 2016

(Yet) Another winding Road

On reflection, I have used the title in a number of travel posts. Curious. 

The semi- conscious becomes front of mind on a 7 hour rugged mountain terrain epic trip from Luang Prabang to Asia’s party capital, Vang Vieng (I look forward to report more on this place to see if the myth matches the reality). The expression of the title becomes a metaphor a descriptor, an experience, a rationalisation….. Maybe even an aspiration.

We are made aware of the discomforts that  awaits (beckons even) when planning the trip. Travel logs and individual travellers we encounter offer stern onerous warnings of the significance of length and discomfort. They provide reminders (to be stored away in order to aid personal post hoc rationalisation) that this is an impoverished third world country,  with third world infrastructure .

Mental models of what results are helpful, but frankly fundamentally incomplete. The gap is only filled by experience, infused by the traveller’s individual philosophy and “aids”. How these are manifested vary exactly by the sum of 20- the souls who share a cramped tin, steel, plastic, cloth (I think that is what it is) and glass confine. A bus that could vary between a claustrophobic, cringeworthy coffin right up to a luxurious, lumbering liner. Where each soul falls on the spectrum changes according to the immediate experience, applied philosophy and the power of your aids.

I am squeezed in to a seat, old, worn and smelling of past (ass) souls. Their experience layered like a  memory pillow that is able to reach way back and reminding me of far far too much- two layers of clothing does not suffice. So small is the seat that my ears have known the acquaintance of my knees in ways unencountered, uninvited, uncomfortable and uncalled for. At least that is the bodily experience. An experience sharpened by frequent clunks, groans and violent crashes as the chosen vehicle swerves around others; careers around winding narrow dilapidated roads, over plunging drops which spell certain death; and navigates inefficiently  and at best by the narrowest of margins, innumerable pot holes that seem destined to join the size of the beckoning chasms. 

The vehicle’s suspension scream for rest and renewal, paralleling my own.

To the rescue comes a traveller’s philosophy and aids. Each to their own.

Three spanners in the philosophical tool bag- two questionable, the other functional.

“It’s not the destination, it’s the journey.”

 “The thousand mile journey starts with a single step.”

These trite homilies frankly don’t quite wash the weary road warrier’s wounds. You see the more we travel, the ends and means become one, not separate. Further, a distinct start is as illusionary as a complete stop. It is all one experience. Understanding this and looking to live now helps. This is the functional spanner. More a sonic screwdriver really.

Fear of falling off our precarious precipice becomes a relief , we had actually survived and we wonder at the vista. The pounding bone crunch of the road is replaced by awe of (all) the driver’s skill(s) and how this rickety rust bucket remains intact (it is one with the road). Dehydration because of self imposed trickle feed (to avoid another) becomes anticipation of a stop and wonderful inflow (and out) relief. Bruised and battered bodies a reminder we are blessed to be physically able to do this and perversely chose to do so. The scabby roads and impoverished dwellings we pass bring gratitude of home.

As indicated above, such a transformation can be transitory. It is also not just related to a personal philosophy. It is impacted by each individual’s aids. Such aids are also varied by a factor of 20. For some it appears chemical (in keeping with the destination of this leg).

My “aid” is relayed directly to my soul via Bose headphones purchased on past travel in New York from an Orthodox Jew in a black suit, which begats a stream of knotted white cloth, topped by a black hat, which in turn tops ringlets of hair framing a long black beard. This information may seem gratuitous and irrelevant. It is not! It ties in travel and philosophy. I fantasise this strange little man (strange to me) is looking over my shoulder through time, cap and  curlers  musing: “the pathway to redemption is through suffering” . But I am brought back to earth by another shuddering crash as we hit a crater and realise that this may not be his philosophy, but my projection. Besides he couldn’t fit on this little bus.

My aid is Nicholas  Edward Cave (St Nick). He is my man of mystery, my sage, my holy man, my maker of reason and understanding, my mentor…..and , coupled with my philosophy on this challenging trip, my salvation. 7 hours of acoustic wonder and insight, salving the (otherwise) broken spirit.

“Can you feel my heartbeat?”


I got you Saint Nick, I got you….

KG

January 26, 2016

Australia Day in Luang Prabang

My travelling companion is doing a cooking class. Off to the pub to watch some tennis for me. Just about exausted the tourist possibilities here.

The pub I chose is the only one that shows the tennis (that I am aware of). It is an “Aussie Pub”. Not my normal refuge, but “any port in a storm”. 

This will be my third day frequenting this abode of strong ‘Strine’, beer, pub grub and sport. I am taken back by the place being “packed to the rafters” ( an Aussie icon of which I yet am to be acquainted). On previous visits I am struck by the sparse custom, safe in my solitude. . ..Tennis in view and beer in hand.

I muse the assembled throng a result of the inclement weather. Bitter cold and rain has been experienced here, the likes of which not encountered for a 100 years. Mind you I doubt there is anyone near that age here- having been killed off in the name of western democracy. It is not until I am greeted warmly with “happy straylyon day mate” that I rethink my hypotheses. 

A curious experience awaits. Navigating across a flimsy bamboo bridge, perched precariously on a rapidly flooding river, joining freezing locals and falangs rugged and with frosted breath in search of sanctuary, I arrive at my chosen destination.

A twenty something with a pierced nose and curiously coloured (technicolor?) hair approaches- she has worn here entire back pack. She resembles a red nosed wombat. In rapid succession I get: 

“Happy Aussie day mate”

“Where you from, I’m from Melbourne? I love Melbourne.”

“How you long here?”

“This is my mate Bruce”

“I’m over here with a great bunch. Mostly Canadians. Fancy that” 

“Have you been to Vang Vieng? Bloody great parties. Party, party, party..of my God”

“What’s your take on Aussie day? I hear there a different views”

My head spins with the wonderful choice of conversation starters she affords. I am also mildly chuffed she would consider me a candidate to exchange party perspectives. Chose I must. Opine I do: 

“Well there are simply two perspectives: a celebration of Nationhood or abject sadness with an invasion”

I’m sure she hears me, at some level…….”you are gunna love Vang Vieng mate, have I introduced you to my mate Bruce”

Inside the pub, a group of seasoned (see old) blokes have started a extremely smoky fire.

“It’ll come good mate. An Aboriginal smoke ceremony is all”.

Happy Australia Day.

KG

January 26, 2016

UXO: A Tale of Misery

It is bloody freezing here. A cold front has come down (like everything else) from China. People walk the streets draped in blankets. A very odd sight.

Just the right weather to get a glacial bike ride for a few hours of misery and an investment in future nightmares by attending the Unexploded ordinance (UXO) museum. A Misery pock marked (like the landscape) by national embarrassment, international outrage, personal futility and aching empathy.

It is like going to the “school prison” (see unspeakable torture) in Phnom Penh. Tormented souls both living and dead scream at the injustice and agony…..they point accusatory fingers.

I indicated in the last post I thought this poor country was bombed more than all of WW2 together. This horror statistic is right. In fact this is the most bombed country in all history. All for being at the wrong place at the wrong time and not having the right friends.

The Americans (with our backing) waged a secret war against this neutral state. If the magnitude of the bombing wasn’t enough, it was conducted without the controls exercised in Vietnam. Controls such as public outrage and agreements not to bomb near national treasures such as temples (not all that successfully as it turns out). At least in Myanmar their temples stretch back in time, and remain a rally point for beliefs and National pride. Important legacies in Buddhist countries.

The Americans threw absolutely everything at Lao: agent orange, bombs, even detergent to make the Ho Chi Min trail slippery. There are also stories they dropped beer to encourage the Viet Cong to get drunk and stall their supply chain!

The final indignity is both chronic and completely lacking in humanity. It seems so unnecessary.

I can only surmise somewhere a decision has been taken in the US that it is “better public policy” to keep the national head in the sand and hope it will all go away. To contribute might indicate guilt. Besides Lao hardly has the capability to make much of an international noise. Shame, it seems, is manifested by exposure rather than internal standards of whaypt is right.

I have some comfort to assuage an extremely small part of my misery in seeing Austraia is one of the few countries providing aid to clear UXOs. I’m not sure if this continues, or was cut in the recent cutbacks. Japan is there, so too Belguim, Germany and a few others. No United States of America.

The convenience of waging a “forgotten war” extends to restitution.

At current rates it will be another 100 years before the UXOs are cleared. Meanwhile a person dies every day, countless are maimed and a poor country cannot access large tracts of arable land (25% of villages are “contaminated”). Records, as they stand, indicate 50,000 people have been killed or severely injured since 1968 (until 2008). These are more than likely underdone. It is hard to see how a diverse and distributed country, struggling to feed itself, can invest in accurate counting protocols.

Seeing the pictures and hearing the stories of survivors (in videos) is haunting. A must see- albeit different from other must sees.

Shameful.

KG

ps. This is a country poorer than Cambodia. The fickle fingers of fate have dealt both countries a hand that, if there was a choice, they would flee. In contrast with Cambodia, I see more hope and resilience here. This speaks volumes for the people. I, however, think similar forces as to cause recent calamities remain undiluted. I fear for Lao’s future.

January 23, 2016

Lao. Luang Prabang

We are into our third day here.

It is a journey into the past. Familiar for the most part but different in some. A curfew operates here still after 10 pm.

Joint flags herald Lao and communism (the red hammer and sickle) throughout towns and villages. This is a centralist communist country ever so slowly waking to free market and renewed international forces (they have always had the sad experience of these).

Laos history is closely linked to that of Vietnam, although the differences are marked.

Both previous French colonies, devastated by the Indo-China/American/Vietnam wars: the names vary according to your perspective. Vietnam seems to have bounced appreciably, where Lao’s ball seems to have flattened on impact. Both have Communist totalitarian governments. Vietnam’s appears more progressive. Vietnam has also historically been a conqueror, and during unification a significant influence on Lao. Vietnam assisted in installing the current government, removing the monarchy- the King and queen were sent to a “reeducation” camp- rampant capitalism, knows no equivalent of brand incongruency. The royals perished miserably. I’m not sure if they were more fuller people from the experience (of being educated), but it is unlikely.

I’m no fan of any monarchy (trumped up family businesses of dubious origins, involving both institutionalised corruption and subjugation, with all the ugly downsides of interbreeding) but this mob deserve some sympathy.

They recognised the need for modernisation and opportunities via the French, at some cost. During WW2 they resisted Japanese dominance at considerable cost. Following the war they attempted neutrality in the American War (I think this is the best descriptor), only to have the Vietcong ignore borders and develop supply chains to the south and the yanks carry out unprecedented attacks- more of this later. In the ensuing consequential destabilisation, the royal family split three ways: to the American supported group, the communists and the ultimately doomed sitting neutralists. Sitting on the fence has never been so uncomfortable.

It is harder to think of a country more impacted by forces outside of their control.

The numbers “the secret war” are staggering:

– I read somewhere that more bombs were dropped here than in WW2

– the Americans flew 580,000 bombing missions into this independent country

– this equates to a plane load of bombs every 8 minutes 24 hours a day for 9 years

– this included 270 million cluster bombs, of which 80 million didn’t explode

– and as if to rub salt into deep and festering wounds, between 1999 and 2013 America offered $3.2 million a year to clear unexpoded audinance (UXO) – of which less than 1% have been cleared. The “investment” in putting them there was $13.3 per day!!

Take a moment to read that again and Let it sink in.

I can cut this country a bit of slack. No wonder their ball flattens on impact.

Now more travelogue without the (critically important) political commentary.

Luang Prabang has a feel of Hoi An in Vietnam. Both graceful, both hints of French architecture, both lined with good places to eat and drink, both remarkably preserved given the utter destruction that occurred close by finally, and both UNESCO heritage listed.

Oh! This is a country tied to the mighty Mekong. As if Lao has not suffered enough indignancies from self serving foreign powers, it is about to suffer another as their northern neighbour, the Chinese, plan wholesale damming of this precious lifeblood.

Apologies, for the resort to political commentary. It makes the world go round, or in the case of Lao, the ball go flat.

Spare a thought.

KG

January 19, 2016

Zip it, zip it good

If Hafiz, the Iranian Sufi, is right and “fear is the cheapest room in the house”, then our zip lining experience suggests a number of possibilities:

1) I have been upgraded to a better room at the same cost; or
2) I have been given more cash (see energy) to afford a better room; or
3) I am now living in a different house altogether.

One of my nicest memories is attending father/daughter camps. These were interesting bonding arrangements where Daughters supervised fathers, fathers made small talk with each other and we collectively have a lot of laughs. On one occasion my daughter Zahra and I were strapped in together on a flying fox to plummet to our deaths- at least that is what my furtive fears were screaming at me. Arriving safely 90 metres later following a gentle ride at a very gentle gradient, we were greeted by her giggling, witty and perceptive friends mimicking me: “Zahra, don’t do that. Sit still. Hold on properly Zahra”.

Zahra smiled knowingly and giggled openly with her mates.

Seems I wasn’t as guarded in my fear of heights as I thought. I was certainly living in the cheapest room in the house.

In Chiang Mai, there is a growth industry in zip lining adventures. Touts press a wide range of companies with a dizzying array of features. We set on one which I casually see has the longest zip line in Thailand. I pay little regard to the pamphlet, confused by the banter and simply wanting a bit of adventure.

We arrive in the jungle after a one and a half hour steep climb. We encounter a beautiful lush environment, a well Laid out course of 52 separate platforms (ie places to jump from high in beautiful trees tethered by strings and wires), 20 metre abseiling drops, wooden and rope bridges over crevasses…..and a strong reacquaintance with why heights results in me living in cheap rooms.

The following sequence is dramatic.

1) Rapid increases in heart rate, body tension, cold sweat and an active imagination identifying (in some detail) the range of possibilities to die (including sites, body parts involved, the nature of personal and apparatus failure and consequences- the music to be played at the funeral)

2) tentative steps off lower platforms involving small zip line distances as a result of personally confronting the fear and
Embarrassment if I was the only one in our group to chicken out. We are a group of ten- Dutch, Koreans (I assume they are from the South as they had good haircuts), Chinese and us- all the rest in their twenties.

3) relief leading to experimentation . Jump, look no hands

4) wonderful release and laughter- trust overrides fear.

5) pride (of sorts!!) when one of the Koreans asks in broken English how old we are. On explanation, they all smile give us the thumbs up and chorus: “you Veddy good”

6) fatigue. Adrenalin at these levels fades at around 40 platforms. Not sure how that is the same for our youthful contingent. That may seem ageist, but they deserve it.

7) moment of (some) truth and reacquaintance with my old adversary. The last zip line is 900 metres long over a beautiful, but very deep, valley. Despite the ego stroking, apparent task mastery, demonstrated courage and peer pressure, I am bound to report I was the only one to chose the coupling at my front. The thought of being connected at the back, not seeing the guy wire and particularly seeing the deep deep dark (ever so dark) valley below was simply too much.

I take steps back to the cheaper room, but hopeful of a little better standard than before. An experience as exhilarating as it was edifying.

“Crack that whip. Give the past a slip”
Divo

A must do in Chiang Mai.

Muay Thai

Despite being exhausted from Zip lining. I have an appointment with Thai boxing. My travel companion is neither interested in “gladiator sports” (sports in general really!) and too exhausted to care (feeling every one of her years following zip lining) and leaves me to go out alone.

My ambivalence in attending is related to both fatigue and fear of voyeurism. Bouts are staged 6 days a week here and I don’t wish to be part of either cheapening traditions or having people sustain injuries simply for foreign gratification and currency. Cock fighting comes to mind and that has always been a bridge too far.

The ambivalence Dissipates when the event starts.

There are generous number of Thais in attendance, there is great pride demonstrated by the fighters, their supporters, and all those involved and the rituals are both solemn and apperantly meaningful.

Getting over my prejudice, I am a privileged witness to great skill, ceremony, strength and courage. It is fantastic. I am reminded and get a richer understanding of my son’s girlfriend’s (Nat) training in this discipline in Perth. There are three “lady” fights on this card. Their bouts are every bit a spectacle as the men’s.

Muay Thai has been going for 700 years in Thailand. I don’t doubt it is part of the reason this country was never colonised…..and not just because of the physical/martial nature of the discipline.

Another must see when here.

A Massage (with a full set of Teeth)

Following a great, but tiring day, I seek out a salve to body and spirit. I am pleased to report a running hypothesis on an inverse relationship between denture preponderance and masseuse proficiency has been disproven (see previous post).

We have heard from friends that women from the prison have been given training as a masseuse to equip them for life on the other side. TripAdvisor reviews are a little patchy.

I am here to report the service I received was excellent, the environment clean and calming and the attention and massage I received (by a woman with all her teeth) absolutely first rate.

I see a word in small print, but bigger meaning, on the desk on exiting:

dignity

Treat yourself when you are over here.

Zip it, zip it good.

KG

January 16, 2016

The Miasma Philosophy (….an Epic)

Take a seat. Stretch your legs. Get comfortable. Strap yourself in. But most importantly keep your gaze on the metaphysical horizon to save you from travel sickness. We have a looonnggg way to go.

You see I am crook. For you non- Aussies, that is more than a trifle ill (More of that later). I hope you can appreciate my status has influenced this post in more ways than one.

I don’t know if it is the preponderance of temples and stupas in this part of the world, the influence of my travelling companion’s obvious leaning, my health or something in the water (Some more of that later), but I feel all philosophical.

I come across a wonderful quote from Hafiz, a 12th century Iranian Sufi: Fear is the cheapest room in the house. Now this Sufi (I just love this word) goes on to graciously add:I would like to see you living in better conditions. Now there’s compassion.

Brilliant. This works for both the ‘why’ of travel and my world view. To quote the wonderful Vincent Price’s simply outstanding prelude to Alice Cooper’s Black Widow (more bloody Spiders!): Now, if I might put forward a personal philosophy…
Despite ISAS, Trump, China and other apparently world destroying phenomenas, I think it is important to get out and see the world. Besides, in an historical (not hysterical) perspective, things really are ok. Fear is the enemy. I am certainly telling myself this as I recover.

Contrast this with the populist, alarmist and cynical Jim Morrisons quote: No-one gets out of here alive. Now I am a big fan of the “lizard king”, but I’ll wager my sufi over his and other’s pessimism.

As I previously advised we are on the holiday leg to theoretically “recover” from our travels. This remains to be seen, as I’m about to tell you.

We are in Chiang Mai.

This is like going in a time machine and fast forwarding decades from Myanmar. Some of this good, others questionable. Progress, at any cost is hardly progress.

The travel writers wax lyrical about the cleanliness and cheap accessible street food. More of that later.

In a zen like state, grasping a iced coffee (Yet again More of that later), I sit and observe a cleaner with a long bamboo pole slowly and purposefully extracting plastics from a water way. The significance of this simple act lies in the contrast to Myanmar in plastics, contemplation through simplicity and me considering having an iced coffee.

Here they drive in the same side of the road and car as us in Aus. “Same, same…but different” calls the philosophy sprayed on Bogan (see yob) ‘t’ shirts. I always feel uncomfortable when I see these. On one hand, I infer, but cannot establish an underlying superiority and racism; on the other there is insight in the comment (clearly more from the source than the displayer).

This philosophy is reflected in Chiang Mai traffic. The “difference” with us lies in merging and pedestrians. Signs call out to Share the road!, but they only mention, cars, motorbikes,tuk tuks and trucks. No reference, or indeed consideration to the foot soldier. To the untrained eye, merger=madness, but it works. Just don’t expect any latertude when walking.

The Tuk Tuks have driver head rests.

Lady boys (there’s more to that than meets the eye).

Massages. Hands down (sorry) the award still goes to the senior Myanmarion denture challenged gentlemen. We get the “happy ending” we seek from these guys. Not even the freshly squeezed (by three set of hands) lime juice (More of that later) post Chiang Mai rub sways the verdict.

The Chiang Mai massage takes place in a temple enclosure, a Wat. This simply wouldn’t do in the more devout Myanmar. The ‘Wat’ could well reference: what’s going on here? I invisage a rampant Jesus Christ smashing the money changer’s tables in the temple of David. But that is Judo-Christianity and not Buddhism (at least as it is practiced here).

At last we get to the Myanmar malaise Vs the Chiang Mai miasma.
Despite the apparent cleanliness, for intensity, the latter wins by the length of the straight. For whatever it is I have ingested, I have had its reacquaintance over night.

St Nick has a line: I call upon the author to explain.
Whilst driving the porcelain bus all night, I call upon two famous Aussies to exclaim: one sanctified (and deceased) the other soiled (and should be). I refer to Gough and Rolf. All night I invoke their names paying homage at my low, white, wet alter. I’ll save you too graphic details. Just be thankful I haven’t figured out how to link photos to this post.

My travel companion calls out: “you all right? Poor thing? Is there anything I can do?” but this a journey only I can take. The pathway a lonely one. It is not conducive to collaboration, cooperation or consort. The journey of a thousand heaves, starts with a single Gough or Rolph.

But there is another player.

We live in a quaintly branded “flashpacker hotel”. The walls are thin and in my Miasma Ministrations I hear a fellow metaphysical traveller a few doors up. He also invokes Gough and Rolf. I note however, a different accent. He is not an Aussie- but Suffering is a universal language.

It is like dualing banjos. But I am the Robert Johnson of “banjo playing”. My Faustian deal with the devil equips me to go longer and louder than my colleague in arms. At this stage of my decrepitude, I’ll take any “win”.

So, where does violent purging and travel and personal philosophy get us?

I feel I need start as I began.

The experience is in keeping with a dour German existentialist:

“That which does not kill you……”

Better still, I’d like to finish with that finest of British philosophers, the extraordinary Spike Milligan. Spike wanted his tomb stone to read simply:

“I told you I was ill”

The Miasma Philosophy

KG

Ps vale Severous. I (too) do not want to live in a world without Alan Rickman

January 13, 2016

Balanced Reportage

Maingalapar (Hello)

We are at the end of the Myanmar leg, resting back in Yangon- sometimes you need a holiday to recover from your travels.

Last night, laying in bed, the earth moved. Not in a spiritual, intellectual, bowel or indeed sexual way, but initially physically and then emotionally. We were five floors up in a three star hotel when the earthquake struck. It was followed by a city-wide black out. The initial sense of misgiving gave way to hopelessness and then pondering the tenuous grip we have on this mortal coil.

A fine mindset to reflect on the downsides of Myanmar.

This is in the interest of balance in this blog series. Before embarking, I must stress that the overriding experience is a very good one. The awe of the physical environment, matched with the warmth of the people, far outweighs any downsides.

-animal welfare. “Avert your eyes” I call to my distressed travel companion everywhere we go. PJ and Henry (cats), Zig and Harry (Schnauzzers) back home have clearly entered Buddha’s animal nirvana, if this is the baseline. The deeds in their past lives must have been damn good ones to be born into their current worlds.

-pollution. Plastic, bloody plastic, with little sensitivity as to its consequence. The locals wrap everything liberally in plastic and discard remnants without thought. Railway lines, roads and waterways- it matters little. On the upside I have read editorials advocating a green consciousness and in Bagan there were signs encouraging: “no plastics in our classics”. There was evidence of some success here.

-politics. This has been covered in some detail. In essence a rich political environment, finely balanced with some undemocratic features. I’m not advocating a one size fits all. Each country has to develop its own governing system according to its unique circumstance. This is one to watch.

-minorities. Could be read in relation to the above. This is a nation rich in diversity- it is a “Republic of the Union of Mianmar”. Nomenclature and practice don’t always match.

-spiders

-hygiene. The physical attrition rate of the Intrepids was pretty high, but this was eclipsed by the spirit of adventure. Seeing the look of abject fear on pale faces, covered in cold sweat of fellow Intrepids with iron clenched butt cheeks, a spooked sphincter and their bodies desire to eject on encountering even the very slightest of potholes brings with it a mixture of great empathy, relief (pardon the pun) that is not you and fear it might be soon.

-Phlegm management. Continual Hawking up is extremely discordant to European ears. Watching the results, plagues the mind. “Look away, look away… damn did I really need to see that?” I couldn’t get a lyric from Perth’s very own folk poet Dave (from the Suburbs) out of my mind:

” Cruising down the highway, looking for a place to spit,

Tried to squeeze it out the window, knew it wouldn’t fit”

-earthquakes

Kyaayyjuutainpaartal (thanks) for the memories Myanmar- some I’d like expunged, but most retained.

KG.

January 10, 2016

A post script to the Longyi

The “Longyi test” seems a valid one.

It is at the heart of the culture, material (in more ways than one) and measured/tracked.

Despite being such a deeply conservative people, I can’t help question the Myanmarians capacity to stem the tide of change. There are simply too many forces working against them. Tourism brings income, but also powerful social change. As does foreign investment. The connected world via the Internet and social media will result in, particularly young Myanmarians, to challenge long standing norms. Local and foreign entrepreneurs will be quick to pick up and both exploit and reinforce these trends under the umbrella of progress. Finally, I suspect that the large number ethnic minorities will also reinforce their own “traditions”.

An irrepressible force meets an immovable object.

This is a recipe for significant political tension.

If the challenge of a relatively unique power sharing is not enough, the clash of cultures inherent in progress V tradition will be heard long and loud. I just hope blood is not spilt.

The King is dead, long live the King. The Longyi is living, long may it live.

KG

January 9, 2016

Longyi: the legacy and license

Note:

A longyi is the traditional Myanmar dress (See Sarong). 70% of the population wear the longyi. The fact that they know this speaks to the nature of this society.

Score Update:

– one Aussie down (baddly) with Myanmar malaise
– Canadian and Kiwi recocovering from flu
– Travel companion afflicted with flu
– newly engaged Aussies recovering from Myanmar malaise
– above mentioned extremely cooler than each other (surmise malaise fatigue and/or travel trials- such travel as this is truly a partnership tester)
– spider bite now the size of a 50 cent piece (progress!)
– all, without question, enamoured and intregued with Myanmar

Early in the trip, spurred by travel advisories, fellow Intrepids and notably my travel companion, I sought private audience with our Intrepid leader to negotiate boundaries. In response to my questions concerning probity, social sensitivity and risk (both his and mine) as to questions on the Myanmar political landscape. I was given an open license. My inner little voice cautioning care in literal acceptance of this response due to a filter of the warmth of welcoming a foreigner was frankly drowned out by excitement of an invitation to indulge a passion.

I have previously briefly commented on the positive characteristics of the Myanmarians. To this impressive list I add congenial host. Just think, in each Myanmarion household, supplies of tea salad, green tea and cheroots (local cigarettes) are maintained for all visitors. Now that is Pretty damn cool.

We are welcomed into the mystical and enchanting Inle Lake. A huge expanse of “fresh” water. Despite the plastic and other pollution of human waste (let your imagination off the leash) this is a living/decaying garden of Eden- the contradiction more real and relevant than heavenly and inaccessible.

A range of ethnic minorities live on and around the lake- flimsy wooden structures perch precariously in the mud or float on the water. Buddhist temples, monasteries and stupas, crumbling and resplendent, are everywhere (as throughout Myanmar). A travel writer described this place as a tonic for the soul. I don’t know about that, but all of us Intrepids seek one tonic or another (see scorecard). Mine follows.

Food here, as elsewhere, is excellent – acknowledging that delicate western constitutions will be challenged. Safety is never a good option if personal growth/challenge is not involved. This applies equally to cuisine as to interactions with other humans. Building cotton wool forts is no way to understand ourselves or others.

Buddhism must be getting to me!! Or is that me to it? Or it through me? Or…

Enough philosophising.

We enter a crowded local restaurant. No spare tables. No worries. An accomodising mid twenties Canadian woman offers us the opportunity to join her. No cotton wool here. She has just been to Canberra presenting a paper on not for profit (NFP) governance. She has lived for a year in both China and Thailand. In the latter she assisted coordinating blood supplies immediately after the tsunami. Impressive.

A short, but engaging conversation ensues about NFP governance. I declare that I believe success is perpetuation. She counters/builds that it is license. I mention my colleague’s (James) intended PhD on the subject matter. She advises she is currently writing her’s up.

BUT, the license given NFP’s is not the subject of this rambling and tortuous post.

Our Intrepid leader enters the restaurant. Like us he is hungry and table free. He willingly joins. My license is about to be exercised. Our host becomes the guest.

I won’t bore you too much, but here is temple-top summary of my exploration.

I see the picture of Aung San Suu Khyi above our table, how is she seen?

What do you think of the military?

How safe is this conversation?

How do you think the parliament, military and people will navigate the current “tricky” transition?

What counts for the people of Myanmar?

A rich, all too short, conversation ensues. Too rich to summarise here. One theme repeats- this is a very conservative culture. All sides of the political divide appreciate this fact. Despite great differences regarding personal freedoms, ethnic minorities, the economy, international relations, foreign capital etc, the political class are one with most of the people in maintaining traditions.

I enquire as to the nature of this “tradition”, the tools as to its maintenance and also the likelihood of success. My inner voice, travel companion’s raised eyebrows and travel leaders obviously more reserved responses, spelt necessary caution.

Feeling the onset of sanctions upon my own self, I quickly offer: Is the incidence of wearing the Longyi an indicator of the traditions you want to preserve and the success of doing so? With a last flicker of openness, my Intrepid Leader enthusiastically agrees.

I beat a tactful withdrawal, comforted I have supped on my Inle Lake tonic and not having offended or compromised such a genial host (he not me).

KG