Where is Mr. Jim?

Everyone and their uncle seems to have a Thai girlfriend. Actually, everyone and their grandfather or great-grandfather is more accurate. It's sad to see young women with old, old guys in such high numbers. Also, not all the women are all that hot. Sometimes I don't know whether to feel sorry for the geriatric farang or the gold-digger Thai.


Speaking of old white guys, I went to the Jim Thompson House in Bangkok. It's a must see for anyone interested in architecture and interior design. Jim Thompson settled in Bangkok after WW2 and single handely revived the Thai silk industry by promoting it to the west. His silk empire gained him international renown throughout the fashion world. Our tour guide was quite proud to announce that all the costumes in The King and I were made with his silks.

He was an architect and assembled his home of six traditional teak structures from throughout the country. The buildings are simple and elegant, elevated a full story above the ground with solid wood interiors, interconnected by a wooden corridor. No photography inside the house was allowed so the shots of the flowers and the lotus are all I have of this place.

Mr. Thompson disappeared in the Cameron Highlands of Malaysia in 1967. No one knows what happened to him but the tour guide speculated with a smile that most likely he was eaten by tigers.


Stitching the Wound by contemporary artist Arahmiani was on display at the Thompson house. The exhibit was entirely created of silks. The show focuses on Muslim issues as a basis for a broader exploration of marginalization, identity and communication. Yes, I got that from the flyer handed to me at the door.


Like fake gucci glasses, art doesn't seem to be in short supply in Bangkok. On the way to the Thompson house I came across an exhibit in a large warehouse.


Some of the paintings on the wall were rather amateur like but the installations made good use of the space.


Later in the night I stopped by the Patpong night market after a yummy sushi dinner. I missed the raw fish. Patpong is also the red like district. Lots of beautiful half-naked women and transvestites that looked almost like real women. Lots of fake things at very inflated prices as well. I am now sporting some very fake $5 D&G sunglasses.


It was an endless day of wonders. I returned to the backpacker haven to discover that the Shell station between Rambrutri and Khao San Road had magically been transformed into a cozy outdoor bar complete with candle light. Next to it, in the parking lot, massage tables had been set up and I promptly got myself a facial for seven bucks at 11:30pm.


The Shell station is in full operation again this morning. I am off to Chaiya in the south for some meditation. This time I'll be all zen for ten days for sure.

Scorpion doesn't taste like chicken

This would be a Thai snack. At first I thought it was a tourist thing but then I saw some people buying these deep fried scorpions and grasshoppers. "Some people" were exclusively local. I had no plans of devouring one myself but things change quickly. Really, I thought this entry would be about how I got rip roaring drunk on Kho San Road and then made out with a ladyboy but no.


I ran into a Canadian girl I had met at Mingun in Burma. She was sitting at a stall making necklaces and her Thai boyfriend was just hanging out. I joined them and pretty soon was playing with an eight year old boy who was hanging out on the street waiting for his mom to stop working. The mother sells her services to the farangs (foreigners) on Kho San Road. I think business is good these days because he was there until at least 11pm.


Once the kid disappeared the snack cart came around. I looked at girlfriend (I don't remember her name but I've got it written down...I think it's Amy) and her boyfriend got us two scorpions and some grasshopper snacks for himself. Before I knew it my tastebuds were tingling with the flavours of scorpion.


It was deep fried and douced in soya sauce. Crunchy and the center is soft and mushy like undercooked ground beef. Holding one of these babies in your hands is a great way to get guys to talk to you. I think I made at least ten new friends. Only two guys took me up on the offer to join in and eat my scorpion with me.

Memories of Myanmar

Here are three pictures of the same sunset. The colours changed every few minutes.

Blue

Mixed

Gold

World's longest teak bridge, Amarapura, Mandalay

A flooded hairdresser at Nyaungshwe, Inle Lake

Kids with umbrella, Inle Lake

Long necked Kayah women at Inle Lake

Me and the ladies plus a little girl I played with for 45 minutes while the others shopped.

Woman with traditional head dress, Shan State


Our taxi, a WW2 Japanese model, Mandalay

Mauro always wanted me to take pictures of him and everytime he said it Francisco would start laughing. This is probably the best shot I took before these two struck some serious poses.

Women selling their wares on the way to Bagan



Tibet Again:

This kid first begged and then decided to wear my sunglasses and sit on me, Gyantse, Tibet

Here's a picture of the famous moneybelt trio on their way to Kailash, Tibet.

Herro Thailand

Here I am, sweaty and tortured by mosquitos in Thailand. The first thing I did was get out of Bangkok as soon as I arrived. I headed to Ayuthaya, the former Thai capital, named after Rama's home in the Indian epic Ramayana. It is essentially an island town surrounded on all sides by three converging rivers. The ruins are listed as Unesco sights but after the stuff in Myanmar they pale in comparison.

So, I rode my bike around for a while and tried to avoid the rather large insects crawling about until it was time to eat. Food is never hard to find which works out great since I am pms-ing large these days. Suprisingly enough the streets here are very bike friendly. Cars actually slow down and stop when you try to cross, not at all like Myanmar.


This little town of underwhelming ruins was helping me recover from my last day in Yangon. You are going to have to believe me when I say that watching the sun set on 53 metric tonnes of gold leaf topped by 5000 diamonds and 2000 other precious stones is exhausting. Shwedagon Paya in Yangon is supposedly 2500 years old and supposedly Buddha relics have been enshrined here. There are no digital pictures to post because my camera was out of batteries. However, a very nice monk took a picture of me in front of the treasure with my film camera and then I took one of him and now we are email pals. Funny how that works.

Later in the evening I met a very undernourished but very nice German guy who has overstayed his Burmese visa by 2 months now. He seemed a little worried about it but was planning on staying for another few months to practice meditation.


Today I arrived in Bangkok at the unimaginable hour of 6am. I had to get up at 3:30 to make the train. Hilda, I'm coming back to London to catch up on some sleep soon.

Hello Banana Tour Wrap Up

At dinner in Kinpun, otherwise known as 'basecamp', I was served by three women and assigned a human fan because the power was out. The fan was a 16 year old Burmese girl that alternated between fanning my feet and my arms. At first I felt bad and asked her to stop, mili-seconds later I was scratching some rather large mosquito bite related welts. Thankfully she started fanning me again immediately. Kinpun is the basecamp for a trip up to the Golden Rock on Mt. Kyaiktiyo. Most Burmese try to make a pilgrimage here at least once in their lifetime. I met a very nice retired Burmese UN officer who came all the way from London before she 'kicks the bucket' to see the rock.

Someone called out "Hello Banana" on my way up which makes me think that Lagui must have been here not so long ago. My trip to Myanmar has become the Hello Banana Tour thanks to a very persistent young lady on the boat to Bagan. She wore a bouquet of bananas on her head which she was trying to sell to us by repeating "hello, banana". That's all we (Lagui, Francisco and Mauro) said to each other for the next two weeks to amuse ourselves.

I leave for Thailand the day after tomorrow. Bangkok scares me. I am now taking suggestions on things to do and see (especially villages) in Siam.

No mo' silence

Days at meditation centre: 2
Attempt number 1 at vow of silence: failed
Reason: continiuous chatting



This should be proof that I didn't turn into a new age hippie. At least it didn't take me more than a full day and a dhamma talk to figure out that the Mahasi Centre is for more advanced yogis than myself.

Day 2, my first full day. The Venerable Sayadaw Ashin Jatila (VSAJ), master yogi of the Mahasi Centre met the Swiss girl and I for our admission interview which wasn't an interview. We sat waiting in the front hall of his home while he was being administered injections and an IV in his room. His assistant played a taped talk on the vipassana meditational method by Ven. Mahasi Sayadaw Agga Maha Pandita U Sobhana, the founder of the method and its centre. Twenty minutes into the talk the record player was switched off and VSAJ stood before us. He said a few words and then we followed him to a 'dhamma talk' that turned out to be a reading of one of his published articles.

It is during this 'talk' that it began to dawn on me that I was not ready for the centre. Sandra confirmed my notion later when she told me about another more rigorous centre in Southern Thailand set amongst lush gardens near a beach. Still later, my wandering mind reconfirmed that I had to leave for Thailand. Once my mind was made up I left the meditation hall mid-session to let my warden, Daw Khin Khin, know that I would be leaving the following day.

I truly love Daw Khin Khin. She is one amazing 80 year old woman. During the 36 hours of (supposed) noble silence I learned that her maternal grandfather was a Brit by the name of J.W. Higgs. Her paternal grandfather was a Punjaabi Sikh by the name of Guvinder Singh. Her parents were devout Baptists. She converted to Theravada Buddhism at the age of 35 against the wishes of her family. Three of her siblings passed away. She and her youngest brother are the only ones left. He has six children, all Baptists. They live in Yangon. Daw Khin Khin has lived at the centre for over ten years. She was assigned to take care of the foreign ladies two months ago. After 30 years of working as a bookkeeper her pension is 680 kyats a month (less than 1 dollar). That amount of money doesn't even buy you a meal at a restaurant in Myanmar.


After breakfast on the following day (day 3) Daw Khin Khin showed me around the complex. The 33 acres were donated by a man who's name I forget. There's a statue of him near the entrance encased in a class vestibule. Then she showed me the dining hall for the poor. After that it was off to collect my passport from U Tin Soe. He promptly confused me with the Swiss girl. I now have his son's email address in the States. At his office I met the president of the centre, the secretary and a head monk who enthusiastically showed me the Venerable Mahasi's private meditation room, bedroom, resting room and hallway where he performed his walking meditations. After that it was off to say goodbye to VSAJ who was sprawled out on the floor, face down next to to his bed while a longyi wearing man was walking up and down on his legs. He bid me farewell over his shoulder from this position. I'm sure he didn't see any of Daw Khin Khin's prostations as his backside was facing us. On the way back to my room we met one of the Korean yogis, a woman with an enigmatic smile and "a good heart" as Daw Khin Khin put it. I got a huge hug and a big smile from her. Everyone told me that I was always welcome to come back. At the hostel I had a cup of coffee as I waited for the taxi.

A short visit to an immense reclining Buddha, some hugs and I was off to Bago, 2 hours northeast of Yangon where I befriended this little creature.


So Tin Wa is a 117 year old, 18 foot Boa reputed to be a reincarnation of a Shan state monk. She can predict lottery numbers and every once in a while she will possess the body of a worshipper at a regularly scheduled worship festival (7 out of 10 times). Shi is a nat. Nat worship is a pre-Buddhist practice that is still alive an well in Myanmar. Nats are spirits that can inhabit natural features, trees or even people. Her keepers feed her 5kg of dead chicken weekly because she does not eat live animals. She displayed her jaw's elasticity when she yawned at me.


After this experience I was ripped off by a man with a huge sore on his nose. Consequently, I do not trust men with disfiguring sores on their faces. The damage was only $4 but it still pissed me off. That's one night in a hotel!

Mahasi

I must say that on my first day at Mahasi I was scared. For some reason I thought that this meditation thing would turn into some sort of brain washing cult experience. Nonetheless, I stepped into the administrative hall of the centre looking for U Tin Soe who was waiting for me after our brief phone conversation from my hotel. U Tin turned out to be a bespectacled elderly man with a somewhat confused smile. His English is bare bones and he quickly informed me that his son lives in the USA. He seemed a bit perplexed and amused by my application but then pulled a large folder off the pile of clutter on his desk and showed me another application. Sandra, from Switzerland, was the only other westener at the centre. He pointed at her picture and said: "You look same-same."

International yogis are hosted in seperate quaters from local Burmese meditators. My hostel room cost US$5 a night and is guarded by a near deaf 80 year old woman. The building is always locked with a padlock and rooms are bare bones but comfy. The bed consists of a wooden board and a bamboo mat complete with mosquito net. Daw Khin Khin Htay, the deaf warden, decked me out with two brown longyis, two white shirts and a brown shall to be worn over my left shoulder. The uniform is mandatory for breakfast, lunch and any meetings with the master yogi at the centre. Bathrooms are shared and bath times, like meal times, are scheduled.


The alarm clock I've been travelling with is a useless item here. At 3am a five minute gong session wakes the compounds inhabitants. On my first morning here the Swiss girl in the room next door somehow slept through the continuous gonging. By 4am we are in the hall. Silent except for the whir of the fans. Three Buddhist nuns and a Korean woman are already meditating. The room has a wooden floor and several large floor to ceiling windows. There are mosquito nets hanging from lines strung across the room. Underneath each net is a square bamboo mat, some pillows and four or five rocks to secure the nets on the ground. Two standing fans whir their heads from side to side, gently moving the loose cloth worn by the nuns. After one hour of walking meditation the women loosen the knots of their mosquito nets and drape them around their sitting bodies atop the mats. Now begins the one hour sitting meditation.

At 5am it is time for breakfast. We join the end of the queu of red clothed monks in the darkness outside. My traditional Burmese longyi is held up with a green piece of string that I've tied around hips. The line-up has a hierarchy that goes like this: monks, nuns, foreigners. A slow, low drum beat accompanied by the howling of stray dogs that live on the 33 acres of the complex propels the line into the dining hall. Again the Burmese eat in a seperate hall. Foreigners join the monks in their hall. Breakfast is ready on the low round tables. We sit on the floor and eat in silence. After the meal it's time to meditate again until 9am. At 10am we are served our last meal of the day, lunch. The food is prepared by volunteers and consists of several vegie dishes, two meat dishes, rice and noodles. Ice cream is served for dessert along with some bananas.

The remaining day is spent alternating between sitting and slowly walking whilst meditating. The alternation between the sitting and the walking makes it easier to focus the mind and distract it from the screaming stiffness and pain of prolonged sessions of immobility. Fifteen minutes is the best I can do without moving. After that my left foot is usually asleep and the attached limb is tingling.

At 3pm there's an hour break for washing. Yogis are advised to meditate in their own rooms for another 2 hours before sleeping at 11pm. Meditating while lying down is extremely difficult especially if you have been woken by a gong outside your window at 3am. Regardless, I gave it my best shot and fell asleep atop my wooden plank as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Curiously enough Daw Khin Khin has been chatting with me all day....

A vow of silence

This country is inspiring.


If all goes well I will be taking a vow of silence in the next few hours. This means there will be no communication (email and/or blogging) for the next ten days. I have decided to take a ten day medidation course at the Mahasi Meditation Centre in Yangon.



I will update the post once I am allowed to have contact with the outside world again.

Bagan

The Burmese hold their wedding festivities at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m.! At first I thought that the music would stop. I actually enjoyed the first two songs through the half sleep but then the microphone came on and the live performance began. Man, singing is not something that man should do for a living. Not even the earplugs could keep the noisey squeaking at bay. Finally, curiosity and a general sense of irritation got the better of me. Francisco, Lagui and I headed into the general direction of the blaring to discover a beaming bride and her handsome suitor.


We took a picture with the couple and then were off to rent bikes to discover Old Bagan, a 42 square kilometre site of 4400 stupas, pagodas and temples that rival Ankor Wat in the wow factor department. I've never been to the Wat but what made this place great was the lack of tourists.


Bagan's temples were built some 800 years ago. The plain has survived the Mongol invasion led by Kublai Khan in 1287 and an eathquake measuring 6.5 on the Richter scale in 1975. Today less charming stupas are being added to the site by the wealthy who sponsor the consturgiton of a family pagoda.

Near the old city walls we encountered gem touting locals. The bikes had a bit of a skidding problem in the sand paths near the stupas but the views from the terraces overlooking the plain of lush jungle and hundreds of red brick spires was worth the near accidents.


We enjoyed some some great views and lovely conversations with the temple keepers. Generally speaking, hanging out with the Latin guys conversations about jiggy-jiggy (aka humping) seem to be of utmost importance. The Burmese guys were reluctant to go into much detail in front of a lady (that would be me). However, they did impart on us that they were virgins and no jiggy-jiggy before marriage was to be had in the whole of Myanmar...unless you paid. "Playing by hand", as one of them put it, is the name of the game in these parts. The Latinos nearly lost their mind.

The conversation turned quickly to change in society and then the government. Two fo the three guys sitting with us on to p of th etemple in the the middle of the jungle shot up and walked to the steep staircase. Once they had made sure that no one was around they came back to sit with us. In Myanmar talking about the government is dangerous. Bringing up political issues is a very touchy subject.


Aside from politics and sex other regularly discussed topics include defecation, or as I like to call it, the poo factor. Men in general complain about the squat toilets in Asia. These guys went into detailed technical accounts of their encounters with the poo-holes of Southeast Asia. I'll spare you the details of the helicopter position but know this, helicopters are dangerous because they often crash. I wouldn't want to be inside a toilet bowl and that's why I'll take a squat any day over a western style toilet.


The day after the wedding we were treated to a procession of girls, women, two old guys and dancing men through Nyaung U. Most of the towns people came out to watch with their families. The procession ended at the local monastery, so, I am going to take a wild guess here but I think there was some sort of Buddhist holiday that took place on this day.

Minga-laba from Myanmar

Days at Inle Lake slip by in an unhurried tranquility. Getting here was no easy task. In Myanmar transportation options abruptly become unavailable during the rainy season. A sand bank was the only real obstacle our bus encountered. The women got off the bus and sat under a tree while the men pushed and/or pulled the bus 500 metres onto less sandy ground. Fifteen hours later we were dropped off at an intersection where my favourite people, the taxi drivers, descended upon us. Rates were a staggering US$2 per person at first but we quickly came to a more civilized agreement of 3000 kyats (pronounced chiats, US$2.50) for the three of us. Tired out of my mind I was still impressed by the roomy interior of this 1940s English model of a taxi. Of course I forgot the name of the car immediately after repeating it aloud to myself. I think being incredibly annoyed at one of the Argentinians may have something to do with the short term memory problem.


Inle Lake seemed to have swallowed up the entire town. Once we paid the US$3 fee for the lake area the taxi stopped and we switched to a horse drawn carriage for the remaining watery journey. The water stood two feet deep in parts of the road. One of the bungalows at our hotel had disappeared into the river. The hotel, the Queen Inn, is not mentioned in any guidebook. All the business they get is by word of mouth. US$5 gets you a room, breakfast of unlimited banana pancakes, fresh papaya juice and the best home cooked dinner in all of Myanmar.


The darkness, the murky water, the mosquitoes and the jerky horse cart are to blame for any doubts we may have had. We went from regretting our decision to come to this god forsaken flooded mess to feeling like harty travellers for treading knee-deep muddy water on the roads of Nyaungshwe.


With the morning came the realization that we had arrived in one of the more relaxing places in the world. A boat ride to a cigar factory, the floating market, a cotton weaving workshop where the weaving was done by long necked Kayah women and a parasol maker was accentuated with Indiana Jones moments at Indei, an ancient site dotted with stupas and temples.

All this was lost on the package tourists who hurried along the souvenir stalled walkway to a very disappointing monastery. It pays to peek behind the stalls and disappear into the bush for a walk amongst ancient, overgrown monuments made invisible by pillow cases and marionettes for sale.


I abandoned my group for some solitary walking...okay, so really I was abadoning just one guy who was filling the air with the sound of crap spilling from his mouth. Francisco caught up with me and we had a nice walk while Luisa and Mauro did the souvenir route.


At the jumping cat monastery (named for the twenty cats that jump through hoops) Mauro missed the cats jumping because he was busy at the souvenir stalls, Francisco was freaked otu by a German guy who decided to photograph him and Luisa was disappointed because a layman instead of a monk was holding the hoop for the cats. I just wanted to get out of there because my bladder was about to explode and I was surrounded by water which made me want to pee in the lake for all the world to see. Despite the catastrophic pressure on my bladder I was still able to enjoy the stunning sunset on the lake with its standing, foot pedalling fishermen.


The following day Francisco and Mauro left for Yangon (Rangoon). I stayed behind to visit the 150 year old teak monastery at the edge of town. The monks and I hung out in their bare-bones sleeping quarters for a while where they had fun playing with my digital camera. Here's one of the pictures they took.


Keeping in mind that my visa is only 28 days I decided to head out after a disappointing visit to the 8000 Buddha Caves. All the buddhas in the cave were donated by various individuals after 2002, not Indiana Jones like at all.

The Shan mountains kept me company on my 20 hour bus ride to Yangon.


I arrived today and discovered that the floods that have been drowning the rest of Myanmar have not affected this area at all. There are satelites and internet connections to be had here. Women wear jeans skirts and men wear pants in the capital. Gulab jamon is on sale on the street corners by red dotted women. The Hindu temple competes with the mosque and Buddhist pagoda for attention from worshippers. My prison cell like hotel room costs me a shocking US$5 a night. Welcome to the big city. Now get me the hell out of here!



If you want to see more of my Myanmar pictures click here.