It takes me three weeks and a long solo bike tour through the countryside to pinpoint exactly what's still off about Myanmar.
The charms of the nation formerly known as Burma are apparent: lush, green countryside; a climate that feels like you're wrapped in a warm blanket; an overwhelmingly Buddhist population that's truly concerned with things like karma and reincarnation. So not only is it quite safe, most have no use for the Western catchphrase du jour, YOLO -- You Only Live Once.
Conventional wisdom among travelers has it that Myanmar is now a wide-open adventure destination, and that's at least superficially true. In fact, people are so smiley and friendly and willing to help out befuddled tourists that I've been getting by with just two words of the language: "Mingalabar!" which means hello, and "Justin Timberlake" -- jezi timbalay -- which basically means thank you.
But stay longer than the typical vacation, as I have, or try to color outside the lines a little bit during your visit, and the smiles can become forced.
My plan is to head 200 miles south of Myanmar's largest city, Yangon, on an overnight bus, then bike back toward the city for five days by myself. It is both a chance to get out and experience Myanmar's timeless rural lifestyle and a straightforward power grab, an attempt to regain some control over my travels after three weeks in a country that seems to greet visitors with a very friendly sort of distrust.
Nationwide signage instructs people to "Warmly welcome and take care of tourists," but it can be hard to tell the difference between hospitality and supervision.
In her 2005 book "Finding George Orwell in Burma," pseudonymous author Emma Larkin tries to rent a bike and explore the town of Katha, but the police kibosh the plan.
"You can rent a trishaw and driver," she's told. "Then the driver can look after you."
The fact that no one is asking me for permits and paperwork at roadblocks is undeniable progress -- so why does it feel so hollow?
Perhaps because I can't go any farther. Most everything south of Mawlamyine, a former British outpost on the Thanlwin River, is off-limits to travelers while the landowners figure out exactly which property deals or luxury resorts will be most profitable. This all goes unquestioned, partly because locals are still allowed access, and partly because questions have been outlawed for quite some time.
The un-liberation
Having liberated itself from British rule in 1948, Burma essentially un-liberated itself in 1962 when it gave the keys to the country to military general Ne Win.
Trying to control disparate ethnic groups, Ne Win imposed a policy of isolation, claiming foreigners and their ideas were dangerous and would break up the country's fragile union. When students protested, he dynamited their building and shut down the university system for two years. When newspapers criticized his decisions, he banned private newspapers. State-owned media wouldn't even print bad weather forecasts.
A set of vague laws made it illegal to criticize the government; people were put in jail for stating an opinion.
In 1987 Ne Win wiped out practically everyone's savings when he suddenly switched all banknotes to denominations of 45 and 90, because four plus five equals nine, his lucky number. It's as if Peter Pan's Lost Boys were left in charge of 55 million people.
The people revolted, the biggest demonstrations taking place on Aug. 8, 1988 -- a date chosen for its numerological auspiciousness. Ne Win stepped down, but even as power passed from dictator to dictator in the '80s and '90s and small cracks in the policies emerged, they were truly just cracks. Journalists were still banned; for years a tourist visa gave you access to the country for just 24 hours.
So it feels like a privilege to be here, putting my bike's big knobby tires to use wandering maplessly through the footpath tributaries of Mawlamyine's paved thoroughfares.
Mawlamyine was Orwell's stomping grounds and a stopover point for Rudyard Kipling, who wrote a few lines of poetry about the sunset.
As I cruise through the outskirts of town, watching farmers plant rice and yelling "Mingalabar!" to giggling locals fascinated by the white guy on a bright red mountain bike, I feel more in tune with a different kind of public figure. People stare and grab their friends as I ride by, some approach just to shake hands. Others take furtive pictures as we pass each other. It is, I imagine, much like actually being Justin Timberlake.
Exploration on my own terms continues until I try to get a ride to a nearby island. But I've missed the daily passenger ferry, and though locals are zipping back and forth on small private boats for 30 cents a ride, none of the drivers will take my money. I'm fine on the morning barge, but foreigners aren't allowed to cross the river on their own schedule. The only reason anyone can give me is a shrug.
Watched and cataloged
The next morning I push lazy pedal strokes away from Mawlamyine toward the town of Hpa-An (paw-on). The road is smooth and there's a warm wind at my back as I pass the golden spires of local pagodas and rice paddies laid out like a hand-drawn chessboard.
Yet, because hotels need a special license to house tourists, and foreigners are not allowed to camp, the route I'm on is one of the only routes one can bike in Burma without a support truck and a driver "looking after you."
Even here it can feel like your every move is being watched and cataloged. During one empty stretch of road a plainclothes cop pulls up next to me on a motorcycle, identifies himself as the police, and stays with me for 10 minutes. Then he just rides off.
Near midday, a man named Kying Tun (Ching-toon) pulls up and invites me to lunch at his restaurant. We can't ride there together, however, because we're coming up on the border between two ethnic states, and he doesn't want to be seen going through the checkpoint with a foreigner.
At lunch, however, Kying Tun paints a rosier picture. The government has changed; the roads are good; everything is getting better. Except, there aren't many jobs in his village, so people are sneaking out of the country to work in Singapore, like he did. The education system is underfunded -- last year most school supplies were donated by UNICEF; and the hospitals ... well, you really wouldn't believe it unless we went to go see one right now.
We stand up to go, but he hesitates. To get to the clinic we'd have to cross the border checkpoint again. Even if we split up, a foreigner crossing that many times, he says, "would earn a lot of questions."
So instead I ride on, down quaint tree-lined back roads which happen to be the country's main highway system. Soon a bathwater rain is coming down so hard I have to spit continuously. I have 30 miles to go, but at least I know I'll be able to go there.
Red Cross runaround
I wake up the next day to a similar invite. It's an email from a friend working in international development inviting me to check out a Red Cross clinic that offers free prosthetics and training to landmine victims and other amputees. It's one of the few places where soldiers from different sides of the several active conflicts in Burma will share space and talk.
"Just knock on the front door," my friend wrote. She controls a few million in development money and received a red-carpet welcome. "They'd be glad to show you around."
They are not glad. At the front door I'm told I need to get permission, in person, from a Dr. Win Naing (win nine), whom it takes an hour and a half to find. Then I'm told to wait in his staff's bare concrete office for another 45 minutes.
Finally, I'm taken to see the doctor, where I expect a quick introduction and a rubber stamp approval to go provide his project positive publicity.
"Good morning," I say.
He looks at his watch. 12:14. "Good afternoon," he says.
This is not going well.
I'm told that it may be possible to visit the clinic, but he'll need to see proof that I am actually a writer -- no, your website is not proof -- at which point I will be welcome to submit a request to governmental authorities, along with a copy of my visa and passport. If they approve, he will consider my proposal. Shouldn't take more than a month.
I find myself suddenly claustrophobic, anxious to be out of that office and back on the straight, flat highways between towns. Dr. Win Naing offers me a piece of paper to write down my passport number, but I'm already mentally preparing for two more days pedaling easy hills through breezy mornings, eating deep-fried bananas at roadside food stands, and waving back to countless passengers.
Steps forward and back
When I get back to Yangon I sit down with Shell Aung Aung, a former political prisoner who has spent 14 of the last 25 years behind bars for protesting the regime's policies. His time in jail reads like the Burmese version of "Cool Hand Luke."
As we talk about the future he paints a picture of the change he's seen. The government now wears civilian uniforms; schools are still bad; the roads are better. Tourists can stay for a month; private newspapers are booming.
Now, instead of putting people in jail, he says, the abuses are economic. The government is keeping a tight grip on the wealth, taking land from farmers and laborers to sell to foreign investors asking them to name their price.
It's a simple claim, but it snaps a lot of things about my trip into focus.
Myanmar is open. For business.
Peter Frick-Wright is a freelance writer in Portland
http://www.information.myanmaronlinecentre.com/myanmar-is-a-new-adventure-hot-spot-but-a-portland-mountain-biker-finds-the/
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