It’s the country on which the Buddha never sets, like Austria the empire the sun never sets on. Oh, they said that about England as well. And some others. And we all think we are the only ones.
Myitkina is far up country. Close to the Border with China, 1500 km north of Yangon. Our driver awaits. Our bags are stashed. We need to get signed into various lists of dubious importance and less durability. Take off; stop to make five copies of passport for various control posts and more lists of dubious importance and less durability.
Green, seasonal rainforest outside of town. Yes, Birds. Yes, exotic costumes on locals. Yes, trees of teak, of massive proportions. And plantations thereof of same dimension. We learn later that it takes seven years before a teak tree becomes monetizable. We learn now that all plantations here are owned by Chinese businesses that operate cross border. Trucks bearing Chinese tags bear down on us with monstrous thunder from smoking stacks of diesel. Well, they are big, and low, and mean looking. Like the drivers, who seem to have been up three days straight. We hope in our driver’s survival instinct. The road is well maintained until the last checkpoint. To the left we see an incongruously large gate contraption thingy. Guards, guns at the ready, you know, do their thing. They guard. Burmese hieroglyphs (might as well be) on big wavy sign above. “No photo” driver points out helpfully. Goes to sign us into lists of dubious importance and less durability. At return, on inquiry, we learn that behind incongruously large gate contraption thingy is the area under control of the KIO, not to be mistaken for the KIA. Ok, I’ll tell you those acronyms, even though you all at Intel love this sort of CLF. Kachin Liberation Organisation and Kachin Liberation Army. The former growing out of the latter after peace accord with govt. was signed in 1994. How the area from this road to the about 30 km distant Chinese border mountains fits into this peace accord I do not understand. Effectively it means a separate entity within Burma. Tacitly, if not officially acknowledged, and probably China brokered. There are Kachins across the border in the Yunan province as well, and to locals it seems to be rather porous. This is in China’s interest, and thereby tolerated by the Burmese. I am speculating here. At none of these places I risk taking any photos, as driver faithfully intones "No take Photo" each time he stops at a checkpoint to drop our passport copies down a govt. black hole.
After this checkpoint the road turns bad. It consists of two-fist size rocks stuck in some concrete derivate. The rocks stick out halfway. The car acts like an unwilling mustang. Volker passes out. Reminds me of my Mother who passed out holding on to a handhold, standing in a packed, sweaty Mexican bus out of Meridan. These Schmidts sleep anywherealways. Why do I need earplugs then?
Sun sets mysteriously over these undulating overgrown hills. Kisses the horizon in the misty distance. Am I in an African safari movie? Treeshapes of figurine qualities, suddenly replaced by the orderly terraced artifice of another rubber plantation.
If you think this is anything else but a Chinese Satellite state, you should travel back in time to Warsaw Pact days. We drive into the gathering dusk of a quick night. A dark night of different quality than a dark night in the wastelands of Southern California, or in the paddies of Cambodia. Couldn’t tell you how different though. Maybe its all in the traveler's mind. This mysterious pull that Burma seems to have on me.
After interminable turns of the clock a sound barely above sound barrier turns into ugly squealing from back of vehicle. Seems to be connected to braking. Stop, ineffectively throw water with small cup on break disk and wheel. Drive on. Squeal uglier. Stop in village. Volker casually inquires as to my willingness to find scorpion infested quarters in this Asian manifestation of a medieval European village on stilts. What the old man can do, I feel obliged to at least be up to. Driver and locals proceed to take apart back wheel, I try to track their doings. Which is easier than you think. These cars are so old and so basic that even my limited technical understanding gets the important parts. The important parts are currently being pulled out. “What, no not that line. That fluid that is pumping out of there is the brake fluid! How will you break now?" Gestures and hand and feet talk let me come to an awful conclusion. "Oh, one brake only.”
Local kindly offers me Beetel nuts, obviously to calm the white boy’s fraid (seriously MS, you must know this word and its proper spelling) nerves, to chew on. I accept. He hands me a very green leaf, rolled up like Greek Dolmades. I stick it in mouth, as I am being pantomimed to do by kind local. Little does he know that he is dealing with an experienced Gaijin/White Ghost/Long Nose who has on occasion of stressful busrides been known to casually chew the occasional Beetel before. The Beetel nut is broken apart a little bit, white flesh with red stripes, or red flesh with white stripes, lathered in some white alkaline paste, and rolled up in some sort of leaf. Highly saliva inducing. Slightly numbing of the tongue. Not calming of the nerves at all. I smile, keep spitting, and digging into the recently created recesses of my jaw for nuts unchewed.
The wheel comes back on. Driver seems to agree with my analysis of the situation. “Man, you can’t be serious to keep driving on this road, with this car, with one break”! We drive anyway. I have to work on my noneverbals. Driver seems awfully mad at the road. It is of course Chinese built, like everything here. Everything that is either necessary or big. Volker takes it in stride Driver, its ok if we get there a little later! What? No, drive slowly, OK! …. ?" No Reply.
"#$%&*" (is German, I can’t translate, sorry).
"…. Ach, whatever!”
One hour later we arrive in Bamo, and the bunkersize Friendship Hotel has grown even larger, according to Volker. We enjoy being out in the country enormously. As wonderful as the hospitality of Natalie in Yangon was, we are travelers and this remoteness had been calling our civilized selves for some time. We walk around town, get some Chinese dinner, watch some Premier League Football (Valley Girl: No Way!?), buy some Cheroots and head back to Friendship to enjoy some Red Label and Deutsche Welle, which we seem to prefer over BBC. Some racial memory thing, I am sure, involving the orderliness of things TV German. I again am in anticipation of the morrow and its surprises and miracles.
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