… and then, with a flourish, these guys make a grand appearance in a great rush from the starboard side.
Thought of the moment? “Paging Captain Phillips…”
Turns out that they were a fishing boat out of Sri Lanka, and out of food and water. Provisions provided, they went on their way.
There are three seasons in Myanmar: Summer (damn hot), Rainy (damn hot and wet), Winter (pretty damn hot). We visited in Summer. Of course.
That’s among the things I learned on our second day in country.
Again as yesterday, my education was aided by a guide — this time not a politically charged up young man — rather a charming, giggling between every other sentence, young woman.
Our Guide
Among other tidbits I came to know through her, and via my keen powers of observation:
Some brief notes and observations from the day’s program follow…
We arrived back at Shwedagon Pagoda just in time to witness a coming of age initiation ceremony, with featured participants aged eight to eighteen, (the youngest crying, the eldest glowering) proudly accompanied by their relatives. I learned that it’s common to set the qualifying age so as to ensure that grandparents are able to witness the ceremony from this world, rather than the next.
Initiation ceremony
It’s amusing to be the subject of reverse tourism. Ellie and I, seeking shade, found ourselves sitting alongside a group of local teenagers… who, with hesitancy that gave way to courage, proceeded to document us at great length with their mobile phone cameras as, presumably, examples of an exotic species from a far off land.
Next stop was at a downtown open air market, timed most cleverly to coincide with the peak heat of the day. Our guide suggested caution regarding the provenance and quality of goods on offer, and expanded, “The ‘Government Registered’ designation you’ll see on many shops means that they are selling what they claim, but carries no assurances on authenticity or quality.” Crystal clear.
Ellie showed her creative pluck by entering one of the very few air conditioned shops, at the peripheray of the market, and negotiating — very slowly — without any intent of positive outcome — for the non-purchase of a piece of jade (a $2300 hand cooler of no distinguishing merit)… giving just enough time for the outflow of sweat from my brow to slow.
Our transition to the day’s next stop, lunch at the Shangri-La Hotel, was delayed by fifteen minutes (felt longer in the tepid coach atmosphere), by a couple who got caught up in an extended negotation toward the purchase of some local fabric. Their arrival back at the coach was met with steely glares.
That lunch, a buffet, memorable for its excellent food, blessed AC, and very pleasant chat with the Seabourn Sojourn’s captain’s wife, gave us the strength to power through the balance of the afternoon… which featured…
A photo stop at the larger of two downtown lakes in Yangon… cleaner for the workings of a pair of machines donated by the Japanese.
Lake in Yangon, view to Shwedagon Pagoda
…The National Museum, with its modest but proud exhibits of early life in Myanmar…
… and a pavilion built to house “the fifth largest reclining Buddha” (one of three canonical poses).
Reclining Buddha
On the way back to port, our guide elaborated on the astrologically focused, mystical side, of her country…
…How the week day of one’s birth (there are eight in Myanmar, with Wednesday being divided into AM and PM) carries great import in determining your nature. Each is aligned with a corresponding creature. I’m a Tuesday baby (a Lion), reportedly ambitious by nature, but marked by a ‘sharp tongue.’ I’m shocked and appalled…
…How baby’s names are traditionally chosen based on the alignment of letters of the local alphabet with those days…
…How a first born Saturday baby (‘Tar Tei Sa Nay Thar’) is thought to bring great risk to its parents, given its supernatural powers…
…How the truth of all of this was driven home for our guide by the fact that her astrologer fortold the need for her to deliver her baby by C-section.
We left Myanmar much richer for the brief time spent there.
The experiences we had over this past weekend, while packaged and choreographed (as these sort of things always are), will live on in our memories for a very long time as not just fascinating, but as deeply revealing of human realities, and fundamentally real in all of their complexity.
13.793595 N, 92.890955 E
Bay of Bengal
Sailing just north of the Adaman and Nicobar Islands
En route to Kochi, India, one and a half days out of Yangon…
Looking down from my vantage point ten decks above, at the waters flowing by our ship at the deep sea port of Thilawa, on the Yangon branch of the Irrawaddy River delta, I noticed that they run in swirling striations of blue and brown, in proportions depending on the motions of the large tides that characterize the region… mostly blue when flowing in from the Adaman Sea, muddy brown when ebbing in the other direction.
Irrawaddy River Delta
I found that similar flows and mixings define the cultural, political, and social situation in the country of Myanmar, sitting as it does at a crossroads of diverse cultures, at a time of shifting balances between tradition and modernism, differing views of governance, and things essentially local or global.
The visit we just concluded would not have been possible only a few short years ago… Let me tell you just a little bit about what I saw, heard, and experienced…
Originally a monarchy, then a British colony, Myanmar gained independence in 1948, with a government marked by strongman, socialist, and rather eccentric military rule, in which its back was turned to the world. It opened up to that world in 2010. Elections, generally characterized as fair, were held two years later, and yielded a sweeping victory for the dominant opposition party.
Foreign investments, and the global tourist trade, began to arrive in its wake… but not so rapidly, or so powerfully, as to push earlier times and their ways to the margins, at least not yet.
And so it is a fascinating place, and time, to visit. Like most places of intersection, it is rich with life, and the change and growth that defines life.
Our first evening’s tour guide, on the bumpy 15 mile bus ride over privately built, privately tolled, roads from port to Yangon (formerly Rangoon) and back, shared his perspectives on his homeland and peoples, openly, often with a healthy dose of passion, sometimes intense, sometime leavened with a far-off look…
Our Guide
We learned from him about:
I mentioned in an earlier post that I’ve been a committed journal keeper for some time now (daily, since July 2012). I didn’t note there a paired set of related experiences, both on this trip…
With a few days of loosely organized time available to me upon arrival in Singapore, I decided to catch up on some missed entries for the prior week or two. (Usually, I record my thoughts on the day they occur; on occasion, if I’ve missed a day or two, I’ll reach back and fill in those gaps — using my email and calendar to help my memory pull up events and thoughts from those recent days.)
I use Day One as my journal software. Simple, clean, elegant, and with excellent cloud-based sync facilities across devices (Mac, iOS) — it’s a great app.
When I opened it in Singapore, and clicked over to its calendar view, I found that not only were the expected recent gaps present… but a large number of days from earlier periods. Panic. Syncing glitch? Drop Box problem? Operator error?
After a hour or so confirming that the gaps were in fact there (not just on my MacBook Air, but on my iPad and iPhone as well)… and settling on a rational hypothesis as to root cause (my erasure of a number of “duplicate” entries reported in a Drop Box warning message a few months ago), I committed myself to the task of, using email, calendar, and fuzzy memory, filling in all of those missing entries — over the past three years.
Several hours later, on a Sunday morning — mission accomplished. No more gaps. (Yes, a few of the back-filled entries were little more than fillers — but no more gaps.)
Fast forward a few days. Now in Thailand. Opened Day One. Gaps. GAPS!!!
Somehow, just then, rational thought pushed its way past my rapidly gathering panic though… with just enough strength for an “Aha” moment…
I was in Thailand, half a world, and as many ticks of the clock, away from California. Day One uses system time on its host to assign posts to days in its database, and its Calendar. When I changed system time on my devices to reflect my locale, all entries that would have been recorded in an adjacent day if, at the time I wrote them I was then in Thailand — were now showing as if I had. A whole bunch of “Thursday” entries, made within 12 hours of midnight, became “Friday” entries.
If there were no other Thursday entries — gap. Switch system time back to home time — no gap.
As Einstein once said, “It’s all relative.”
I’ve kept a journal, more or less faithfully, for years now. Here are my entries for the past two days. First…
Tuesday, 17 March
George Town, Malaysia
Ellie tried her best to kill me this day, arranging a walking tour, led by an unknown distant Malay relative of the Marquis de Sade. Tiny little thing. Seemed friendly enough. Wrong. Vicious to the core.
The day started with a breathless, interminable, climb of at least 900 feet vertical (seemed double that) in 90 degree, 90% humidity to a temple, Kek Lok Si (which, I think, translates to “house of the smiling new widow”), in the central highlands of George Town…
… then proceeded to two museums, each converted from the homes of their last residents, both Chinese, both owing their wealth to an admixture of speakable and unspeakable ventures in the last century.
Both patriarchs are certainly smiling now, each enjoying their respective glorious and final rewards, at the sight of busloads of tourists sweating in the unrelenting tropical climate, as tales of their business acumen and spectacular accomplishments are related… at… great… never ending… length.
Then…
Wednesday,18 March
Phuket, Thailand
Having been unsuccessful in arranging for my demise yesterday in George Town Malaysia, Ellie redoubled her efforts today.
Response to a weather report, optimistically pegged at 94 degrees, 90% relative humidity?
Says Ellie, “Great, let’s take an open-to-the-elements boat trip, bound for sights that would have been spectacular, but for the unfavorable tides… and then go walkabout” on a couple of islands whose most memorable features may just have been the souvenir vendors, all in row (at “James Bond Island”) or in a rabbit warren of stalls (in the floating “Muslim Village”), who, in their torpor, did not even mount an honest effort at peddling their wares.
Next most memorable thing? The tour director emphasizing each opportunity to use a toilet.
A closing observation: it’s interesting how, as one advances beyond the flowering of youth, just how much effort you expend, given hours on a small craft crammed with near contemporaries clad in shorts and tees, trying to find favorable points of comparison between one’s physique and those of shipmates.
Post Post Confession: the history was actually rather interesting on day one, and the scenery spectacular on day two, and I enjoyed both in the end, (much as aficionados of S&M must enjoy their special pleasures).
Finally, I was able to confirm to my great relief that, despite suspicions to the contrary, Ellie has NOT taken out a large life insurance policy on me.
Port Klang
Straits of Malacca
Seabourn Sojourn
This is a place with a great deal of turbulent history. It sits at a strategic crossroads of the overlapping and competing trade routes of many empires, as they’ve surged and receded over the millennia.
After a founding period where indigenous peoples, comprising hunter gatherers from the north, who arrived forty some odd thousand years ago, and agrarian cultures from Indonesia, or perhaps Taiwan (by the latest theory), coalesced into the Malay people here… the game was afoot.
Arabs, then Indians, first pushed into the area, attracted by the prospect of a seabourn alternative to the land-based Spice Road (and its Mongol overlords). They were followed by the Portuguese, around the peak of their maritime empire, then by the Dutch, and finally the English — the latter two each with their own East Indian Trading Companies.
Straits of Malacca
All of that economic value passed through these waters, a natural chokepoint in the configuration of land around the confluence of the Indian Ocean and South China Sea. Those who controlled them had the opportunity to establish a lucrative maritime toll booth… and that’s just what they did… typically in some form of power and revenue-sharing partnership with the local Malay sultanates.
Kuala Lampur (“KL”) was born of the wealth thrown off by this process.
Today’s shore excursion involved a 90 minute bus ride, each way, to visit this most modern make-over of the city with that history behind it. Until recently, it was the home to the world’s tallest buildings, the “other” twin towers.
I decided instead, quite strategically I thought, to defend the port, the ship, and its liquid possesions (in particular), from any possible attack.
I took a high ground position (Deck 9), and prepared to mount a stout defense against all comers. Alas, as of this writing my good friends, they have not arrived. Must have gotten word of my superior position and resolve.
Mission accomplished.
I can now retire to the evening’s festivities, proud in the knowledge that I kept the Straits of Malacca safe, at least for now, for thirsty travelers from all corners of the globe.
Singapore Straits
Bound for KL
Settled. Suite 1023, Seabourn Sojurn. Home for the next 33 days and a bit.
Our driver from the Singapore Shangri-La added just a bit of adventure to our transit here, first bringing us to the wrong marine terminal (“Seabourn used to dock here…”), and then giving us a tour of a parking garage adjacent to the right terminal, before finding the designated passenger drop area.
No matter. Embarkation was a breeze, we were fortified with a lunch upon arrival, allowed access to our suite, walked through a mandatory emergency drill… and then allowed to attend to the matters at hand. Which we did…
An hour or so later, our things are all stowed in drawers, nooks, and crannies (what exactly is a cranny?) arrayed around this efficiently designed cabin, luggage tucked away under the bed and in odd corners, power, cable, and desk layout arrangements for our devices worked out (my head a minor casualty as a result of impact with an immovable overhead compartment), and WiFi access sorted, if only after some initial frustrations with the ship’s registration system.
Cocktails and dinner await, then an overnight journey in a sweeping right hand turn up the coast to KL, where we arrive 8:00 AM local tomorrow.
I just finished reading Saint Jack by Paul Theroux, the first in a series of novels I selected based on their settings — each of the ports of call on the extended sea journey we are about to undertake. Tomorrow we embark from here, Singapore, eventually to reach Athens, 34 days from now. With ample time between stops, I thought a well-considered reading list might provide perspective, and a narrative thread for our travels.
The protagonist of Theroux’s piece, Jack Fiori (Flowers in the story), is a classic American anti-hero, of the type regularly conjured up in the sixties. A Kerouac from the north side of Boston who, after a minor scrape with the law, heads west, but right on past California, coming to rest and going to ground in Singapore, after a time as a merchant seaman.
Theroux paints a picture of this place, late fifties through early Vietnam days, via Jack’s eyes, memories, and stalled drifter’s sensibilities. The city was still decades away from becoming the globalized hub of today. It was gritty, open, and an end-of-land sort of place, with a bit of Casablanca’s magnetic appeal for souls set adrift for one reason or another from their homes.
Madams and pimps (Jack’s evening profession) and their ladies are prominent, as are ships’ chandlers (provisioners), cops, GIs on leave, local gangsters, and varieties of ex pats caught up and slowed down by the local heat and dead end aspect of this island nation. There’s a death, a kidnapping, and a plot that could have provided Jack with his long dreamed of path to riches — which he aborts in keeping with an ethos of American big heartedness.
So, so far, my plan is working. During this opening chapter of my journey’s story, I’m seeing right past the international business and tourist sets, reflexively checking their mobiles, to the film noir past of this special place… and I’m happy.
Next stop is what the locals call KL, just up and around the coast a bit. Inspector Singh will be showing me the way…
Check back here from time to time over the coming month or so, and you can come along. If you’re into visuals, here’s the place.
…observed when, during some afternoon quiet time on day two of my trip, I stumbled upon a NYT magazine piece by Karl Ove Knausgaard (of “My Struggle” fame) about a trip he recently made, with objectives loosely aligned with those of De Touquiville all those many years ago (finding the true meaning of America).
View from my balcony
Taking a break outside to get out of the AC, headphones on, listening to some random Spotify playlist, when on comes a cover version of Simon and Garfunkel’s “America,” with lyrics echoing a similar journey in search of the essence of our country…
Then, back inside, continuing the read, came to a reference to Duluth, MN as Bob Dylan’s home… just as “Things Have Changed” comes around on that same list.
Sometimes you search, and find. Just when he thought he wouldn’t, Knausgaard did. Sometimes you just open up to chance, and memorable moments happen. That’s my plan for this trip.
