11th Feb 2008
I arrived in Kalaw, after a coach trip from Mandalay that would produce such exclamations as; ‘oooh I say Graham, how terrible’ if I were to relay this little travel episode to the folks back home. Mandalay and Kalaw people in Myanmar would see it is as perfectly normal I am sure.
The Nylon Hotel in Mandalay took an extravagant (in retrospect) 17000 Kyet from me for a seat on what was touted to be an aircon bus from Mandalay to Kalaw. Aircon it was not; thankfully for the night trip it wasn’t really needed.
Seating was the unusual and compact 5 across system; no aisle. This was achieved with aisle fold down seats whose occupants were forced to play musical chairs when anyone else wanted to move, enter or depart. In other words we were packed into that bus like the proverbial sardines.
I tried very hard not to look to long and hard at the poor unfortunate soul who occupied the flip down aisle seat next to me. He was either Osama bin Ladin or his twin brother fully prepared for a cold night in the foothills directing operations to repel capitalist insurgents. My other neighbour was younger and seemed more friendly if not a little exuberant. He was pure entertainment. He was having a good bash at conversation with me as we rolled, literally, out of the bus depot. Short sentences of Burmese floated across to me on a vapour of whisky were always concluded with an enquiring ‘ok?’ to which I grinned a thumb in the air ‘ok!’. His happiness at my willingness to engage in a mostly hand signal and body language exchange of gestures was signaled by frequent flashes of betel infected crunchers. What you might call the Burmese smile.
Names weren’t important. We were getting along fine. Exchanges extended to chewing gum and boiled sweets.
Did he really like me as much as his seating position seemed to suggest? For a few moments I flushed as the delayed alarm bells began to ring in my head. He sat at an interference fit with left hand items of my anatomy. Mysteriously there appeared to be inches between the left side of his anatomy and the window. I made a show of measuring both spaces and shaking the hand as the Asians do to indicate the ‘why?’ or ‘don’t know’ status. The betel gums reappeared as he dug his leather jacket out from the cavity between his butt and the window. It was definitely ‘off the peg’ as I recalled noting when we were outside of the bus. As we both relaxed into a twenty percent increase of available seat space he dug me in the ribs with his elbow in a request for me to look more closely at the jacket. He had parted the lining and a wad of local currency as the size of a bedroll was peeping at me. He had also refined a laughable hand gesture that sort of said ‘anything goes’ or ‘let it be’, which was what he was waving at me now. Clearly a Jack the Lad.
Roads in Mandalay teeter on the edge of survival. Some were conceived but never born. The dust and fumes outside the coach were what had played havoc with my throat, breathing and sleep for the past days. I was heading for cleaner air. It was a little way off yet, I couldn’t wait. The scheduled arrival time was 4am. 10hrs of travel in this sardine pack. The torture increased as the TV and DVD player was stoked into action. For my inimitable pleasure there were a couple of hours of Burmese pantomime comedy acted out by Little and Large lookalikes in Sarongs and basic props. At points most of the coach were laughing and my whiskey mate would join in most of the singing although he would pretty much be solo in that effort.
The roads began to deteriorate and for most of the time were single vehicle width with wide side tracks for passing other vehicles. Toll points were slightly better prepared. We were also clearly and slowly climbing. At about 9.30pm we pulled into a the Myanmar excuse for a service station. Some of the more friendly occupants of the coach uttered ‘dinner’ with a smile and hand to mouth signs that confirmed we would be able to eat. I went forward to a table manned by a serious looking Burmese war veteran lady that handed me rations as if there was no choice so I assumed there was no choice and took a bowl of rice with a little garlic and peanuts sprinkled over the top. Listlessly, to the side dithered an emancipated fowl limb. I was also brought soup. Then my whiskey mate arrived. He had the similar base rations but had found some withered sausage like material which I was encouraged to try. Another lady had also appeared and was energetically peeling boiled eggs to which I was treated two. I assumed that this was part of the bus deal. I even ate the Burmese at a chicken leg. Then the most touching thing happened. The serious looking lady that had handed me the rice at the beginning was now manning the cash till and I saw her mutter something to the soup girl. The soup girl approached our table and looking at me said two thousand. My whiskey mates hand went up and around to suggest all in. Despite my protestations he bought my dinner. He bought my dinner. Dah!
Back in the coach the roads subsided to stoney tracks. At best our headway was hitting a maximum of 20kmh. We twisted and turned along the edges of hills. We were climbing more steeply. In the black of the night we’d frequently need to pull over to let an oncoming vehicle pass and we’d frequently need to navigate a narrow path around a broken down truck or bus being careful not to lose a wheel over the road edge. Then suddenly all of the twisting and turning stopped and within minutes we were into civilization. I spotted a board with Eastern Paradise painted boldly on it. We were in Kalaw! The driver pulled over and someone pointed at me. Gosh, my stop, realization dawned. I felt excited but alarmed. 2am. Will I be able to secure a room at my chosen guest house? Or would I have to snook down until dawn in crevice of a building somewhere? My trusty backpack was retrieved from the rear of the vehicle and I was left there to my own devices as the bus pulled away again. Hello..came the gentle female voice from an approaching figure. Where do you want to stay? This lady had heard the bus arrive, saw that it was to deliver a bewildered tourist and hopped out from her bed across the road to help me to a room for the night. Kalaw friendliness! Eastern Paradise, Yes it’s this way. We walked the 700yards to the Guest House and raised the proprietoress who, after multiple bell presses appeared in woollen hat and cloak over a night dress. Toto, my street meet told me she would see me tomorrow to talk about treks…ahh I knew there might be a catch. Nevertheless I can’t knock the friendliness. I was ushered to a room by the sleepy proprietor, given the time for breakfast and told everything else could be settled in the morning. I had arrived in Kalaw and had a place to sleep!!
Down The Road 
