Today's the day. I'm finally getting out of
Thailand. Before I catch my flight in the afternoon, I run around Bangkok on
various errands. I get my final suit fitting, before they ship the whole
package stateside. I buy a new MP3 player, remembering the advice of those guys
on Ko Tao who were so keen on biking around in Bagan listening to music.
Finally, I need cash. Lots of it, in USD.
On account of Myanmar being so tightly closed and controlled, there are apparently no ATMs in the entire country. This means any money you need for your stay, you have to bring ahead of time, and they only accept US dollars for exchange. The bills also have to be in crisp, perfect condition, due to their fear of forgeries. After some online research, the place to go seems to be Super Rich, a currency exchange place in Bangkok that deals in exactly this sort of thing. After running to a nearby ATM for some baht (where I forget my debit card, only to have a security guard come running after me and politely explain that maybe I shouldn't be forgetting things like that), I get 600 USD in new, pristine bills. To keep them mint, I put them between the pages of a scuba textbook in my backpack.
Now, at this point I've been in Thailand 31 days, which some may notice is a higher number than the 30 days a Thai tourist visa allows. However, to my surprise and even greater relief, I don't have any problems going through airport security. They notice, of course, but I feign ignorance. Something in Thai is written over my visa stamp (I like to think it's a curse), and I'm on my way. Smooth as butter.
That is, until a security guard comes running up to me where I sit eating at an airport sushi stand. This is it. I'm scuppered. Whatever scuppered means, this is it. God, why did I have to watch Brokedown Palace before leaving on my trip? I know exactly what's in store for me. But who's going to heroically sacrifice themselves to take my jail time? I've got a real shortage of best friends around me at the moment. What could be the punishment for overstaying your visa? Fuck, what's the number for the consulate?! Why didn't I ever register with the embassy?! Why don't I do the things you're supposed to do?!
The guard produces my netbook. "Is this yours? It was left at the security check."
Guess I won't have to involve the consulate after all. Get yourself together, Jamie. Hopefully Burma will fix the holes in my brain. No drugs there, except for that whole Golden Triangle heroin thing, but that's a little outside my league. Maybe I won't even drink, and really dry out properly. Sounds nice.
Before I board the plane, I get some gelato finally. I forgot to mention I've been craving gelato for awhile, which is strange because it's so interesting. Now you know. Gelato cravings. But that's over now.
Around 6:30 we land in Yangon, formerly Rangoon, where I grab a taxi from the airport that reliably overcharges.
On account of Myanmar being so tightly closed and controlled, there are apparently no ATMs in the entire country. This means any money you need for your stay, you have to bring ahead of time, and they only accept US dollars for exchange. The bills also have to be in crisp, perfect condition, due to their fear of forgeries. After some online research, the place to go seems to be Super Rich, a currency exchange place in Bangkok that deals in exactly this sort of thing. After running to a nearby ATM for some baht (where I forget my debit card, only to have a security guard come running after me and politely explain that maybe I shouldn't be forgetting things like that), I get 600 USD in new, pristine bills. To keep them mint, I put them between the pages of a scuba textbook in my backpack.
Now, at this point I've been in Thailand 31 days, which some may notice is a higher number than the 30 days a Thai tourist visa allows. However, to my surprise and even greater relief, I don't have any problems going through airport security. They notice, of course, but I feign ignorance. Something in Thai is written over my visa stamp (I like to think it's a curse), and I'm on my way. Smooth as butter.
That is, until a security guard comes running up to me where I sit eating at an airport sushi stand. This is it. I'm scuppered. Whatever scuppered means, this is it. God, why did I have to watch Brokedown Palace before leaving on my trip? I know exactly what's in store for me. But who's going to heroically sacrifice themselves to take my jail time? I've got a real shortage of best friends around me at the moment. What could be the punishment for overstaying your visa? Fuck, what's the number for the consulate?! Why didn't I ever register with the embassy?! Why don't I do the things you're supposed to do?!
The guard produces my netbook. "Is this yours? It was left at the security check."
Guess I won't have to involve the consulate after all. Get yourself together, Jamie. Hopefully Burma will fix the holes in my brain. No drugs there, except for that whole Golden Triangle heroin thing, but that's a little outside my league. Maybe I won't even drink, and really dry out properly. Sounds nice.
Before I board the plane, I get some gelato finally. I forgot to mention I've been craving gelato for awhile, which is strange because it's so interesting. Now you know. Gelato cravings. But that's over now.
Around 6:30 we land in Yangon, formerly Rangoon, where I grab a taxi from the airport that reliably overcharges.
 |
| Sup. |
A couple months ago, I signed up for the internet site CouchSurfing. For those who don't know, CouchSurfing is an international community of travelers, most of whom are looking for a place to stay or offering a place to stay. There's a lot of high-minded feelgoodery I could get into, but suffice to say it's a great place to find a couch abroad.
I had originally planned to use the service in Australia, but wasn't able to find anyone available in Perth at the time. Instead, the first couch I managed to book is in Myanmar of all places, with a Japanese girl named Madoka. When I get out of the taxi, I'm more than a little excited to see that she lives in a rather nice upscale hotel. Also, that she's a real person, and not a murderer, or even a rapist. Incredibly, she's a wonderfully nice person who just likes to host backpackers and hang out. Murder-free!
I notice another backpack already in her apartment, and Madoka tells me another couch surfer will be here the same time as me. His name is Evan, and apparently he is also a nice non-criminal. In fact, the only actual criminal act was performed by myself, when Evan came home and I proceeded to steal much music off his Macbook for my new MP3 player. Evan invites me to check out the Shwedagon Pagoda, supposedly the oldest in the world, and Yangon's biggest tourist attraction.
It is absolutely gorgeous at night, as the lights of the temple bounce off and illuminate the golden stupas. It's also filled with rad electric Buddhas, which answer the age-old question of how to make religion accessible to the youth. It is, and has always been, flippin' sweet light shows.
We meet back up with Madoka, and the three of us get dinner at, appropriately, Friendship Restaurant, and then retire back to the apartment where I tune Madoka's guitar and find that I was wrong. People abroad don't just want to hear Oasis. They want to hear Oasis and Green Day's "Time of Your Life".
In the morning I steal some more music from Evan, and make plans with him to check out the circular train. Apparently, it’s the best way to see the real Yangon and hang out with the real locals and be really "real". Before that, however, Evan’s seen an ad somewhere for a plane travel package of Myanmar through Air Mandalay, so we head to their office to check it out.
The package is a few hundred bucks for tickets around the Golden Kite, which includes Mandalay, Bagan, Inle Lake, and then back to Yangon. Evan and I both sign up, and then inquire about the circle train. Immediately there is a communication block. One girls says there is no circle train, then another girls says there is, another girl says there isn’t…So we do what any sane people would do, and trust the internet. We take a taxi to the train station (which exists), and get on. Somewhere in there we forgot to buy a ticket, but…whatevs?
The internet also said that we would need our passport, and would have to stay in the conductor’s carriage, neither of which are true. This marks the...second? third? time the 'net has been wrong, maybe ever. Sometimes I wonder if this internet thing is really going to last.
The train is a long, slow, bumpy ride. We're the only foreign passengers, and everyone else seems to be going to work or hopping on and off to sell snacks and drinks. It's the sort of thing that pops boners for the backpackers who want everything to be "authentic" and only talk to locals and just want to be "real".
So anyways, we talked to this authentic local who was real as fuck. A lecturer/engineer who lives in Germany, and basically only travels at the convenience of the government. Apparently, the government here kind of blows. Locals, man.
In more exciting news, next to her maison d'E. coli stood a stall where a kid was selling betel nut. Betel nut is something the Burmese like to chew on that stains their teeth blood-red and causes them to spit absolutely everywhere, resulting in streets that look like an overenthusiastic Zombie Walk met up with a violent street riot. I had no idea what the effects were. I had to try it.
The betel nut doesn't actually taste that bad, but man does it get the saliva going. A fairly intense head rush comes on for a few minutes, and I actually feel stoned for a good spell, before it fades and is replaced by a sharp caffeine buzz. All the while my mouth is filling with ruby spit, and now we've gotten on another train, and it's moving. The car is filled with people, and there's no room to maneuver for the door. I consider spitting out the window, but that would involve not only getting myself into a position to open the window, but also spitting this vampire loogie out over the shoulders of about 4 innocent bystanders. Instead, I stand in uncomfortable resignation, cheeks bulging, insides of cheeks and roof of my mouth tingling, then burning. Imagine your mouth full to burst with horrible exotic tobacco juice, daring yourself not to swallow, yet considering...
Ready to end our non-circular tour, we ask some locals next to us about getting a taxi, which prompts the entire carriage to converse in loud, excited Burmese. A gang of elderly women take it upon themselves to help us out, and they get off the train with us to find a taxi together.
As for where to find taxis, no one has a clue. Our unintelligible multi-generational posse wanders around the station, back and forth, until finally the guy in control of the trains has to come out and point us toward the main road.
I see a kid walking around in a red and black swastika t-shirt. And before you ask, not the nice Buddhist one that's all straight and nice. This was the other one, the one tilted at an angle. The angle of evil. Go figure, amid the totalitarian regime of the Myanmar government, Nazi fashion does alright.
A taxi eventually comes our way. Evan gets out around Shwedagon so he can see it in the daytime, and I get out at Bagyoke market, thanking our elderly benefactors. I need to use the black market at this literal market to exchange all my crisp USD bills for Burmese kyat, and before I even have a chance to ponder how exactly the fuck I'm supposed to do that, a guy has already come up to me and asked if I need money changing. How on Earth he distinguished me from a local, I'll never know.
I talk the guy up to 820 ks for the dollar, which I feel pretty good about. Madoka later tells me that the official exchange rate the government sets is 45.5 ks to the dollar, hence why everyone comes to the black market. I also later learn that Evan got 822, and Madoka gets 825. I just did the math now, and that's like a 3 dollar difference. Somehow I'll learn to live with it, in time.
After we're done with our illicit transaction that had me feeling like such the badass, black market man takes me to get a bottled water, which I requested, and then takes me to his "mother's shop" to buy a longyi, which I did not request. A longyi is basically a men's skirt worn exclusively in Burma, or by the same awful backpackers who make concerted efforts to wear Thai fishermen pants in America and are just waiting for people at a party to comment on them but they won't because everyone hates you. Also, the longyi cost 5,000 ks, and if I'm going to wear a novelty skirt, it's got to be, I dunno, half that. I'm putting my foot down.
While trying to find a cab I end up visiting another pagoda, because while Burma may not have liberty, they do have Buddhist prayer stations in spades. Another money changer offers me 840, and I assume him to be a short changer because I just do not need any more regrets in my life. I turn him down, and he's nice enough to tell me where to hail a cab. Down a long road full of palm readers, it turns out.
Evan is already back at Madoka's, but she's still at work. Turns out, her complex has a rather nice swimming pool, and it is completely empty and also lovely.
So, I came to Myanmar to dry out and detox, and I ended up getting buzzed on betel nut and drinking in a shitty pub. Maybe there's a moral there, or maybe it's just one of those mysteries. Like how to pronounce "calculator". Nobody knows.
The package is a few hundred bucks for tickets around the Golden Kite, which includes Mandalay, Bagan, Inle Lake, and then back to Yangon. Evan and I both sign up, and then inquire about the circle train. Immediately there is a communication block. One girls says there is no circle train, then another girls says there is, another girl says there isn’t…So we do what any sane people would do, and trust the internet. We take a taxi to the train station (which exists), and get on. Somewhere in there we forgot to buy a ticket, but…whatevs?
The internet also said that we would need our passport, and would have to stay in the conductor’s carriage, neither of which are true. This marks the...second? third? time the 'net has been wrong, maybe ever. Sometimes I wonder if this internet thing is really going to last.
 |
| It is also very possible that we didn't even pay for our train ticket. Extremely possible. |
 |
| The back of the train has a string demarcating seats for scary military dudes. I probably should've paid for my ticket. |
So anyways, we talked to this authentic local who was real as fuck. A lecturer/engineer who lives in Germany, and basically only travels at the convenience of the government. Apparently, the government here kind of blows. Locals, man.
Evan and I start to feel a little peckish, and the occasional mango hawker isn't cutting it. We get off the train at a random stop, which turns out to be approximately the center of nowhere. Apart from some metal and wood shacks set up by the train tracks, the rest of the area is a dusty field stretching out into dry scrubland. We head for the shacks.
In one of the corrugated metal huts is a woman making...some sort of foodstuff, by the look of it, which'll have to do. She uses her hands to scoop and shape the food, which is a sticky tofu-like substance that actually tastes pretty bland. I figured her unwashed hands alone would create some kind of flavor sensation.
In one of the corrugated metal huts is a woman making...some sort of foodstuff, by the look of it, which'll have to do. She uses her hands to scoop and shape the food, which is a sticky tofu-like substance that actually tastes pretty bland. I figured her unwashed hands alone would create some kind of flavor sensation.
 |
| No flavor sensation here. |
In more exciting news, next to her maison d'E. coli stood a stall where a kid was selling betel nut. Betel nut is something the Burmese like to chew on that stains their teeth blood-red and causes them to spit absolutely everywhere, resulting in streets that look like an overenthusiastic Zombie Walk met up with a violent street riot. I had no idea what the effects were. I had to try it.
 |
| Bingo. |
The betel nut doesn't actually taste that bad, but man does it get the saliva going. A fairly intense head rush comes on for a few minutes, and I actually feel stoned for a good spell, before it fades and is replaced by a sharp caffeine buzz. All the while my mouth is filling with ruby spit, and now we've gotten on another train, and it's moving. The car is filled with people, and there's no room to maneuver for the door. I consider spitting out the window, but that would involve not only getting myself into a position to open the window, but also spitting this vampire loogie out over the shoulders of about 4 innocent bystanders. Instead, I stand in uncomfortable resignation, cheeks bulging, insides of cheeks and roof of my mouth tingling, then burning. Imagine your mouth full to burst with horrible exotic tobacco juice, daring yourself not to swallow, yet considering...
 |
| Outta the way, I've got nut juice I need to get rid of! Eh? Eh? You get it. |
When the train stops again I'm finally afforded an opportunity to dash out of the carriage and empty my raw, burning cheeks, looking much like an ebola victim with an upset tummy.
 |
| Sorry, guys. |
At this point Evan and I notice that calling this the "circular train" might be a bit of a misnomer, as now the train simply starts going backwards after a long stop. Apparently, there is no circle, and those ticket saleswomen were right to be confused. Oh well?
 |
| Who wouldn't want to see these sights twice! |
As for where to find taxis, no one has a clue. Our unintelligible multi-generational posse wanders around the station, back and forth, until finally the guy in control of the trains has to come out and point us toward the main road.
 |
| You can see here all the people who just gave up and resigned themselves to be Station Folk for the rest of their lives. |
A taxi eventually comes our way. Evan gets out around Shwedagon so he can see it in the daytime, and I get out at Bagyoke market, thanking our elderly benefactors. I need to use the black market at this literal market to exchange all my crisp USD bills for Burmese kyat, and before I even have a chance to ponder how exactly the fuck I'm supposed to do that, a guy has already come up to me and asked if I need money changing. How on Earth he distinguished me from a local, I'll never know.
 |
| Pictured: Me! Pretty much. |
I talk the guy up to 820 ks for the dollar, which I feel pretty good about. Madoka later tells me that the official exchange rate the government sets is 45.5 ks to the dollar, hence why everyone comes to the black market. I also later learn that Evan got 822, and Madoka gets 825. I just did the math now, and that's like a 3 dollar difference. Somehow I'll learn to live with it, in time.
After we're done with our illicit transaction that had me feeling like such the badass, black market man takes me to get a bottled water, which I requested, and then takes me to his "mother's shop" to buy a longyi, which I did not request. A longyi is basically a men's skirt worn exclusively in Burma, or by the same awful backpackers who make concerted efforts to wear Thai fishermen pants in America and are just waiting for people at a party to comment on them but they won't because everyone hates you. Also, the longyi cost 5,000 ks, and if I'm going to wear a novelty skirt, it's got to be, I dunno, half that. I'm putting my foot down.
While trying to find a cab I end up visiting another pagoda, because while Burma may not have liberty, they do have Buddhist prayer stations in spades. Another money changer offers me 840, and I assume him to be a short changer because I just do not need any more regrets in my life. I turn him down, and he's nice enough to tell me where to hail a cab. Down a long road full of palm readers, it turns out.
Evan is already back at Madoka's, but she's still at work. Turns out, her complex has a rather nice swimming pool, and it is completely empty and also lovely.
 |
| I feel like this whole Burma thing took a left turn somewhere. |
After she returns, Madoka makes some pasta for dinner, and the three of us leave for a bar called the 50th St. Cafe. It is extremely western, with a clientele that seems to be exclusively US expats with their Burmese prostitutes. There is a band, and they play The Cranberries, Hotel California (twice), and Justin Bieber's seminal classic "Baby Baby Oh Baby Baby Oh Baby Baby Oh, Etc.".
 |
| This is a menu boasting the best Bloody Mary in Asia. |
 |
| This is an aggressively mediocre Bloody Mary. DANGIT JAMIE YOU FELL FOR IT AGAIN. |
So, I came to Myanmar to dry out and detox, and I ended up getting buzzed on betel nut and drinking in a shitty pub. Maybe there's a moral there, or maybe it's just one of those mysteries. Like how to pronounce "calculator". Nobody knows.
