I am a passenger, and I ride and I ride…
(Written by Steph)
“I promise to give you an adventurous and exciting life.”
This was one of Nick’s vows to me two months earlier, and he was obviously viewing this with some seriousness.
Wednesday morning, Nick got out of the left side of the bed, and I got out of the wrong one. Tired from our overnight journey from Yangon to Mandalay, followed by the 11hour train to Hsipaw, I wanted a lay-in. “That’s ok,” said Nick. “We’ll get a motorbike in the morning and do a bit of exploring.” By ‘morning,’ he meant 7am; by ‘morning,’ I heard sometime before 12.
So, we were already off to a bad start, further exacerbated by Nick’s suggestion to take the tent as we were finally leaving the hotel room. We had discovered a largely friendly people here, but we had heard that the government would only allow tourists to stay in designated buildings, and I was apprehensive about what would happen if we broke those rules. Today wasn’t the day I wanted to find out.
We hadn’t got far on our Dong Tong bike when we realised the horn wasn’t working. Not such a vital part of a vehicle back home perhaps, but here, and on the roads Nick was about to take me on, I wanted a horn and boring ol’ me insisted on it. At approximately £1.50 for horn and labour at the mechanics, we reckoned it was worth it. Shame we didn’t discover the back brake wasn’t working properly until afterwards. It could have saved us a few heart attacks the following day.
Setting off down the road, arms wrapped around Nick, wind in our hair (mine anyway), we kissed and made up, feeling exhilarated to be on the bike and off to explore. The bike had super suspension, perfect for the mountainous path that Nick had picked out for us. Now we just had to see if we could really go where google satellite was showing some tiny faint squiggles.
Hmmm, after a few hours, we had had fun, but the roads were all paved and fairly wide. It was not the adventure Nick had envisaged. Checking out his satellite images, he reckoned the roads should get a bit more exciting from there, although we weren’t actually sure the end part of the road in our loop was open. The Internet said no, and we were to hear several different stories on our way. We decided we would have to stop at Namsham, as this was the only place along the route with a guesthouse. The internet had also said it was possible to stay there. Don’t believe everything you read.
“Permission.” They kept repeating. And no matter how many times Nick tried to talk them round, it was clear. You needed government permission to stay there, and we didn’t have it. It seems that the gift of the gab doesn’t work so well when neither party speaks the other’s language.
Bugger. It would be getting dark soon, and we were at least 3 hours away from Hsipaw, where we had come from that morning and where we knew we could stay. We could make it, but we would then have to repeat these 3 hours of riding before moving onto any new roads tomorrow. And would that be enough time to do the whole loop? Would the road even be open by the time we got to the end, and would we have enough time to turn around and go back the way we came if not? The answer to all these questions was probably not. We had to find somewhere to stay the night.
“You know what that is?” Nick asked me with a glint in his eye. “It’s a monastery.” We had asked a few people in Namsham about a place to stay. We were met by blank looks, and 1 suggestion to try the place we had just been turned away from. I wasn’t sure about implicating the monks, but Nick was already half way up the hill and putting on his friendly tourist face.
“We can stay? Really?” Even with the sight of this nodding monk in front of us, we couldn’t believe it, and wondered if we should. Lost in translation seemed to be a thing here. But, no, it was for real. Phew. The government obviously didn’t want people staying in this town (militants were cited as the reason) We would keep under the radar, we thought. Just in case.
Back on the bike to look for some food before we settled in for the night, we noticed no restaurants or cafés. This was not a place where tourists usually came. Riding round a corner, we were met by a human conveyer belt of rice bowls stretching across the road. They parted for us like the Red Sea. Bemused and intrigued as to what was going on, we slowed right down and stopped to watch as they reconnected the line and continued to pass the bowls of rice to the next person. When they beckoned us to come and eat with them, we still weren’t sure what the deal was, but it seemed like a genuine offer, so it would have been rude to decline. Plus we were hungry, and still so intrigued as to the nature of the party.
It must be a charity, we surmised as we were sat down at one of several round tables and encouraged to eat. Afterwards we asked them, and were told by a man there it was because a woman died. “Which woman?” We asked. It was his mother. Complete strangers, they had invited us to her wake!
Back at the monastery, there was a stage set up outside. Curiousity killed the cat. We all know that, and yet, we felt compelled to go and see what it was all about. I’m not sure that we ever found out, but the date 04th November was of marked importance. So was Buddha…we think. Whatever the occassion, the celebration involved a great deal of “singing” onstage. Believe you me, Mr Cowell would have had a thing or two to say to these people.
If our aim was to remain inconspicuous on this of very illegal nights, we failed dramatically. As soon as we were spotted, we were given front row seats with very little prospect of escape. If there was anyone that hadn’t yet noticed us, this was soon rectified by us being hauled up onstage to dance to this god awful racket as people came and placed tinsel around our necks. A very drunk, and very annoying man decided we would be his friends for the night, and prevented us from any real interaction with anyone but himself. He must’ve had a twitch in his elbow the amount it kept jabbing into my side. It took every inch of my patience not to develop a violent reciprocating twitch.
“Cold?” a woman said, offering me her jacket.
Eventually we had managed to sneek off and started doing a crossword inside. This sweet woman thought it was because we hadn’t got enough clothes. Politely we declined and feigned tiredness, but I was touched by her kindness, and hoped she hadn’t caught on to our dislike for the vocal chords of her compadres. Ushered to our own private hut, with many more blankets than in the last monastery, we settled down for the night on the floor, somehow managing to drift off to the Burmese reverb that echoed through the walls. Tomorrow we needed to head off early if we were ever to do this loop.