Laos

Sabai Dii.
Laos is known to its visitors as an extremely peaceful, quiet, down to the basics country. It was a French colony, and a collateral damage of the Vietnam War. Basically, a dumping ground for US jets returning from Anthrax airstrikes. Ofcourse, the production and export of opium is a prospering source of income, however very few profit from its cash flow. The opium entrepreneurs cruise with Porsche Cayennes through the jungle; the rest is sedated along the road by the same good. So one could literally say that the Lao people are very calm (-ed) by nature. The nightlife ends early; candles provide the lightshow for the animals. The bars blast a shuffle of Celine, 50 Cent, cheap house, and luckily a few Rolling Stones classics. Hearing a good mix is as likely as attending a Yugo wedding without Gypsies.

In the North lies the Bokeo region, -an immense space covered by a tropical rainforest. A jungle inhabiting tigers, bears, countless species of birds, and gibbons. In order to protect the forest threatened by loggers and poachers, a French man started a project called the Gibbons Experience.

A three hour full on jeep-ride through rivers, muddy roads, crashing construction sites, and dusty clouds took us to the project. Our crew consisted of two hairy American gay girlfriends from a trippy San Fran neighborhood, a German newlywed couple with a third compatriot who strangely shared their bed, two Belgian whatevers, a very random French girl also strangely accompanied by an Israeli animal rights activist, and us, the United Rebel Cetnik-Ustasa Front. Throughout the ride one of the American unshaved ladies was doing self-acupuncture, measuring her pulse, and grasping for air like a fish out of water. Every time she opened her jaw in the attempt to stabilize the pressure in her ears, she turned paler. Later on, we found out that she suffers from motion sickness and asthma. The more I travel, the more I am surprised by how little consideration people take of their physical capabilities on the road.

After the lengthy introduction to all of our sicknesses, we reached the base camp situated somewhere where there is a lot of trees and a small stream. That’s as good as it gets with the coordinates. The base camp is inhabited by an indigenous tribe that rarely has contact with strangers, except for the Gibbons crew. From there we walked another hour and a half through the bush and reached a place called “the kitchen”. Here, we were given a survival crash course and handed a harness by the local barefooted expert. While fighting the monkeys off, we quickly learned in Lao language that we had to tighten the harness around our waists so that the circulation of blood between the upper and lower body is cut off. This caused your “master and commander” to be squeezed so as to form a bump that can only be described as elephantiasis. I couldn’t decipher whether the look of the Ami lesbians was that of jealousy for not having the bump themselves, or of pure disgust.

With these belts on and two strings with strange gadgets at their ends we headed out for the long awaited ziplining at the Gibbons experience. To clarify: the zip line is a steel cable similar to the one used for ski lifts. The cable is wrapped around a tree on one end, and hopefully attached to something on the other side. Our Lao “instructor” showed us how to get hooked on the cable and apply the safety line. The lesson was carried out in body language only, with a clear movement of eyes, smiles, and hips. He stared at us, looking for understanding and affirmation, and then zipped off. All we saw was a man gliding through air with a clear direction. Thereafter, our minds focused on the clear fact that suddenly we were alone. One of the Germans broke down in hysterical laughter followed by an even more hysterical comment: “In Germany you would have to attend a two day seminar with powerpoint slides and test runs before getting into this”. I guess at this point he realized that he left home very far behind. One by one we got onto the zip lines and assured each other of our safety. Just as much I convinced others that they are safe, I mistrusted all of them when it was my turn to get ready. I had my country’s reputation on my shoulders, so I clenched my jaw muscles into a meager smile and stomped to the cable on my heels, so as to let my weight and pride be heard with every step. So… attach the main rope in the front, the safety line behind... Ready.

As I zoom out, I see the jungle, the Bokeo national park, Laos , all of Southeast Asia. I’m looking at myself clearly but I am only a spot on the worldmap. I see myself starting to glide. Somewhere half way, I either opened my eyes, or I was awoken by my screams. I was flying. Right at this point I remembered my wish of doing something entirely different, I remembered thinking how this is going to feel like, I remembered the shivers straightening out my spine just at the thought of it. And I realized that I could never imagine this experience. I landed into a wooden house on top of a forty meter high tree. I let out a scream one more time, and then I sat down. Slowly I acknowledged the rest of the people around me, everyone jerking with the same excitement.

On the next zipline it only got better. Once I started opening my eyes and stopped stuffing my ears with shrieks of joy, I began noticing my surrounding. Hanging three hundred meters above canyons of deep forest on a five hundred meter string intensifies all senses. Even though through the ride the body is in motion, the pictures the mind takes are steady and sharp. It is almost like clicking the camera and not letting go. You focus on a certain image, adjust the zoom and take the perfect combination of colors, sizes, frames and contents only nature can provide. Between these pictures, I don’t know what happens. It is not just the stunning landscape that makes you stare and not blink once, but it’s the different perspective one gets. We often speak of looking at problems from a different perspective, and maybe this is the way. Get yourself into a position of anxiety, fill it with adrenaline and get high up. From this place, the problem becomes a small particle of something much greater. A tragic comfort in suppressing the fear of falling down isn’t the fact that you have no chance of survival crashing from that height, but the fact that death would be quick and painless as you hit the pointy bamboo sticks on landing. Now I finally understand what fear of heights means. It is not the fear of falling down, but the wish to jump, to fly.

We zipped through the jungle, hiked for a while, then reached the second house and finally arrived to the third “nest”. This tree was the tallest one on a hill leading down into a vast valley. To the left jungle, straight ahead jungle, to the back the only way in and out of the jungle. And to the right, unexpected magic of two mountains falling into each other, their intimacy veiled by the purple rays of sunset. Dali, at his best days of surrealism couldn’t even have imagined something like this. Luckily humans haven’t found a way how to replace nature’s ability to act on all senses, create total peace, and do no harm. Understanding these impressions took a few seconds, but it was a moment long enough to create a perfect puzzle piece which fits into the bigger picture of life.

Dejana, I and the three Germans stayed there, the rest were spread throughout the woods. We celebrated Christmas with sticky rice, veggies, three shared beers, and went to sleep at nine o’clock. As the lights went off, an uninvited visitor came to search for the rests of our food. To this day we don’t know what it was. In the middle of the night something woke me up, something unfamiliar that will forever remind me of the jungle. Absolute Silence!
I expected to hear the sound of a raging party, instead I heard NOTHING. It’s possible that my mind exaggerated the absoluteness of the night’s silence against the backdrop of my expectations. The silence was so pure and crystal clear and I could only breathe it in and out. An utterly strange feeling of emptiness, not scary, almost pleasant actually, if it weren’t so different, so unexpected.

I was woken up by the sound of a tuned Ducatti Monster in first gear and ripped all the way to the end. I loved it at first, but soon enough I was wondering where it was driving, and finally, where is the second gear? Just as the noise came from nowhere, it also disappeared in a split second. It transformed itself into a sound of barefooted steps and a cracking bite of an apple. The guide did his morning round. Still tripping on the sound of the zip I didn’t hear a word he said. All I wanted was to hear him zip again; I wanted a race! As he jumped off, I could hear the rounds: 4000 rpm, 7000 rpm, 10000 rpm and going. I had goose bumps on my balls. As he landed the sound faded and disappeared. Scent of rubbed steel colored the morning. I put on my harness over my underpants. Instantly the goose bumps were gone, and the pleasant feeling of a constant grab of the cohonas was back. I zipped back and forth, and finally found disappointment.
During every glide, my head was next to the hook which secures the harness to the zipline and produces the Ducatti sound. But with my ear so close to the sound, I could not indulge in the full scala of its beauty. I suppose the echo of silence and the resonance of the jungle’s freedom are revealed only from a distance.

Following the two days of tuning ripped Ducatti screams I was ready to accelerate for one last time on the way out of the jungle. On our last zipline the Germans eagerly moved first waving off to the squirrels, the Israeli kissed the monkeys good bye, and the gay girlfriend followed. Suddenly, an asthmatic scream for help echoed through the trees. The hairy girlfriend zipped straight into a yet harrier hug of an Asian Black Bear. We knew that a baby bear sniffs around the kitchen; little did we know that He also coordinates the landings. They assured us that he only tries to play, but also hinted that he has as much sense for his strength as a cow has for ballet. As scary as it was, it was funny to see Jeanny trying to run backwards in the air, against the pulling force of gravity. She landed perfectly in his arms, as if he knew exactly whom he waited for. From far away He sensed that she needed love. Real love from a savage male. He began to HUMP her from the side. The act wasn’t really that of spooning, but it also wasn’t the standing missionary move. We were spectators in an outdoor porn bestiality scene. At that point Jeanny freaked. We never saw the Bear’s cum shot. He got interrupted by the locals who chased him away. Jeanny’s tears were those of fear hidden deep inside. A fear of realizing that her panties might have just gotten wet.

After the time we spent in the trees, living out our Tarzan and Jane days, the return trek from the jungle to the basecamp was a piece of cake. This time the indigenous village looked like a civilized town and the border city where we started the tour seemed a metropolis. After three days of sticky rice for breakfast, lunch and dinner, I indulged at the local pizza place and stopped eating only when the kitchen ran out of all ingredients.

The experience drowned our blood with absolute satisfaction. We thought we peaked on adrenaline. The rest of the trip promised to be interesting but planned at a slower pace. Or so we thought. Then we found out that a speedboat reaches Luang Prabang, our next stop, in only six hours, -an odyssey 42 hours shorter then with the only other available boat. At the Huay Xai dock of the Mekong River, another barefooted man who spoke no English introduced us to the new equipment. A life jacket; a helmet. Fuck, now I remembered what every travel guide on Laos advised against. The boat is an aluminum bucket powered by an engine from the time of Vietnam War, - courtesy of the Soviet comrades. For six long hours my head was locked between my knees sitting in a generous space you would typically handle for three minutes in a bobsled. Speeding at twenty miles per hour down a shallow river full of rocks and floating tree trunks made this shaky ride all the more comfortable. The sound of the Soviet engine pierced my ears with pneumatic drills. A smallest wave would penetrate directly into the kidney, crashing their stones and cracking my spine. Over and over again. The mighty Mekong is one damn wavy river. Throughout the ride all I could think of was how to deprive my Bangkok maid of her hopefully healthy internal organs to replace the rests of mine.

The nature was beautiful, but my memory of it is literally shaky. If it wasn’t for the muddy waters, the river beaches could have been Caribbean, tropical, white sand strips covered by shadows of enormous, wild palm trees. At the time of our suicide mission, it was the dry season with low river levels. Emerging humongous rocks showed their scarred faces resembling fierce soldiers. The violent stream of the river during the rainy season engraves its force into their bodies. In the middle of the stream where its strength is fully unleashed the roughness of the soldiers is frightening. Ashore, the surviving polished veterans create a surface reminiscent of a bed filled with soft pillows. But nature camouflages its dangers well. As sharp and stabbing as the rough stones are, the more slippery and ungraspable are the white pillows. We were lucky not to have to look for shelter here.

I picked up my kidneys, removed the helmet and stepped off the boat. That evening in Luang Prabang, the maddening roar of the Soviet machine challenged the sound of the perfect silence in my head. With the thoughts of young trees flourishing, branching out uncontrollably, swinging to permeate vast new spaces, the engine finally turned off…

"Something Amazing..."

...It was said so many times in these few days of my trip, that it just doesn’t make sense to call this experience anything else.

Sometimes lack of vocabulary brings out the simplest forms to describe situations, it reduces the chance to complicate things, and actually lets one go back to the days when everything was simple: our feelings, instincts, face expressions, even thoughts.

Dejana left around one or two to go to the airport, to fly to Vienna, where a few people in the interview will eventually decide where life is going to take us; I went into town to go to the bus station, where a few people in an improvised lounge of a bus will eventually become part of my life. Before getting on this bus I was still doubting myself, thinking what I’m actually doing by going to some city, not knowing anyone, not knowing what I’m gonna do, just traveling for the sake of traveling. These moments of doubt kept on coming back to me later while I was having the best time, and made me realize how many times life questions you with choices that are not necessary. We are taught to put everything into perspective, which makes us question if what we want to do is really what we should be doing. I guess it is all part of the process that allows me to look back now, and say it was meant to be…

It was one of those double-decker buses, with normal seating arrangement upstairs, and something that resembled a living room downstairs. When I got on the bus the lady instructed me upstairs, but I didn’t naturally; I paused for a moment to see what happens, and so did Ariel. The lady and the driver started to complain, but once they figured who they were dealing with, soon enough they gave up. If we had gone upstairs, the story I’m about to tell you, would probably be a very different one. What I like about situations like this one, is that there is no long introductions, you cut the crap pretty fast, and the conversation just flows as if we knew each other since a long time, but just haven’t discussed some topics yet. Just to make things clear, the so called living room cum chill out lounge is still part of a Thai bus, which meant that the light bulb died yesterday, the aircon is being repaired while driving, the second driver is sleeping with one leg resting on your shoulder, and the toilet is almost incorporated in the scenario. It’s meant for ten people, well thank god only a few Yugos ever travel by bus here…

After a short session with Ariel I figured he had one of those pasts, similar to “ours”, lived in Israel, went to the States for a few years, studied, traveled, worked in bars, but also did some “proper” jobs and now he left all that behind him to find a way how to live a different life. A life more meaningful to him. A short pause of silence followed, I thought of reading something, but soon enough two eyebrows like the wings of a crow came out of the shadow. His eyes hiding beneath them, his accent really rough, the questions very direct. Ruben is his name and it means: behold...a son. The next few hours I talked, and mainly answered, sometimes smiling inside thinking in my simple knowledge, that I am being interrogated by an Israeli, or a Jew, as I used to generalize before I made this experience. We went from the Ottomans, to Tito, to good old Fidel, to Israel’s past and future, to all religions, to books. Now and then a tiny girl by the name of Nily, would peak behind his shoulder, and would stare at me, sometimes asking a question or two, but mainly listening. She listened before she spoke, and didn’t go into details if it wasn’t necessary, but always said what needed to be said. Not to mention, that later on, she will be the one to leap into a big waterfall, having four boys following her.

I tought Ariel was sleeping, but after these few hours of talk with Ruben, he suddenly rapt up the whole conversation in two sentences, after which I knew that he sleeps with one eye and one ear open. The fourth member of the crew was Moran; well the sugar comes last. This man smiles on every picture, and looks like he is lying down and chilling even when he is standing. His hair needed a seat for itself, his smile needed sunglasses. During our time together, his name evolved from, Moran, to obviously moron, to my wing man, to ma man, to Stalone, to the dude… The man is one big complaint, but every complaint was followed by an example of a true gourmet, followed by an example of pure enjoyment of a moment.

So here we have an Israeli Jew who finished the army and became a lieutenant, deeply in love with an Israeli Christian girl; an Israeli who didn’t go to the obligatory military service, but instead went to the States to get an education, and an Israeli that finished the army, but all he can think of is his moms kitchen, watching soccer with his dad, and of course ladies, but no ladyboys. This combo gave me a great insight to the complexity of this country and its people.

They took me into their group and soon enough we were leaving Chiang Mai to go to Pai, nothing to do with Pi or Phi, but just as mystifying. A village in the north east of Thailand, not yet known to the travel agencies. By now I had my camera out. We were laughing most of the time, not knowing that our first adventure was taking place as we were going along. Through bargaining with legs and arms, and inspecting different buses that will take us to our final destination, by “sheer coincidence” we decided to trust a guy that played us an Israeli track of some famous band while driving us to the bus station… these Thais look dumber than they are.

We get into the mini van, and seconds before departure, Massimo, the Italian traveler whose wrinkled face told stories of the past 30 years spent living in the backback across India and Thailand, joined us with his “partner”. The partner was a quasimodo, a freak of nature, a ladyboy, but nothing like u see in the pumping bars of Bkk. This gender bender experiment was a wreck, used up by life, somewhere in its forties. Massimo, the innocent trooper, only meant good I guess, and told us that he couldn’t get rid of his stalking creature anymore. Everytime he tried, it started crying, and being really upset, so… We departed, and after 15 minutes we stopped for a break, a classic shit break, got some water and chips, while the quasimodo served her Italian lover some coffee. The Italiano shared a few of his countless hilarious stories from his travels, like shitting in the middle of a bus in India, when the driver refused to stop. This story was great input, knowing that we will be stuck with him for the next four hours, on a bus. Within half an hour we were out of the city and surrounded by a jungle, not the BKK concrete jungle. I could fill my lungs with air again, without fearing that I am creating a lobster in my lungs by feeding it city toxins. Finally, moving your arm from your bare skin didn’t make a clammy sound of unwrapping a serious piece of bloody meat from a plasticfoil.

For some yet unknown reason, the quasimodo moved to the front of the bus close to the driver. Ariel and I were right behind them with Rubin, Nily, and Massimo in the next row. Moran with his legs stretched over three seats occupied the back. Suddenly I heard Moran’s amplified laughter; I turn around and he is there clapping hands and waving his camera, telling me to take pictures of a great moment. Massimo passed out, and was basically hanging in Ruben’s lap. First he got comfortable on Rubens shoulder, than lap, than he almost lied down on the couple; it seemed as if he was trying to assume the fetal position in Ruben’s womb. We were head banging of laughter. Every time we tried to wake him up, his eyes lit up like two massive light bulbs that were just about to pop out. So we moved him to the side, sat him up, but soon enough he fell over again. We laughed more, until we realized that this guy is not asleep, he is unconscious. I began talking to him in Italian, slapped him around, but got no reaction. Fuck. He couldn’t really talk, only some weird inarticulate shit came out of his mouth, along the lines of: I’m weak, she put something into my coffee. This was one hour into the ride, we had three to go, not knowing what’s gonna happen to him. At one point of time in his hallucinations he started talking about bombs; I thought to my self, out of all the things u can fuckin’ hallucinate about, why fuckin’ bombs when there are four Israelis and one Croatian on this damn bus.

Well we got to Pai alright, we told the Quasimodo to fuck off after it tried to “help” carry Massimos bags. We carried the trippy Italiano into a guesthouse where we locked him into a room from outside, and told the guesthouse owner not to let anyone in, not even if they claim to be his mothers or wives. Apparently this is a common scam here, quite fucking hard core if you think what would have happened, had Massimo been alone. This of course just brought our travel posse closer, and we analyzed the story a few times over again. We even met Massimo again the next day, the last thing he remembered was the gas station, crazy.

For the rest of the adventures I will have the pictures talk for me, but before I finish this, there is one more great detail I have to share with you. Before getting on the bus from Pai, to go back to Chiang Mai, over a road that felt like driving through a house of a snail with hills, me myself and I and the crew decided to have a banana shake, and a pineapple shake with ice on top of it. It took only 45 minutes and the bus had to stop for something I called the gang bang puking ceremony. I was dying of laughter as I was leaving my soul in these mountains.

On the way back from Chiang Mai to Bangkok we made a stop on the same spot where we had stopped a few days ago, that now seemed timeless. We sat down on the same table, and now words were not as necessary as then. It was clear to all of us, everything happens for a reason.

In these few days I didn’t just travel to Pai, I traveled to Zagreb, Karlobag, to Vienna, E3, I went back to some old stories, and I made some new stories. I spoke the truth all of the time, except for once, of course alcohol was involved, but I don’t think this mattered. Since I was hanging with my Israelis, and everywhere we showed up, we did as a group, one night a Scottish guy started talking to my Israeli crew and me. After a few buckets of a mix of rum, coke, red bull, and ice, and a steadily growing level of stupidity he says to me: I have never met Israelis before, so tell me how is it for u when… for a split second I had the stupid grin on my face, and soon enough I gave him a one and a half hour lecture on the army, and how everyone goes traveling after it, the ranks, the food, building the sukka, Sukkoth, Yom Kippur, the pessah, barmitzva, en macav, the respect for the family, the love for one another, the customs, mom’s humus. I was proud, I think my new friends as well.

For sure I was lucky to have met these guys, I could have met anyone else, and I would now have a completely different picture of Pai, of Israel, even of Thailand; but I met them, and a beautiful world has been created in my mind. Literally, something amazing.

Burmese Waves

Choices come in waves; so does happiness, sorrow, life in general. Surfers talk of catching the perfect wave, businessmen of opportunities, lovers of the one. Sometimes we wait for the perfect wave. Sometimes we wait for ever. But sometimes we try to ride the waves that come. Some we let go past us thinking we shouldn’t have taken them, some we mourn over. Some pass underneath us, right by us, over us, and leave us behind with anger, and we wish we had taken them because of all the things we imagine we could have done with those waves. But some we take, some take us. And when we take them and they work out, then they are meant to be. Then its karma, then its maktub, then it was written before, it was the right decision. I wonder sometimes if this thought is an easy way out in order to make up for all the not taken ones… But at least we got waves.

In Burma, Nga Yin, the giant that was buried beneath earth’s crust hasn’t shaken in a while; the strong winds haven’t blown for decades; and the people have been floating on a calm sea without opportunities to catch waves that could take them somewhere. Usually the term ‘calm sea’ is associated with positive feelings, with a constancy and an absence of unexpected danger. However in Burma’s case it has exactly the opposite effect. Somewhere in the 1950’s the most decisive wave came, that left the people deprived of their freedom on all fronts. The government was dissolved, taken over by the army, in a true military style. When the armed boys stepped in with their strong arms, and switched off brains, they didn’t do so with the “viva la revolucion”, or “nema odmora dok traje obnova “ (there is no resting while reforming) slogans; there were no waves of common vision, ideals, and beliefs, nor of encouraging buzzwords. It was an army that made sure no waves came anymore, no waves of thought, of change, of progress. They created a calm sea with a force meant to last.

Over the years a few people tried to stir the seas, but you can’t expect people to ride a Tsunami when they don’t even know how to behave in stormy waters. Most of the wave riders end up smashed against the shore that’s meant to be their savior. In 1990, the military regime allowed open elections, where the democrats convincingly won. The green uniforms used this occasion to place Aung San Suu Kyi back into house arrest, and imprison or liquidate all of her now known followers. She received the Nobel Price for Peace, a room that she cannot leave, and the country received sanctions. She is still in her room 16 years later; and the Burmese borders with China, Thailand and India became just the thing sanctions are good for, - a haven for the black market. Not to mention the French Total’s pipelines, dissecting the country, hauling Burmese oil and wealth away from its people, and pouring money into the military pockets. Total exonerates its business by supporting UN development projects. In the West we call it corporate social responsibility. In Burma they call it theft.

This same pipeline cuts through the garden of an old history professor, banned from teaching at the Yangon University by the regime. Since the French petrol giant took away his land, for which they paid their bribes to the government and nothing to the man, he has to travel daily three hours to Yangon to scout for tourists to earn some money of which pays 40% to the government. Then he commutes back to his village for another three hours in order to care for his 95 year old mother. Once she dies, he will become a monk. The history professor gave us a tour of the Shwedagon Pagoda and Burma’s brutal but fascinating history, while the scorching Yangon’s sun made no shade, His walk was that of an old man, but the chance to share his knowledge and give us a little piece of his country to take back home, created a storm of colors in his eyes only waves can offer.

The locals like to talk about their country’s appalling reality, but they choose different ways to go about it. While the patron of our guesthouse groans at the frequent power cuts and the boys at the switch, the owner of the internet café mimics a typical military raid on his shop, pointing out that the guns are acquired from China. In broken English, using arms, and legs, and his broken fingers, he explains that the only unrestricted internet server in the country is that provided by the government. Hotmail, Yahoo and Gmail are only accessible through complicated proxy servers which enable access to their weird ‘light’ versions. The Burmese should use Webmail provided by the government, of course for a fee.

Because of a serious shortage of filters for cars, trucks, buses and other vehicles seemingly running on a cocktail of oil, piss, and alcohol, the pollution is blinding. Maybe the shortage is a result of the government’s excessive filtering of information given to the people. Even the rickshaw drivers contaminate the ground with bloody red spits of beetle root they chew on most of the day. The mixture of the root combined with tobacco wrapped in a leaf gives a slight high, two burning red lips reminiscent of a monkey’s ass, and a black smile. The dark teeth are actually regarded as a privilege: the black layer protects the gums and reduces dentist expenses.

Unlike in Bangkok’s taxis filled with intense incense smell and freezing aircons, I felt at home in Burmese taxis without window handles, stormy drafts and a penetrating aroma of good old fully leaded petrol. The honk and its usage have nothing to do with its western purpose. The honk serves as a greeting tool, as a: “watch out, I’m approaching”, or a: “hey man, I’m passing by”, not to mention the: “yo yo, I just drove by”. The occasional: “get the fuck out of my way”, is also there, but it is not nearly as rude as one would interpret. But most of all I love the one:”I’m just cruising, and you need to acknowledge me.” When we rented the bicycle out, it was clear that most repairs are done on the little ringer. A bike without it is like a dj without speakers.

When we first arrived to Yangon and sat down on a rickshaw, my interpretation of the constant ringing was a very different one. Dejana and I sat down back to back on the two padded seats attached to the vehicle, and the old man started riding. He gave us two extra cushions to prevent the bike’s misconstructions from penetrating our arses. The poor guy must have been in his 70s, and the two of us weigh double his age. When he started ringing, we thought he’s dying and giving out his last wishes to his comrades. Dejana told me I should take over and paddle, but somehow I thought I would deprive the man of his last achievement. He survived, we survived, and we learned that the Burmese men can take a lot. Soon enough we realized that they can carry a much bigger burden that doesn’t come in meters or kilograms. And they still manage to keep a smile without complaining.

Once you are forced to walk because the roads are too narrow for cars, or you have to cycle because car suspensions can’t take the holes in the ground, people essentially become very similar simple beings, despite how much difference religion, culture, and history make. They smile, they sing, sometimes they cuddle with the dog they just kicked violently, and they talk of good times, bad times, and at times they perform when language doesn’t allow them to express all the emotions needed for a good story. But one detail differed in the art of storytelling to that what I am used to where I come from. The Burmese don’t complain! Sometimes self-pity and focusing on the negative brings out illusions of reality. Complainers live in the past, or generally in times when they think they were doing better, and tend to thrive on those feelings without realizing that things have changed in the mean time. The Burmese are different. They are focused and realistic, they offer facts, and live with them. They know they are suffering, they know that their seas are calm, but that the wind could blow. Right now they have to float; they have to stay alive for the times when waves will carry them again. Buddhism and its call to patience is a great influence in their attitude, or better said, their faith. For most of the people this is all they have left. But this is enough to walk or even crawl through life with a smile and a giving hand. At any time of the day these people were ready to share everything they had; and they had nothing.

Sometimes they even shared laughter with us, like the time when they informed us that the 250 km we are about to make, will take us sixteen hours on a boat. The ride includes: one sunrise, one sunset and one spot of the deck floor among the other two hundred passengers, a tractor, a few barrels of gasoline and loads of bananas. A cockroach safari, taking a dump in a river, and a mosquito genocide are bonus features obtained through learning by doing. A Spaniard traveler convinced us that the container of water where the boat chef washes his vegetables was not filled in the muddy Ayeyarwady river. Maybe he even wanted to prove it to us by eating four times in 16 hours at the highly unhygienic space of two square meters containing a fire and a pot, resembling a kitchen. He also ate eight bananas and four somosas bought from a lady who came onboard at one of the stops along the river. We met him the day after, sipping on Coca-Cola, brownish drops coming down his pale forehead. I suppose the diarrhea spread out through all his pores. Juanito admitted the recklessness of yesterday’s food binge , but proudly held up his machista style even during the confession. We also ate from the “kitchen”; we even had bananas, and the somosas, but quickly realized that there is no need to pig out in these circumstances. I admit it, I also had the Obelix fantasies of pigs roasting right there in that kitchen, on a fire burning up the wood ripped off from the boat’s deck itself in the moment of crazed hunger. But there are times for desire, for cravings, for urges, for all the things we cherish so much in the developed world. Burma is not the country where one goes to feed on these feelings.

I asked myself many times if it is better to have a choice, or not. In Burma I realized, there is nothing worse than being robbed of your choices, intentionally. Stormy waves don’t make sailing easy, but enforced calm seas don’t take you anywhere either.