An encounter with a traveller

I had never sweated so much in my life. My arms were enveloped in a layer of wetness that never seemed to dry, sweat droplets dripping from my back and forehead that I would often mistake for little ants crawling on my skin. It was a mystery. `Was it the humidity? My body working too hard? The Deet, which I had sprayed countless times in fear of being bitten?`, I wondered. I had climbed a mountain before and not that long ago either. Mount Zwegabin was only 725 metres high. We had started our ascent shortly before 7am after being dropped off by a tuk tuk that took us from Hpa-An`s town centre (pronounced Pa-Anne). We were lodged in this town, where we the motel owner had explained the tourist tour-guide route the day before. A tuk tuk driver would take a group of people to 6-8 caves or monasteries from 8am to 5pm, stopping at each point and waiting for the group to complete their tour before proceeding to the next. "We just want to climb Mount Zwegabin.", Matt said. "Climb the mountain?! Difficult! Take banana!", she replied. Even though the tours are somewhat customisable, we soon realised that part of being a traveller is to arrange things yourself. We often rely too heavily on guide books and trip advisor reviews that our spoken word loses its confidence to unravel our desires into actions. Just a few hours before, after a stunningly beautiful four hour boat journey from Mawlamyine to Hpa-An, we were wandering the streets for an hour, hungry and thirsty in blasting heat, incapable of making a decision of where to stop for a refreshment. And there we were, the morning after, wondering where the driver the motel owner had arranged for us was, waiting 20 minutes until we approached one ourselves. Yet we decided to climb a mountain. I couldn't help but wonder how some decisions come so easily and others seem to take the life out of a situation. 

There are two ascents to the mountain, the east or the west. Whichever you choose the route is a similar 2 hour climb. This doesn't sound too bad until you're faced with the first of over 2,000 knee-aching concrete steps, which dot the side of the mountain as far as you can see before disappearing into the clouds. 

 

 

  

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At the top, we reached a modest monastery. The floor was filled with dead or buzzing insects, crawling ants the size of a nail. The air was misty and humid. Humming dragonflies swayed across our sticky skin. Sat on a bench near the pagoda was a young woman reading a book and snacking on rambutans, a hedgehog like fruit. We watched each other curiously. There she sat refreshed and serene, while we slumped into two stone seats next to her completely shattered. With pale-skin, a slim frame and lightly crossed legs, she came across as delicate, a feeling that was only enhanced when she spoke. "Well done!" she said, softly. We figured she had spent the night in the monastery, waking early to see sunrise. She told us she was from Edinburgh and had taken and enforced sabbatical because her boss, the only other person working for the social research company, was on maternity leave. "I decided to cycle through Shan State.", she said, casually. 

Shan State occupies a quarter of the country and is home to one of the longest civil uprisings in the world. It contains several ethnic groups, the main being the Shan with a population of around 6 million. These people have been fighting for political independence from the military government for over 60 years. To put it another way, she was cycling through a war zone. Alone. 

She asked about our experiences in Myanmar and we spoke about the kindness of the people we had met. "I would often stop to ask for directions and people would offer me a meal or a bed to sleep in.", she responded when we were curious about the practicalities of her travel. "Now I'm working in Yangon for a NGO doing research on development projects. I am staying with a local family, it's a small room with no windows. Mustn't complain." 

'Mustn't complain' I found myself repeating later on as we slipped along the muddy, bat excrement lined stone floor of Saddan Cave, in moderate darkness, arched by the bats who may or may not poo as we tiptoed our way through. The cave was named after the Buddha's reincarnation as the elephant King Saddan, which explained the elephant statues in the entrance. It was also home to many impressive and fascinating stalactite and stalagmite rock formations, many appealing to the creative eye in the shape of an old man's body or a horses head.

 

 

After half an hour of scrambling along, we left the cave, our eyes struggling i the blinding sun. We sat on the root of a tree and watched monks and local Burmese families filling a boat that would paddle its way around the cave back to the main entrance. We waited our turn whilst being joined by an ever growing number of western tourists. "Only 3 people in boat, 5000 kyat for boat.", one of the boat drivers responded when Matt had asked how much. An argument quickly arose between the boatmen and the tourist group we had now become part of, who had just witnessed boats filled with 8 or more locals. "You tourist, you pay more.", he argued. An american girl, who had confidently strided in snapping dozens of close-up photos of the boatmen and of the land that surrounded them, wearing clothing and accessories clearly bought in a market aimed to dress the tourists, attempted to bargain the price. I remember being conflicted: it didn't seem fair but then how could we not expect increased prices?

As we floated down the river, 3 to a boat,  it dawned on me that this was the first sign of the tourist trail in Myanmar. It contrasted greatly with our morning climb of Mount Zwegabin, an off the tour-route experience, alone in the company of stunning mountain views and playful macaques. Here we had met our first true traveller up in the monastery, whom we now call Joanne having failed to ask her true name. 

Walking back to the motel after a filling Burmese curry dinner in a local restaurant, we walked past Joanne sitting at the bus stop. She seemed thrilled to see a familiar face and told us she was catching the night bus to Yangon. "I had to stop halfway down the mountain, I was so hot and sweaty!" she said, "I ended up reading all of Hemingway's 'Old Man and the Sea'."