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| On a Bus in Myanmar | << Prev | Composite Series |
![[Photograph: On a Bus in Myanmar]](images/small/1291.jpg) On a Bus in Myanmar (Among the Composite Images) Copyright © 2024 OneWorldImages.com The basic rule of the road in Myanmar is this: survive. Oh, they probably have some rules and regulations on the books somewhere - but I could see no evidence of any method to the madness. This snippet was my description of the bus ride I endured to get from Yangon to Mandalay. I've removed a few family-specific references and made several slight modifications, but for the most part it's exactly the way I described things to friends and family at the time: Recall that Mandalay, the second largest city in Myanmar with around a million people, lies about 400 miles to the north of Yangon. I’d been warned about the buses and roads in Burma but decided I’d go ahead and do this stretch on a bus. I’ve found that to truly experience life in another country, you almost have to endure at least one trip on a bus, another on a train (and if boats are a common mode of transport, one of those as well). When I purchased my ticket, I’d “upgraded” to the super-deluxe air-conditioned passenger bus (paying double what I’d have shelled out for a standard ticket). My guidebook claims the trip runs about 15 hours – yes, 15 hours. Some quick math – 400 miles, 15 hours… That’s chugging along at a pace of about 27 miles an hour – I wondered how such a crawl could be possible. Aren’t these two cities the largest in the country? We’re talking about a highway that connects a city of 5 million to another of about a million. Really, how bad can it be? Bad, I would soon discover. Really, really bad… My last day in Yangon was pretty laid-back. I wandered a park and climbed a towering tree with a couple of young boys, hunted unsuccessfully for a Burmese restaurant for lunch, and ended up eating a meal of tom yam goong at a Thai restaurant before heading out for the bus. My sore throat and cold hadn’t improved, and I was beginning to dread the 15-hour bus ride set to begin that afternoon. I arrive at the Highway Bus Terminal just before 4:00. My taxi driver leaves me in exactly the right spot, and I join a throng of people waiting outside a bus. Vehicle looks ok, but not a window is cracked. Even if the thing is air-conditioned, the sweltering heat (probably around 100 degrees) ensures that the first 30 minutes will be tough to take. I’m taken aback by the number of people seemingly waiting to board. I decide there must be more than one bus making the trip. There are three other foreigners standing around – I later discover one to be an Austrian man who’d been wandering Shwedagon with me the day before, the second a Canadian transplant living in Hong Kong, the third a Brit named Tom. Boarding the bus (assigned seats), I discover I’ve been placed four rows back next to Tom. As I’d suspected, the bus is absolutely cooking. Tom shakes my hand vigorously and we sit down. He has specifically requested an aisle seat, as he’s about 6’5” tall (easier to stretch those legs, he figures). He’s a postal carrier from London – and this is his first foreign travel. I’m amazed that he’s ended up in Southeast Asia, not to mention Myanmar. In addition, he’s off for a full year. I’m impressed. It’s not long, though, before I realize even he doesn’t really understand how he ended up in Myanmar. Still, he’s very friendly – and funny. And I like that he’s a postal worker. We’re only aboard for a minute or two before both of us are chuckling about the experience we’re about to endure. There are complimentary bottles of water in our seat pockets – Tom grabs his and touches my arm with the bottle. It is not just warm but actually hot against my skin. A few minutes later, he groans. All those people waiting outside – well, there isn’t another bus. Passengers continue to file in, and we discover that on this bus, we’re blessed with seating in the aisle! Yep, little seats are folded over into the aisle, expanding our standard capacity by an additional 25%. So much for expandable leg room. To my amazement, we depart five minutes early and hit the road. We are both in awe of the “air conditioning” which, if you fail to move your hand within an inch of the vent, is missed entirely. Still, no windows are cracked. Both drenched in sweat, we wonder whether we’ll be able to survive. My throat is still scratchy. My nose continues to run. In addition, as soon as we’re moving, the spicy Thai soup begins sloshing around in my stomach. I perspire even more, mixing in the clammy sweat of fear – I’m afraid I’m getting sick and cannot fathom fifteen hours on this bus! Our driver (I’ll call him “Smoky” – cigarette constantly dangling from his mouth) is a fiend on the road; we foreigners look around in amazement as our bus lurches in and out of traffic, pockets of pedestrians, and animals of all sorts (ox, dogs, chickens). An hour into the trip, I’m beginning to panic. Things are not sitting well, and I’ve got no way out. There’s no aisle for me to pass out in, no restroom on the bus. I contemplate what I’ll do when the food begins to come up. Do I yell for the driver to stop? Will he? Should I just ask to get out now and find some empty bed in a town along the road? Tom can see I’m not doing well. By now, the locals have opened the windows for air, realizing the sad state of the A.C. Yet I continue to perspire. At two hours into the trip, I’m just about to reach the point where the actions I’d been preparing in my head become reality – when our bus pulls to the side of the road, a horrendously loud beeping noise announcing our first pit stop. Fifty yards later, I am absolutely overjoyed by the site of a squat toilet. The filth and stench are bad, but it seems a godsend given the state I’m in. This is the first and only time in my life I’ve experienced true joy on encountering the famed porcelain “footprints.” Of course, I’m so happy that I forget about gathering up TP. I resort to the little hose, the exact same nozzle we Americans have attached to the hoses found above our kitchen sinks. I fill my bucket of water and perform the “flush.” Back outside, I offer up thanks for the “Wet Wipes” I retrieve from my bag (I grabbed a stash before leaving Bangkok). In addition, I break out my anti-bacterial fluid and “wash” my hands. Back at the bus, I settle into a stool on the side of the road. The rest of my fellow passengers are in a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant, downing noodles and rice. Whatever agreement our bus company has going with the proprietors, I vow not to get talked into eating. In Southeast Asia, these little places are common stops on overnight bus routes (and given the state of the roads here, what bus routes in Myanmar aren’t overnight trips?). Very often, the “bus lady” and her driver will encourage passengers to eat. They’ve been known to wait around in hammocks if their passengers don’t make their way into the restaurant for a bite to eat. Fortunately, I am not forced into anything. I figure they can tell by the look on my face that eating isn’t what I need at this point. After twenty minutes sitting outside in the cool air (by now, the sun is down and we’re well out into the cool of the country), the awful beeping kicks in again, passengers filing back onto the bus. The time is just long enough, the squat toilet just adequate enough – that I sit down with little fear that I’ll have to jump out the window a few miles down the road. Back on the road, Tom comments that I look better. Soon, I’m convinced that the worst has passed. More able to focus on what’s going on outside the bus, I am floored by what I see. While we’re two hours north of Yangon, both sides of the road – in stretches – are covered with people. There are people walking, riding in trishaws, pedaling bicycles. I forgot to mention that in Myanmar, vehicles generally drive on the right side of the road – but sometimes on the left. It’s also interesting that their cars aren’t uniform – some have a steering wheel on the right, others on the left. What I discover while riding this bus is that vehicles often, in the best interest of every living creature involved in the chaos that is a Burmese “highway,” actually straddle the middle of the road. We narrowly miss killing two different pedestrians (one of them could not have been more than six inches from the side of the bus when we whizzed by). The Hong Kong/Canadian girl seated in the front row gasps and turns back to confirm that we’re still there, that Tom and I haven’t bailed. Smoky is on his horn constantly. There is nothing smooth about our ride. He dodges potholes when not avoiding animals and bikes. In addition, at least a third of the vehicles we pass have no lights (it’s now very dark outside); a majority of bicyclists ride in darkness. Despite the chaos and people everywhere, our driver just races down the road. He taps his horn when ready to pass, then guns the engine. I think I see him muttering aloud – either to himself or the little Buddha image mounted on the dash. Somehow, we survive. At about 8:30, the television mounted above Smoky flickers on. “This should be good,” I whisper to Tom. Within minutes, the people on board are enjoying some sort of Burmese comedy. The plot (plot?) involves a rural Burmese man who goes to live with what I perceive to be a Japanese family in a large city. The whole thing is of course in Burmese, so what I share here is merely an interpretation of what I saw on screen. Well, little Burmese man proceeds to discover all the niceties of the modern world. The kids on the bus (as many as a dozen of the passengers are kids) howl as he climbs aboard the sink in his host’s bathroom, not recognizing the Western toilet. The quality of the acting and filming is what you might expect, but the fact that the whole thing is so bad makes it that much funnier. Plus, the volume is cranked, and the top 10% of the screen never comes in clearly – it’s a band of fuzz that persists the entire time. Mr. Rural Burmese Man eats with his hands (and ends up in a slapping bout with the wife of his host as a result); struggles to figure out two-legged pants; falls off his raised bed numerous times (most rural Burmese sleep on floor mats); covers the television set with a blanket to “turn it off” after laughing at all the wrong places during a show (causing the entire host family to leave the room in disgust); and smuggles newly discovered whisky into his bedroom. The whole thing is a riot – the Burmese kids (and even a number of the adults) cackle with delight. Rural Burmese Man chokes himself while putting on a tie (apparently, he’s taking some sort of job with his host’s employer), answers the phone upside down, and continually falls out of his “mobile” desk chair with wheels. After about 30 minutes of this, I grow a little weary – but my appreciation for the whole thing is genuine. Despite being on this death trap of a bus, surviving an upset stomach with the aid of a filthy squat toilet, being sweaty and dirty and stuffed up as a result of my cold, and all the rest – I sat on the bus taking in the laughter and trying to appreciate the moment. It was uniquely Myanmar (although in many developing countries with similar infrastructure, the experience would probably be similar) and something I knew I’d look back on fondly despite the discomfort involved. I perk up a bit when a white actor/actress enters the screen. Rural Burmese Man is to learn English, it seems. The actor (my hunch that it’s a male actor playing a female character is confirmed later in the skit) has this awful blond wig on, layers of makeup covering “her” face. The stereotypes are blatant – but it’s all in fun. Rural Burmese Man, after all, is an obviously exaggerated parody himself. Still, it’s interesting to see what stereotypes are pinned on this American English teacher… To my surprise, the video goes on for at least an hour, the volume never dropping for a moment. As soon as there is some peace and quiet (remember, Smoky is still on his horn and we’re constantly weaving back and forth across the road – “peace and quiet” is relative at this point), I try to nod off. At 12:30, having dozed for maybe an hour, we are once again rudely awakened by the beeping of the bus. This time, we disembark in a sea of other buses and travelers. In addition to a line of identical restaurants, there are vendors all around selling everything from Smarties (M&M-like candies) and Polo to boiled eggs (tiny spotted ones). Some vendors have only about a dozen items in their booths. For this late in the evening, the place is buzzing. There are likely a dozen or more buses scattered along the sides of the road. I walk up and down observing the scene. Returning to our bus, I’m approached by an Indian man with no teeth. To my surprise, he greets me in perfect English. Turns out that in addition to the four white-skinned tourists on the bus, we also have an Indian native touring the country. Having been in the country for a month, his worst complaint involves the Burmese infrastructure. He cannot believe the roads – and the buses are so terribly unreliable. He mentions the poverty, “bad food,” the money exchange, even the government. I find it fascinating, as India is no picnic itself (from what I’ve read and heard). If this guy thinks Myanmar is tough, then it’s not likely I’m imagining things myself. He knows dirt. He knows poverty. And yet there are things about Burma that strike him. We talk about “modernizing” without “Westernizing” – attempting to learn and gain from developed countries without destroying the country’s basic culture. We agree – maybe naively – that it’s possible. Back on the bus, I attempt to rest with little success. After suffering through over four hours of “rest,” the television screen flickers on once again. This time, I’m in no mood for it. I cannot remember the exact time – but it was sometime during the 5:00 hour (I have written in my journal 5:00, but I think it was a little after that). I’m in shock. It’s so early – why is that blaring television back on again? I groan. So does Tom. Shortly after our third and final pit stop, our bus runs into a traffic mess. I really haven’t described the road we’re traveling – someday, I’ll show you a picture. Just thirty minutes after leaving Yangon, I knew exactly why it takes fifteen hours to make this 400 mile journey. The highway is terrible. Parts of the road are paved – but at least a full third of the highway connecting these two large cities remains unsealed. The paved portions of the road are a mess themselves – has the government made any upgrades to this road in the forty years it’s been in power? Well, right about 6:30 a.m., our bus comes to a halt behind a long line of vehicles. We’re on one of the primitive stretches, and it appears both sides of the road have become impassible. I kid you not. We soon learn (by getting out of the bus and walking around) that up ahead, trucks on both sides of the road have become stuck. The truck heading toward Yangon, the one I can see, has been sucked into a giant pothole. There is a gravel barrier between the two “lanes” – and no shoulder on either side. So the natives work to free the trucks from their traps. The truck I can see is unloaded of all its cargo – people use makeshift levers in an attempt to pry it out of the hole. Beside us, farmers are beginning their work. A couple of water buffalo (oxen?) plow a field on my right. Finally, with very little warning, our lane comes to life again. We scramble to return to the bus, Smoky and his crew not bothering to check who’s made it aboard (the foreigners all make it back, but we nearly leave behind a Burmese man who runs aside the bus pounding on the door). Absolutely crazy. Total down time – about an hour-and-a-half! We pull into the Mandalay bus terminal at 10 a.m. I was right – the trip wasn’t fifteen hours – instead, seventeen-and-a-half. We get off the bus, the better part of a day after first climbing aboard – and are greeted by a crowd of hotel “touts.” I hop in a cab with the Austrian and accept a $5 room at the guest house I’d picked out. Neither the Austrian (nor the Canadian girl – who arrives at the hotel in another cab) like the rooms – and they move on. After a shower and few moments of rest, I’m ready to go again. And so I survived the trip to Mandalay. I’ve been on buses in four continents, and I can honestly say that nothing else has ever come close to this. Oh - but wait - I haven’t described the night train to Bagan…
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