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About the Akha

Akha tribal villages, originally of Chinese and Tibetan descent, can be found in the mountains of China, Laos, Myanmar and Thailand.

They used to be a relatively wealthy tribe, as they excelled at the farming and cultivation of opium in the Golden Triangle, which perhaps explains their penchant for adorning their traditional headgear with silver coins (I saw silver pieces on these dating back to French and British colonial rule over 100 years ago.)

The Akha religion is animism–i.e. that all things, from humans to rocks, have souls.

There are some half a million Akha living in the Golden Triangle area. Most dress as the local villagers do, but in some remote parts (such as this village near Kengtung), the older folks still wear the traditional dress (the headgear is kept on 24/7 to protect from evil spirits).

City on the Lake

Kengtung (alternatively spelled Kyaing Tong), is a melting pot of ethnic minorities. Dominated by the Shan majority that inhabit the valley, it is surrounded by small and remote tribal villages in the neighboring hills. They include the Akha, Lahu, Eng, Akhu, Palaung and Wa tribes, each with their unique customs, beliefs and distinctive dress.

Kengtung itself is scenic: a peaceful city around a small central lake. At first the city felt empty, a ghost town devoid of many of its inhabitants. Then I realized why: traffic was almost nonexistent. All the noise, commotion and activity that you’d subconsciously expect in a city this size wasn’t there. Subdued, both in noise and attitude. Whether that’s good or bad depends on the why and your point of view, but either way it made for a particularly relaxing base from which to explore the countryside.

Barriers to Entry

Fields outside of Kengtung

Some places are hard to get to. Some so much so that almost no one ever goes.

I like the sound of that.

I started in Chiang Rai. It’s the last major city in the northern tip of Thailand. From there I boarded a bus to take me north, to the Burmese border.

Within twenty minutes, we hit our first police checkpoint. Barricades across the road, soldiers with machine guns. The bus stopped, and the cargo doors were opened, contents inspected. A policeman in a black and grey camouflage outfit and bulletproof vest boarded the bus, checking one ID after another, surveying each passenger in turn. Satisfied, he exited, and the bus was cleared to go.

Thirty minutes later, another checkpoint. Same process. And another one shortly after that. It’s a good thing I’m not in the smuggling business or a fugitive, or these searches would have caused some serious anxiety.

We reached the northernmost point in Thailand, the little border town of Mae Sai. On the other side of the river, the rarely visited country of Myanmar (formerly known as Burma).

At the guarded bridge, the Thais stamped my passport and let me through. I walked across, noting the high metal fencing and barbed wire on either side. Although relations between Thailand and Myanmar are mostly cordial, there are occasional disagreements. A few years ago Myanmar let loose on Mae Sai with some artillery, and the Thais returned the favor. But today the border was open.

On the Burmese side, I had to declare each city I planned to visit. If I didn’t include a city, I wouldn’t be allowed to travel there. Since there were only 3 permissible cities in this part of Myanmar, this was not a difficult task.

I was photographed and issued a 14-day visa card, with permission to go as far north as Kengtung. My passport was confiscated, to be picked up when I returned to the border to leave Myanmar.

As if being without a passport wasn’t bad enough, the bus company took my visa when I boarded to go to Kengtung. I felt naked. They also took the ID cards of all the other passengers (I was the only foreigner) and kept them in a little booklet at the front of the bus. Soon, I understood why.

Each time we stopped at a military checkpoint, the soldiers would look through the booklet of IDs (and stamp my visa). My journey was being thoroughly documented. If I go from point A to point D, I had better show time stamps for points B and C or face some serious questioning.

At one of the checkpoints, my eyebrows shot up. Soldiers with machine guns I can understand, but a number of these serious fellows were holding bazookas. The only purpose of such a weapon is to blow a vehicle up into a thousand charred, flaming metal pieces. Sure, we were traveling through the heart of opium territory in what’s known as the Golden Triangle, but the fact that they had these out and about instead of in a back room somewhere was telling.

Five hours and numerous checkpoints later, the city of Kengtung. It’s a trip through mountainous terrain that only four years ago, before the small road was built, would have taken one week. My visa (with all its new stamps) was returned to me, only to be surrendered again half an hour later at my hotel. The authorities required that it be brought to them and stamped each night. No sneaking out and sleeping anywhere other than where I was supposed to be.

Ah, and now I was here. Kengtung. The most remote city in one of the most remote countries in the world.

Time to explore.

The Ghost Ship of Huay Xai

I woke up at dawn (thank you, roosters, I’ll see you at lunch) in the small border town of Huay Xai on the Mekong, and decided to go on a walk before crossing the river into Thailand.

I was climbing a random sandy and grassy hill to get a better shot of the river and some of the boats on it, when I did a double-take. Above me, lodged in the grass and previously hidden from view by a hill, was a marooned boat.

Creepy, but very cool.

Help Me Caption This Image 2

There were some great caption suggestions for the first image, so it’s time for round two.

Help me write a clever or funny caption for this image (via comments):

Christmas in the Third World

Ho, ho, ho!

Merry Christmas from a land where it doesn’t snow, where there are no pine trees, where reindeer would crash through the straw roof and into the cooking fire below, and where Santa Claus would sweat off those extra 50 lbs. in his belly in no time. Not surprisingly, they don’t really celebrate Christmas here. The birth of Christ is not a big event in Buddhism.

If you’re in a giving mood (and I know you are), the first thing you should do is send me a present. I’ve been mostly bad, but in a good way. Hehe.

After this most important act, consider a small donation to an international charity.

Millions and millions of people around the globe earn less than $1 a day. If you’ll recall from a previous post, even an educated elementary school teacher in Cambodia only makes $20 a month.

In countries where there is war, oppression or simply even very bad weather, hundreds of thousands are sick or starving. Men, women and children. We’ve all heard it on the news, seen the images. But these are not abstract concepts. They’re real people, real children.

It is not up to governments to solve this. Governments are political and bureaucratic. Government aid (usually too late) most often goes to the governments of the countries where there are problems, and more often than not those governments are the problem, not the solution. I’ve seen places where government food aid went right to the military, instead of to the people for whom it was intended.

If you want to help, give to a charity that gives directly to the people. One that bypasses governments, bypasses bureaucrats, and simply goes out and helps those directly in need.

My favorite charity is Catholic Relief Services. They work directly on the ground, behind the scenes, and get things done. They don’t go around from disaster area to disaster area in convoys of brand-new $50,000 white SUVs like the UN and many other well-known relief organizations do (an arrogant and senseless waste of money that never ceases to amaze me). Instead, they just go and feed people and provide medical care.

If you want to make a donation, you can do so here. Even a small amount will make a difference.

Or give to the international relief charity of your choice.

We are incredibly fortunate to have the wealth and prosperity that we do, and Christmas Day is a perfect opportunity to reach out and help those in need.

Merry Christmas!

Motorbike Muddle

When I rented the motorbike in Luang Nam Tha, I knew the gods of mountain bikes would get back at me for forsaking them.

I rented what looked to me like the fastest thing they had on two wheels. Fully automatic, sleek, heavy, and geared to rip down mountain roads to my heart’s delight. I so do like going fast.

It all started off pretty well. Pretty little villages, gorgeous scenery, the wind in my hair (and occasional bug in my eye). I ventured far and wide to explore the hilly northern Lao countryside.

And then, in the middle of absolutely nowhere, it stopped. The bike turned off, and would not start again. Cursing didn’t help, pleading didn’t work, and neither did tapping my heels three times while saying “there’s no place like Luang Nam Tha.” Nope. I was stuck in the mid-day sun on a deserted dirt road amongst hilly fields.

[Expletive]

So I took off my helmet and started pushing. Not only was the bike heavy, but it didn’t roll naturally—there was some kind of internal resistance to forward movement. Double the effort to move the blasted thing.

I walked. And walked. And walked. My shirt drenched in sweat, and my face getting redder by the minute, a combination of the hot sun, exertion and general aggravation.

After several miles, I entered a small village. Tried to do the universal sign language for mechanic (you know, acting like you’re tightening a bolt.) Pointed to the bike. No luck.

Tried to get someone to call the number of the place that rented it to me. It was right there on a sticker above the wheel. More sign language to mimic making a phone call. Nope.

Kept walking. A policeman on a motorbike stopped by, and I explained the situation to him. He said his phone was out of batteries, and he left, never to be seen or heard from again.

Got passed by dozens of folks on motorbikes, or in cars, or in pickups. No one stopped, although some looked at me curiously. Maybe they thought I liked to take a casual stroll with a motorbike in hand. Figured I was on a romantic afternoon date with my lovely mechanical friend, and they didn’t want to ruin the mood. Yep, me and my motorbike are off to the hills to go watch the sunset together, clearly still at the hand-holding stage. Taking things slow. I’m sure it happens all the time. Pfff. Whatever the reason, zero offers to help.

After God knows how long or how far, I finally ambled past a mechanic’s shop. Several other motorbikes were out and in various stages of disassembly and repair. Salvation!

Alas, not quite. They poked around for 30 seconds then explained that they didn’t have the tools to fix an automatic. Too complicated. Blasted bike.

But thankfully, they did have a phone. I was told someone would be there in 10 minutes to bring a new bike. An hour later, we called again, and the lady told me someone would be there in 10 minutes. Haha. I was tempted to call again 5 minutes later to see if it would still be 10 minutes. You know, to check for consistency.

I figure it’s my karma for being lazy and not renting a mountain bike instead. Ah well, one way or the other, I got my exercise for the day.

Mastery at 106 Hours

After the post where I’d counted 66 hours of cumulative bus travel on the trip in the first 3 weeks, I decided to make some serious changes in order to preserve my sanity (or whatever amount of it I still have left, which depends on who you ask.)

Throughout my life, I’ve always avoided reading in the car, despite being an avid reader. I tried it a few times when I was younger, only to suddenly feel like my last meal and all the meals I’d eaten in the past lunar cycle were knocking on my esophagus in mass protest and demanding out. I’d get pale, clammy, and thoroughly nauseated. Half an hour of uncomfortable burping later, some semblance of normalcy might return. I therefore abandoned this pursuit of wheel-bound literacy, and this policy has served my stomach and I well over the years.

No longer. Things had to change. I’d been spending way too much time staring vacantly out of bus windows being totally unproductive. I resolved, therefore, to start reading on the bus. Bus rides may be the bane of travel, but reading is fun, and I figured the two would quite nicely cancel each other out, with perhaps a little edge to the reading, depending on the book.

I admit, it took some training. The first few times I tried it, I’d have to stop after 20 minutes, fix my eyes on a stable spot in the landscape ahead, and breathe deeply for several minutes lest I horrify my neighbor with a visual repatriation of my last meal. But slowly, persistently, the length of time I could read before I had to pull an emergency breathing maneuver got longer and longer. Discipline, practice.

I’ve piled on an additional 40 hours of bus travel since those first 66, for a grand total of 106 hours, putting my reading plan into practice the whole way.

Yesterday, I achieved what I consider Jedi-level bus reading status, and this is how I know.

The four-hour bus ride through the mountains was exceptionally rough. Our driver, a reincarnated kamikaze pilot, gunned the bus through weaving roads, ups and downs, hairpin turns, steep switchbacks, and potholed, crater-ridden sections like he was training for the rally car championship. And, as far as I could tell, the bus had no suspension (or it broke or went on strike after the first couple of miles).

About half an hour into the ride, the first passenger vomited. Deep, loud retching into a plastic bag. Truly, this man was reaching all the way into his intestines for material. Not long after, another passenger lost it. More sounds (and smells) of regurgitative agony. Then a kid joined the chorus. A little higher pitch, to be sure, but unmistakable nonetheless. A few other ashen-faced passengers looked on the edge.

Yet despite all this, I kept reading. Jedi-level, I tell you.

On the Chinese Border at Muang Sing

The old, raspy rooster woke me at the crack of dawn before wheezing off to, I’m certain, chain-smoke another pack of cheap Chinese cigarettes.

In the small northern town of Muang Sing, I rented a mountain bike and rode through the early morning fog up to the Chinese border. Nothing to see, really, and I was not allowed to cross, but amusing all the same.

Muang Sing used to house the largest opium market in all of Asia before successful crop substitutions and crackdowns largely put an end to it in the last ten years or so. But the addiction rate in this province is supposedly still one of the highest in the world.

A few images from Muang Sing and around:

Yogurt with Fruit and Muesli

One of my favorite travel breakfasts is yogurt with fruit and Muesli. Not only is it tasty and refreshing, but it’s healthy: a good mix of nutrients and the yogurt is a great way to keep the stomach healthy while traveling.

It’s been quite amusing to see how vastly different the servings are from country to country.

In the Philippines, I got served a ton of yogurt, a little fruit, and Muesli that could only barely be described as such. Make it more like small corn flakes with the occasional rare sighting of a flake of oatmeal, the discovery of which approached the significance of an archaeological treasure hunt. Even when I specifically asked for more “Muesli,” the rarity of the sightings did not change. Maybe they dropped in one extra flake of oatmeal, hard to tell.

In Cambodia, the problem was reversed. Decent amount of fruit, a very generous amount of Muesli (yay!), but a very sparse covering of yogurt. By the end of it I would consider myself lucky if I had a lump of coagulated oatmeal held together somewhat miraculously by tiny little globs of yogurt. More often than not I was practically eating raw dry oatmeal. Even when I doubled the yogurt portion (at extra cost, of course), it was still an altogether dry affair.

In Laos, all the proportions were mostly correct. Right amount of fruit (including mangoes, yum!), almost the right amount of yogurt, and the right amount of “Muesli,” although in this case that translated to straight-up dried oatmeal. But look at the picture: what in the world is up with the purple yogurt?! Even the taste was jarring. Who wants artificial berry-something-or-other yogurt when it’s on top of fresh mango, pineapple, apple and banana? Sacrilege!

My quest for the perfect yogurt with fruit and Muesli continues.