A night at the monastery

Pardon the long outage; we've been roaming around inner Flores, Indonesia, where the internet connections are too slow to upload photos. So, back to the hike from Hsipaw to Namhsan ...

On days two and three, we learned how lucky we'd been on day one. It started raining the morning the second day, and it really didn't stop for the rest of the hike.

Mist clung to the mountains until midday.

Motorbikes put chains on their tires to navigate the treacherous muddy sloughs.

When we arrived for our second overnight, our guide discovered the friend he planned to stay with had gone to Mandalay for business. We would have to bunk down at the local monastery instead. Our guide was rather downcast, since he wouldn't be able to drink, but Chad and I were delighted.

We were shown into the large central room at the monastery.  Other than a wooden cabinet for plates and silverware, and some sleeping mats and blankets in one corner, there was no furniture. In the now-familiar Burmese style, there was a fire in the floor at one end of the room. Monks, nuns and travelers drifted in and out, plunking down by the coals to chat, drink tea and get warm. The high mountain location and the constant rain made the air quite chilly.

The monastery cat liked to lounge around by the fire looking outrageously comfortable. As the coals burned down she moved in closer and closer until she was in danger of singeing her fur.

The nuns spread the dinner dishes out on mats on the floor. It was marvelous food: in the front of the photo you can see some shredded local squash, with a simple tofu and herb soup, some wedges of omelet, and a bowl of greens behind. The tastiest dish looked like mashed hard-boiled egg yolks, with a vinegary-sharp taste and a rich, velvety texture. It turned out to be the liquid and bits of solids leftover from the tofu-making process, fermented and spiced with a bit of chili, onion and garlic.

Chad and our guide departed for the men's building, where they watched some World Cup before retiring. I slept on a mat in the big room next to the elderly Mother Superior; we went right to bed at 8:30.

The long (long) walk

Our half-day hike was only a warmup for the main event: a three-day trek from Hsipaw to Namhsan, up in the mountains of the Shan Plateau. We were told the first day would be the toughest, and that was no lie!

The path was quite good -- a lumber road bulldozed by the Chinese to get timber out of the hills faster. It rose at a comfortable rate and rarely turned downward, so you didn't lose any of your hard-earned elevation.We hiked through agricultural land for a good couple of hours before we started to see any untouched forest. The landscapes could have been from 200 years ago ...

and so could the farming implements. 

You can sort of see our guide in the back. He was a chatty guy with a wry sense of humor; he kept joking that we were lost, and honestly, I'm still not sure that we weren't sometimes. He was also a heavy drinker who clearly had a hard time going long without alcohol, which would be a problem for him when we had to stay at a monastery later on.

After about four hours we stopped at a little roadside place for a bowl of Shan noodles, the signature Shan hilltribe dish. In Yangon, Mandalay and even Hsipaw you can find many a bowl of limp, packaged Shan noodles with instant broth. But this was the real thing: chewy, substatial handmade noodles like the ones we'd seen drying the day before, in a real chicken soup with fresh herbs. On the side were tasty chili sauce and some pungent pickled mustard greens.

You coudln't ask for better hiking food ... or food in general, really.

After lunch the road got steeper for quite a while. We were so spoiled for amazing mountain views that I hardly bothered to take photos of them. As I grew tired, my mind wandered in random directions and I spent long stretches trying to remember lyrics to long-lost tunes like "Gonna Lay Down My Old Guitar."

I was pretty excited to get to the village before nightfall. We'd been hiking since 8 a.m., and in our guide's estimation, had covered more than 20k (13 miles).

We stayed at a typical village house, a big wooden structure with one large room and a couple of small side rooms. In the middle of the big room was a fire on a metal grate -- the most wonderful fire I've ever seen, because I could throw off my pack, sit right down in front of it and enjoy the sensation of doing absolutely nothing.. The owner of the house then put on the most wonderful kettle I've ever seen. Since it was a tea-growing village, he grabbed a handful of fresh tea leaves, roasted them quickly over the flames on a dry pan, and brewed them up strong and smoky like Lapsang Souchong. Normally I don't drink caffeine that late but this time I had no worries. Even though we bedded down right on the floor on thin mats, I slept like the dead -- or at least the dead-tired.

Hsipaw: Sitting on top of the world

Hsipaw is an adorable town a few hours east of Mandalay, down a narrow, winding, ill-repaired road lined with the bodies of buses that didn't quite make it.

Downtown is pretty sleepy, with a row of cheap tourist restaurants in front and a local market behind.

Tourists come to Hsipaw to hike, and that's what we did, starting with a half-day stroll to some nearby Shan hilltribe towns.

On our way out we paused for a delicious look at handmade noodles being hung out to dry.

We also got up close and personal with water buffalo.

Every town had a stupa, and these were surprisingly large and opulent considering the overall poverty. They also seemed to be renovated frequently. This one had a Buddha on top of a somewhat idiosyncratic globe: New Zealand was only a word without a landmass, and Laos and Cambodia were missing altogether.

"Why is the Buddha on top of a globe?" I asked our guide.

"Maybe this is after he's taken over the world," he answered.

"But does the Buddha want to take over the world?"

"Who knows?" he said with a mischievous grin.

The brave men of Mandalay

To my disappointment, the Nylon Hotel was not made of nylon.

Our room boasted excellent views of the city, which we earned with our legs -- it was about 7,000 stairs up from the lobby. The electricity was an on-again, off-again affair, as it is in most of Myanmar. But the front-desk people were quite friendly and the location, across from the city's only ice cream parlor, was highly strategic.

Our first night there, we went downtown to see the Moustache Brothers, Mandalay's most famous comedy troupe. The Brothers offer a vaudeville-style mashup of jokes and musical numbers. They used to do their shtick in Burmese, but now they are only allowed to offer it in English before handfuls of foreigners in a converted garage. They boost their income by selling traditional puppets, which line the wall behind the stage.

Lu Maw (above) is the best English-speaker of the group, so he runs the show. His classically-trained wife does most of the traditional dances.

But the emotional heart of the evening is Par Par Lay, who has served three prison terms, including hard labor. His first arrest was for mocking the regime. The most recent was for leading opposition party members in offering donations to monks after the crackdown on the Monks' Uprising of 2007.

He doesn't do much talking in the show, but you can sense right away why Par Par Lay is one of the country's most beloved comedians. He has an irresistible radiance. When he comes on stage, you don't want to look at anyone else.

I've met a few famous people, mostly politicians -- but shaking Par Par Lay's hand was truly an honor. I can't imagine the courage it takes to laugh in the face of the Myanmar regime. It's something I can only aspire to have.

Yangon to Mandalay: The cold bus

Back when I was in Russia in the late 80s, whenever you were leaving on a trip somewhere and it happened to be raining, someone was sure to say lugubriously: "Zee SKY is CRYING because you are LEAFING." If that's the case, Myanmar must have been very unhappy to see us coming, because when we arrived that first morning inYangon it rained all day. We went straight from the airport to the bus station, and there we sat, from early morning until late afternoon, watching the rain fall on the buses, the muddy parking lot, and a stack of Max soft drinks.

The nice lady who sold us the tickets got us settled in the bus station restaurant. "What kind of food would you like?" she asked, and when we said "Myanmar food" she said "Oh, thank you!" with a huge smile. The restaurant people stuffed us with curries. Then a kitten attacked Chad's sneakers. They probably deserved it.

The TV was advertising a fascinating lineup of ancient American movies, from "For a Few Dollars More" to a Doris Day-Rock Hudson flick. I stared sleepily at the screen for hours, listening to a Burmese audio phrasebook I'd downloaded from the Defense Language Institute. It was full of useful phrases like "Stop or I'll shoot!" and "Please don't push, there are enough food parcels for everyone."

There are two rules governing bus travel in Myanmar. First, long-distance buses leave in the afternoon and reach their destination at 4 a.m. I have no idea why, but that's how it is. Second, the Yangon-Mandalay bus is FREEZING COLD. Other travelers have confirmed this. I begged a blanket off the bus driver, but the insanely overchilled air from the ceiling vents cut right through it. I went through the 7 stages of extremely cold bus passengers: anger, disbelief, uncontrollable shivering, (fruitless) complaints to the driver, homicidal impulses, crying jag, and finally, surrender. With my fleece hiking hat pulled down over my ears, my wool sweater pulled up over my face, and the help of a knockout pill (Indonesia's Panadol PM, world's greatest cold medicine!), I finally managed to get some sleep.

Everyone had to get off the bus at 1 a.m. to show their i.d. at a police checkpoint. I tried to get outraged about this government intrusion, but mostly I was happy for the chance to restore some circulation to my toes.

And when I woke up again, we were there: Mandalay!

Myanmar? Burma? Burma? Myanmar?

The first question that arises when you consider visiting the country west of Thailand is: what the heck do I call this place? Myanmar is the name given to it by the junta who have ruled it with an iron fist since 1988. On the other hand, Burma is the colonial label stuck on it by the British, a corruption of the name of the ethnic-majority Bamar, and therefore not really ideal either.

The second question is: should I go? Activists have promoted a tourism boycott against The Country That Shall Not Be Named since the mid-90s, spurred by statements from resistance hero Aung San Suu Kyi, who argued tourism profited the oppressive regime and encouraged it to create tourist destinations using forced labor. But there has been a steady push against the boycott by activists who argue that it hurts ordinary residents and further isolates the country.

Young nuns, near Hsipaw

Here's why I decided to go:

In recent years the government has loosened its grip on the hospitality industry. There are more private guesthouses to stay in so you aren't renting directly from the regime. Furthermore, tourists are no longer required to buy $200 in currency directly from the government when they arrive. In fact, we never changed money at an official exchange office, or even SAW an official exchange office.

Suu Kyi herself has recently been quoted as softening her position on tourism, although the statement is apocryphal since it comes via an unnamed source.

But mostly, I just think it's enlightening to see the place you live in through someone else's eyes. When I was growing up in Northern Virginia, I was always baffled by the hordes of tour buses lining up in front of Mount Vernon Plantation. To me, it was just that big house up the road. The history books said it was important because George Washington once lived there, but what really proved its significance to me was the large numbers of people willing to brave sticky summer heat, sunburn, mosquitoes and $5 Cokes just to go look at the place.

Conversely, when I moved to an old paper mill town in northern New Hampshire, I was amazed at how the local people viewed their hometown. I thought - and still think - it was one of the prettiest places I'd ever been: a valley bisected by a tumbling river and framed by three mountain ranges. People born and raised there, though, mostly saw a struggling mill, a decrepit downtown and a shrinking population. They were surprised anyone wanted to come see the place, never mind move there.

Thus, tourism itself, for all its flaws, carries an important message: this place is on the map. It's beautiful, exotic, interesting. People will put up with hardships (in Burma, significant hardships) just to come see it. It counteracts the isolation imposed by repressive regimes and buttresses people's sense that their country deserves better.

Statue, Bagan Historical Area

It's true I don't feel great about certain taxes and fees going to the government. On the other hand, I wasn't thrilled when I discovered my US tax dollars were funding secret torture facilities, either. The world is full of horrors and it's hard to keep your hands completely clean.

I didn't have one of those dramatic moments you're supposed to have in a place like Burma -- you know, grasping someone's hand and murmuring "One day you shall be free! The whole world is watching!" Instead, I raved about the food, told people they had beautiful babies, gawked at amazing temples, shared in the hideous discomforts of local transportation, practiced English with those who wanted to, spent money at small local businesses, and laughed at the occasional political joke. And now I'm going to tell you all about it.

Is that enough? Maybe. I think so. I hope so.

Dadlands: The thirteenth month

Tuy Hoa is where my Dad reached the end of his Vietnam tour.

I’m finished!!!!!! I’m so happy and relieved I’m going to burst with joy. It’s so great to be alive! -- August 5, 1968, Tuy Hoa

Apparently, it's common for soldiers in a war zone to grow increasingly anxious about the possibility of death as the end of their tour approaches. That's what happened to my Dad. He expected to get the traditional soft assignment to Bangkok for his last couple of weeks. Instead he got sent back into the thick of things.

I was so darned scared and pessimistic when I found out I was coming here rather than Bangkok. The easiest part of it was the flying. The hardest part was thinking about flying. I couldn’t think of being with you and the kids without thinking of the awful pain if I didn’t come back.

The North Vietnamese have been getting more and bigger guns. Small arms never worried me but the anti-aircraft weapons they are using are too much for a C-130. And when you are landing or making a drop you are really vulnerable.

 Statue of a Viet Cong soldier taking a downed US Air Force pilot prisoner, DMZ Museum, Quang Tri

He went on to tell my Mom all the stuff he had hidden from her over the previous 13 months: stories of friends shot down or nearly shot down, and the tale of his own brush with disaster at a small airstrip called Prek Klok. His C-130, carrying 24,000 pounds of high explosives, was ambushed with mortars and gunfire just after landing. Somehow he reversed all the way down the runway toward the incoming mortars and took off again.

When we backed up we created so much dust that we couldn’t see how far we had moved. The airplane feels real strange when you’re backing up at 40 or 50 knots. We stopped and it was evident there still wasn’t enough room so we backed up again. This time it was OK so we poured the power on and I wasn’t sure until we got to 60 knots that we were going to make it. We knocked over a slender pole right at the end of the runway (it shouldn’t have been there anyway) and used every darn inch of it.

The whole crew got the Distinguished Flying Cross. Mom and all of us kids went to see Dad get his medal in Washington after his return. I've seen the family photos from that day, but until I read his description of the ambush I didn't really know what he had been honored for.

Reading the letters has been a great, if bittersweet, experience. My Mom's letters to him are a corker too, full of great period details like the time her mother took my older sisters out to "see the hippies" on Boston Common.

So, the moral of the story is: SAVE YOUR LETTERS, and archive your e-mail and blogs too. You never know who might find them interesting, even after you're gone. These letters survived only because one of those sisters of mine made a point of putting them in a safe place after Dad died.

Also, I'm very lucky to have a guy who lets me drag him to backwater towns, crummy hotels and deserted airfields just because my father happened to be there 40 years ago. The Dadlands Tour 2010 would not have happened without Chad, who sometimes supported it more ardently than I did.