Footloose Scot

by Jim Glendinning

  BURMA

  Many of the tourists on the flight from Bangkok to Rangoon in 1987 carried a bottle of whisky. We had all read the guidebook which advised that a bottle of Johnny Walker would work wonders if a bureaucratic problem arose. Thailand was an efficient country with a robust economy visited by millions of tourists annually. Burma was backward, rundown and controlled by a military junta. Most tourists avoided it out of concerns for their safety or comfort, others as a refusal to condone the military regime.

  I wanted to see the gentle people described by Orwell and Kipling, who wrote, "This is Burma. It is quite unlike any place you know about." This was why I was lining up with my bottle of whisky at Burmese Immigration. We waited an hour to get out of the ill-lit airport terminal, and then took a bus into town. As we bumped along the uneven streets we caught a glimpse of a soaring illuminated gold stupa, the Shwedagon pagoda, which would be the first site I would visit the next day. The bus dropped off a few people at hotels where they had made reservations and finally stopped at the YMCA where the remaining passengers unrolled their sleeping bags on the floor of the gymnasium. It was too late to go looking for rooms.

  The next morning I roamed the streets of Yangong, the name which replaced the old colonial name of Rangoon when the country became independent from Britain in 1948. I noticed old British cars like a Hillman Minx, long out of production, parked on the street. Street vendors sold individual cheroots to smoke, and had a smoldering length of rope from which to light your purchase. A tailor's shop advertised: Tip Top Tailors for "Gentlemen's suitings and shirtings," a quaint reminder of the past.

  The Shwedagon pagoda, 2,500 years old and 325 feet in height, is the oldest Buddhist shrine in the world, and home to the relics of four Buddhas. The overwhelming gold color, sparkling in the sunshine, comes from real gold plates. The bell-shaped stupa rises 325 feet and is decorated with thousands of diamonds, rubies and sapphires. Approaching by a walkway filled with vendors, the visitor removes his shoes before entering. Overwhelmed by the magnificence of the building and the awe reflected by the ordinary Burmese visiting the temple, I was surprised when two novice monks approached. They wanted to test their simple English on me. We passed a few minutes in happy, childlike communication, a simple human sharing amid the other-worldly magnificence of the pagoda.

  In contrast to the gleaming spire of the pagoda, many of the larger modern buildings in the city center needed repair. Even the historic old hotel, The Strand, needed attention to its paintwork. There were plenty of townspeople on the sidewalks and crammed into minibuses. They were slightly built with graceful features. The men wore a sarong, called longyi in Burma, and the women, many made up with a yellow/white paste on their faces and sometimes arms, had unexpected elegance and grace in the poor surroundings. All were polite and helpful.

  I headed north for 445 miles to Mandalay, sitting in a reserved seat in an old steam train. Mandalay is Myanmar's second largest city and the economic hub of northern Burma. I was more interested in romantic Mandalay as described by Kipling, who wrote: "On the road to Mandalay/ where the flyin-fishes play/ and the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the bay." His evocative language of the British soldier has a fine ring, but the exact references to flying fish and dawn shouldn't be taken literally.

  Outside the train station in Mandalay a rickshaw driver whisked me off to a guest house catering to foreigners. In Burma I just paid what was asked, sometimes just extending my hand with coins in it since I somehow trusted the Burmese. Compared to Thailand I never felt at risk in Burma, where the people seemed much more innocent in their isolation. In the early evening I climbed 800 feet to the top of Mandalay Hill, from which I could see the walls of the Mandalay Palace, destroyed by fire, home of the royal dynasty which ruled Burma until the British arrived. In the foreground I could see the Irrawaddy River, which I would embark on the next day, and in the distance a flat, fertile landscape.

  Early the following morning I boarded a river ferry which would take us downstream. A number of young tourists from Germany, New Zealand and France occupied the upper deck, sitting in chairs where they were served lunch; local Burmese passengers lay in hammocks on the lower deck and ate food they had brought with them. The boat stopped at riverside villages and women would display fruits and cooked meats for passengers to buy, shouting out their appeal. We arrived early evening in Bagan, the jewel in the crown of Burmese tourist attractions.

  The place where we disembarked was a dusty village, with some cafes and guest houses for foreigners. The reason for their interest was close by: over two thousand stupas stretched out over sixteen square miles of plain. Of different architectural styles and sizes, they had been built during the 11th through the 13th centuries, when Bagan was the capital until the arrival of the Mongols in 1287. Prior to 1975 there were more than five thousand stupas, but an earthquake in that year demolished about half of them.

  I rented a bike and spent a morning cycling around the temples nearest to the village, exploring inside and climbing up to the top of some of them. There were large structures of many different styles. I sat alone up high on one of the temples and looked out across the distance to many more, as far as the eye could see, a vast outdoor museum. It was a silent and serene scene, soothing and peaceful. I fell asleep until some voices in German woke me.

  Back in the village I checked in, as required, at the police station where they registered my passport number. I rented a small wooden boat and paddled out on the Irrawaddy to take a sunset shot of a ox cart loading barrels of water from the river. I ate meals and hung out with other backpackers, and met a pretty and vibrant young woman from San Francisco, Karen Sass. She had interest in and passion for the Burmese and seemed the epitome of the best sort of budget backpacker, enquiring and sympathetic. I would meet her a few years later at an Adventure Travel show in San Francisco, and take a camel safari with her some years after in Northern Kenya. On another occasion, in Barcelona, I checked into a hotel which I had asked her to book for me. On arrival I opened the window for a view and saw a piece of paper dangling on a string - a playful note from Sassy, as she is called, telling me she was installed in the room directly above.

  On my last day in Bagan there was a commotion in the main street. The villagers had come out of their homes and were watching a procession. In front were dancers and mimers indicating this was a joyful occasion. Behind these entertainers followed a group of silent, solemn monks in yellow robes and in the center of these, mounted on a horse, a young boy of maybe ten years, elaborately dressed with a crown on his head. He was about to be initiated into the Buddhist priesthood as a novice monk. Nowhere was the influence of Buddhism in the daily lives of the Burmese more clear to me than in this simple local event.

  NEPAL

  From Burma, I flew to Nepal. This landlocked Himalayan kingdom is wedged between India and Tibet. In the 60s it was the end of the Hippie Trail but twenty years later it had attracted other kinds of tourists, particularly trekkers. It is home to some of the world's highest mountains (Everest, Annapurna, Kanchenjunga), and treks to or near these peaks had become an important part of Nepal's tourism business.

  I picked the Annapurna Trail, a 128-mile trek around the Annapurna massif claimed by some as the best long-distance trail in the world. It promised to be doable but challenging. I just had to keep going to 18 days and have the energy to climb to 17,769 feet at the Thorung La Pass, the highest point of this trek which winds round Annapurna peak (26,245 feet). In 1950 two French climbers, Herzog and Lachanel, summited Annapurna, at that time the highest peak in the world to be climbed. Near the summit Herzog dropped his gloves and on the descent the climbers had to bivouac overnight in a crevasse. Both climbers lost all of their toes and Herzog most of his fingers through frostbite. Herzog later wrote a best selling account, Annapurna.

  Trekkers require a permit. At the office in Kathmandu which issues the permits I met a New Zealand girl, somewhat overweight but enthusiastic, who also planned
to do the Annapurna Trail. We agreed to meet the next morning at the bus station to catch a bus to Dumre. In Dumre, we climbed on the back of a truck where a Swedish girl and two Canadian guys were already sitting among backpacks. Our ad hoc trekking group was now five persons, and we would stay together for the next eight days.

  We got off the truck at a place called Besisahar where the trail started. We were following a well-trodden trade route, moving from jungle to terraced rice fields to canyons with pine trees and finally within sight of Annapurna, always upwards. We didn't need a guide, and we chose to carry our own bags. At the end of each day there would be a village, always with a choice of guest houses.

  Arriving at a guest house, we would put our hands together and say Namaste ("Hello"). The local people, weathered and wiry, would smile at our greeting and later pose for photos. We would eat in the warm kitchen where a fire always seemed to be burning; we might choose a Western dish like an omelet or something local like dahl (lentils) or a vegetable curry. After eating and using the outdoor toilet, we would unroll our sleeping bags in a snug loft, heated from below by the warmth from the kitchen.

  From time to time we would cross a suspension bridge over a raging stream. Sometimes we would be overtaken by a Nepali porter, carrying huge loads supported by a strap across his forehead. Porters are the only means of bringing supplies to the villages. After a week or so, we reached a plateau. Here the terrain was bare, the trail steeper and rockier. Ahead we could see a mighty flank of Annapurna with snow at the higher elevations and glaciers reaching down to the valley we were following. At the village of Manang, we spent two nights getting used to the altitude. The next stage would be over the Thorung La pass (17,769 feet).

  I had gone ahead of my group so I was on my own when I reached a large hut at Thorung Pedi, just below the pass. This was a miserable place, run by a lazy, slow-witted guardian. Or maybe he was high. The dining room was dirty and the dormitory room, where there was no fire, freezing. A large group from Italy occupied many of the bunks. Most people were feeling the altitude, and everyone was tired from the last section of trail. I took a top bunk with very little space between the bed and the ceiling and slept badly.

  The Italians, who had two guides, asked if I wanted to join them. They said they would leave at 3 a.m. I thanked them, and said no. I reckoned to give them three hours start, and follow on my own when it got light. I wanted to do this part on my own and I didn't anticipate any problem keeping to a trail which had been a main trade route for centuries. At daybreak the next morning, I left the hut, and followed a steep winding trail up to the pass.

  A few hours later, just as the trail leveled out, I found I was obscured in cloud with snow starting to fall. I followed the footsteps of the Italians for a little while, but then the snow obscured them. Visibility dropped, and it was getting colder. It didn't take me long to decide that I wasn't going to make the pass on my own. I had not anticipated bad weather and had made a mistake by not joining the Italians and leaving earlier. They would have cleared the pass before the clouds came down and the snow started to fall.

  This was no time for heroics. I saw the possibility of frost bite or worse if I hung around. I was disappointed, but not particularly so. I had simply been unlucky with the weather, and now a new plan was needed. So I turned around and headed back down to the hut. I was already making an alternative plan. I would not wait for my group to arrive and go over the pass with them. I would head back down the trail and find a village called Manang where I had heard there was air service to Kathmandu, cutting short the Annapurna trek.

  I got lucky. There was a flight to Kathmandu scheduled for the next day. Two local women, an Austrian trekker with altitude sickness, and I waited for the plane the next morning. It arrived suddenly and dropped down quickly on to the short paved runway. It was a Royal Nepal Airlines six-passenger Pilatus plane, specially designed for mountain flying. We took off equally quickly, bounced around as we gained altitude then leveled out. To the right I could see the whole length of the mighty mountain range, and far below tiny ribbons which were the trails we had used. In one hour and twenty minutes we left the mountain range and dropped down to Kathmandu airport - a trip that had taken 8 days on foot. I hadn't completed the Annapurna circuit, but I'd had a good hike with agreeable companions.

  A few days later, in my guest house in Kathmandu, I saw a sign: "Jerry Brown from USA is in the city jail and would appreciate guests." I bought an English-language paper to give Jerry, and got admitted to the barracks-like city jail. I was escorted to the visitors' area, a space outside a large window of the cell block. Looking out from the window, jostling for space and trying to make themselves heard were the prisoners who had visitors. I shouted American, and someone went off and came back with a young fair-haired guy. This was Jerry. He seemed composed, and not particularly surprised or pleased to have a visitor.

  Amid the babble of all the other people shouting messages across he told me why he was inside. He had tried to mail some hashish to his girlfriend in the States, and the package had been intercepted. He had put his name and guest house address on the outside of the package. He had not yet been tried since the judiciary was on strike. He seemed remarkably calm about things.

  He said conditions were primitive, but he could cope. The other prisoners were friendly. All prisoners could walk around inside the jail since there were no individual cells. They slept on mattresses on the floor. The food, which had to be purchased, was cheap and he had some money. I handed the newspaper to a guard who passed it on to Jerry. He suddenly went from being matter of fact to extremely grateful. I asked him what he needed. He said chocolate bars for himself, and cigarettes to trade. I said I would come back in two days.

  Later, taking a bus from Kathmandu, I headed south and west towards the plains and jungle on the Indian border. I was heading for the Royal Chitwan National Park, 60 miles south in the subtropical lowlands. On the bus from Kathmandu I met an English girl, also going the same way. We got off the bus, and found a bullock cart to take us to the park entrance. The driver let me take the reins and steer the cart while he sat in the back and smoked a cigarette. The weather was hot and sticky.

  The next day I saw what I had come to see. Hiding behind a tree, I was less than twenty paces from a one-horned white rhino, one of the star attractions of this excellent game reserve. It was having its morning lunch, tearing leaves off a bush, and paid no attention to the few tourists. There was something very, very old about this animal. The ponderous bulk of it (it is the 3rd largest land mammal) and its long protruding horn and wide snout commanded attention. It was placidly feeding, ignoring a stupid Israeli tourist who was trying to goad it into a reaction until a park guide came along and shouted at the tourist. There was something humbling about observing such a prehistoric animal performing such a mundane task.

  Leaving the well-travelled trekking routes, I spent a couple of days in the foothills near Ghorka. This town gives it name to the Ghurkas, Nepali soldiers trained to fight as professional soldiers in the British and Indian armies. Famous for their kukri knife, a sort of semi-curved small machete very well sharpened, they enjoy a world wide reputation as fierce fighters.

  My encounter with a retired Ghurka soldier was anything but fierce. An elderly man was sitting on a chair outside of his house in Ghorka as I walked by. He waved me over, and asked "Where are you putting up for the night?" His face was lined, and he looked frail. But he still had a military bearing: upright posture, hair brushed back, trimmed mustache, direct eye contact. He was anxious to know I was not lost and had a place to stay. I said I planned to camp out when I found a safe spot. He nodded. I told him my uncle had been in the Indian Army and he told me something of the campaigns he had fought in.

  TIBET

  1987 was a good year to visit Tibet. Access from Nepal was possible and visas were easily obtainable from the Chinese embassy in Kathmandu. There was regular bus service from the Nepal/China border to Lhasa. This route was mu
ch shorter than travelling overland from Beijing.

  But when I crossed into China from Nepal I found no bus. There had been a landslide, and this meant two hours of walking across a boulder-strewn mountain slope to where the road resumed. The bus, nothing luxurious, was waiting there, the driver smoking a cigarette. We were about fifteen passengers, including a handful of Western tourists and a couple of military officers; the rest were local people.

  We drove for three days at elevations from 12,000 to 16,000 feet across a barren landscape. Snow-capped mountains lined the horizon; in the foreground the land was rocky and barren. It was late spring, but there was no sign of life in the countryside we passed through. We passed through occasional non-descript towns, sometimes stopping for fuel or for a meal in a restaurant. Traffic was light, mainly trucks, army vehicles and a few cars. When we broke down, the driver fixed the problem.

  We stopped one night at the town of Gyantse; I started to climb up a hill to visit the fortress overlooking the town, but a pack of wild dogs caused me to reconsider.

  We duly arrived in Lhasa, where the excitement in the bus among the local Tibetans became palpable. When we got the first glimpse of Potala Palace which dominated the city, they gasped and pointed with excitement. They were pilgrims.

  I had read Seven Years in Tibet, written in the 1950s by Heinrich Harrer, and carried a Lonely Planet guidebook so I had some idea of the previous history of Tibet and what to expect. Lhasa, "Land of Gods" (the population is half a million and increasing because of Han Chinese immigration), is spread along a high valley. The initial impression was of a Chinese city with long, straight streets with featureless modern buildings. The old city, where the Tibetans live, was elsewhere. We passed a dentist with his chair out in the street, treating a patient. We tourists all headed to the Flying Dragon guest house, which was geared for westerners.