A real holiday

Claire woke with a start as a bucket of pond water was hurled in through the train window, utterly drenching her yet again. This was Thingyan, an enormous water fight held across Myanmar which preceeds the Burmese New Year.

Decrepid and slow moving trains with open windows were an obvious and easy target. The novelty of being hosed down by a 5 year old each time the train approached a level crossing had begun to wear off after around 10 minutes. Now, having clocked up a further 33 hours of travel, we were struggling to enjoy ourselves as much as everyone else in the flooded carriage seemed to be.

In an apparent gesture of contempt for the economy and all who prioritise it above important things like holidays and drum and bass music, the entire country shuts down for 8 whole days to run about with water pistols and dance to gigantic PA systems on every street corner. Shops shut, taxis refuse to go anywhere, all bus services are suspended and it’s almost impossible to travel by any other means than the very slow and extremely sodden railway. The whole thing makes Brixton Splash seem like a nice cup of tea with your gran.

It hadn’t started like this though. We’d arrived in Mandalay and been greeted by immense Burmese hospitality without any question of getting wet. It was wonderful to be in a city that we could cycle across without fear of immediate death, the need to bargain over absolutely everything seemed to have been left in India, and the staff at our hotel were possibly the most helpful people we’d met in our lives. I’d even developed a taste for the ubiquitous fermented mustard leaves that were served with every meal. We loved Myanmar and we wondered when something would go wrong.

Things got unnerving when we asked our hotel to book us bus tickets to a hill station called Kalaw. Ever keen to be on the tail of the British colonists, we’d heard they’d flocked there in the summer to escape the heat.

The ‘bus’ turned out to be a luxury air conditioned minibus that picked us up from our hotel door. Not only was it not full of dead chickens and babies being sick, but we were the only people on it. We had our own door to door taxi service for a price which didn’t even cover the petrol. We hated it. Where was everyone? It was lonely and quiet and a complete waste of space that in India would have accommodated several extended families and most of their furniture.

It took some time to put our finger on the difference between Myanmar and India. In the end it seemed to come down to a less voracious ambition and hurtling pace of development that we’d been used to. Where as the majority of India is building something, dealing in something, working their fingers to the bone or searching for the next big business idea, in Myanmar the people we met seemed to be genuinely happier and more relaxed about achieving the next big thing. After all, why spend your time squeezing the last rupee out of every deal when you could be dancing to drum and bass in the street?

Still, we never worked out who paid for the bus ride.

The road to Mandalay

Our journey began in Delhi. Leaving behind the comforts of Gurgaon, we were heading east on our last Indian train adventure. The Rajdhani express would deposit us in Guwahati, Assam where we would head more south, more east before we hit the only India/Myanmar land border crossing.

My feelings on leaving India were mixed. WhiIst I would not miss the supermodel attitudes of Delhi auto wallahs (they wont start their engine for less than 80 rupees), we were saying goodbye to a chaos we knew not to try to understand; friends and food we loved.

Whilst we had read plenty about the ‘wild’ north eastern states which required special permission to visit until last year, nothing prepared us for this new side of India.

Stepping off the train in Guwahati felt like arriving in a new country altogether. Everything seemed different. Peoples faces and the clothes they wore, a lack of jostling outside the station and pavements that were walkable. The promenade along the Bramaputra river felt like a stroll along the Danube in Belgrade.

Intrigued, we prepped ourself for the 16 hour bus ride through Assam, Nagaland and finally Manipur state from where we’d make our final dash to the Myanmar border. Whilst much of the North East has experienced improved security in recent years, guerilla armies still hold significant sway in the region, collecting informal ‘taxes’ from shop keepers and vehicles on the road. As the raggardy bus pulled out of Guwahati we knew we were in for an uncomfy trip. Throughout the long night, we stopped at many military check points, with the occasional visit from soldiers aboard the bus holding Ak47s that looked older than me. We chugged through dense flat forests and mountains covered in sprawling jungle. It felt like a scene out of that 1980s classic movie ‘Romancing the Stone’, when would the baddies jump out from the jungle? Just after dawn we stopped in a small mountain village in Nagaland. Watching our breath in the cold, the locals wandered in and out of basic mud, bamboo or corrigated iron homes in flipflops. Clearly the descendents of the feared Nagaland headhunters were pretty chilled out.

We were exhausted and glad to reach the capital of Manipur, Imphal, and even more delighted to have an invitation to dinner from the chatty mariner sat in front of us on the bus.

Captain Robin picked us up later in the day and took us first to the allied forces WW2 cemetary. Putting aside our frustrations with colonial history (the last 8 months have arguably been a tour of ‘how not to do it’), both Ed and I felt genuinely moved. Buried here were 1600 men, aged mostly under 30 who died fighting the Japanese over Burma. I can only imagine how terrifying it must have been, the physical and mental toll of close-quarters jungle warfare. So far away from home in such an foreign place.

After a blessing at Robins local temple, we enjoyed a hearty Manipuri dinner (again, so different from the Indian food we know) and then said our goodbyes, desperately in need in sleep ahead of our final journey to the border town of Moreh.

The next morning Captain Robin and his wife kindly drove us to the taxi rank and we pitched in a van with two other guys. Following more army checkpoints, searches and chai stops than seemed necessary, we finally arrived in Moreh and would with a bit of luck cross into Myanmar the next day.

…….

“No stamp, no entry”. Having cleared up some initial confusion about the mandatory Myanmar permits we had had delivered to the Myanmar border post, there was a new problem. Having cheerily waved goodbye to the gun toting border guards of India and traversed on foot across the ‘Friendship bridge’ to Myanmar, it appeared the Indian customs office was closed for a holiday and we were going nowhere without an exit stamp. Leaving our bags with the Myanmar police, we caught a lift back to India and pleaded with the guards who seemed pleased to see us again. They understood our predicament but hadn’t thought to stop us crossing the border in the first place. Instructed on a wild goose chase to find an alternative authority to stamp us out of India, an hour later we found ourselves in the backyard of the Customs Officer’s house. Happy to stamp us out and nonplussed that no baggage checks could be carried out, we trekked our way back to the border and hurrah were allowed into Myanmar!! The Burmese Customs Officer, having warmed to us, called his brother to give us a lift into town and we pitched up in Tamu.

Only 2 miles from India, this place felt so different. Why was it so quiet? Why did everything feel so much calmer? After a very cheerful lunch with a Nepali Gurkha family, we climbed aboard for our final bus journey, the last leg to Mandalay.

The long way home

“But do you really want to spend your 31st birthday on a train to Ulan Bator?” I asked Claire. This was one of the many considerations to be made during our homeward trip planning. Before leaving London we’d both agreed we’d take a flight from India home, but at the back of our minds I think we wondered if by the time we arrived in India we’d have further over-land travel enthusiasm left in us.

It turns out we do – although perhaps not quite as much as we did 6 months ago – and so after some tepid encouragement from Bart Smith (Trans Siberian train veteran 2014) we began planning how to embark on this 6 day minimum train-trek from Beijing to Moscow. “Take plenty of back episodes of Desert Island Disks on your mp3 player,” was Bart’s advice, “most of the scenery is just birch trees”.

We immediately uncovered a nightmare tangle of bureaucracy and visa rules. “You can’t get a Russian visa without having a Belarus one first” was some of the advice we were given, and later, “We need to see your Russian visa in order to give you a Belarus one.” We also need permits to cross from India to Myanmar overland, “confirmed” flight tickets to get a visa for Myanmar and we’ve had to shell out for all the train tickets before we’re sure we can get any of these visas because that’s a requirement for a Russian transit visa!

So, barring visa refusals, wars and large changes of heart that tell us we should just grow up and get jobs, we’re setting off home next month. ETA in the UK is early June, unless Claire carries out her threat to stop for two weeks in France to eat cheese.

A new kind of humdrum

This is is our first blog in aaages, apologies for the gap, we just didn’t think anyone would like to read about us lounging on the beach or adventuring with erstwhile friends.

We’ve actually been very busy and its not all been parties. The small matter of crossing the length of the Indian subcontinent to obtain a new India visa in Nepal… and back again in time to make a friends wedding in south India was shockingly difficult. The hardest travelling we have done so far in fact. That’s the lesson you need to learn when you think you’ve got it down. Fact: you are not in control. Understanding the process does not means it makes sense!

So. India is where we will stay until beginning of April. And then…well more of that in another blog.

Quick rundown: After we first arrived in India 3 months ago, we camped at chez Halbe, Delhi, for 1 week where we bathed every day and had a w-a-s-h-I-n-g machine. T’was bliss. After that we moseyed down the west coast for some (in our opinion) much deserved beach time. A quick stop in Bangalore to meet up with old mates and crash a wedding, we then welcomed the smitsmutlers for a Christmas break in Kerela. After some excellent fun in the jungle we spent 2 weeks travelling to and from Nepal for a new tourist visa, to happily arrive back in south India 45 minutes before the wedding of banglites Vinita and Nikhil. Where Lo and behold, Louise Maddy turned up for some tea and poori, closely followed by a visit from the resident fetid of China (ed). Fast forward a week and here we are, in Bangalore, where we shall stay for the next few weeks to welcome a visit from mumma Driffield. Having never travelled outside Europe before and not an avid curry fun, this visit is very special and much anticipated.

So there..we’ve not been idle! As we think about the next steps, we’ve also reflected on why the hell we decided to do this overland journey and if we can do it again… The jury is out.

Strolling to India

Pakistani hospitality continued to within yards of the Indian border. Our rickshaw driver stopped and waited whilst the border guards gave us tea. Then we strolled through the arena where the Wagah border closing ceremony would be held to much cheering, bravado and blaring Bollywood tunes that evening. Now though, all was quiet and serene.

We were stopped at the immigration desk and asked if we wanted to buy Indian rupees at a terrible rate. We did. 5 minutes later when we naively declared all our cash at Indian customs we were told bringing rupees into the country was illegal and we’d be heavily fined. We’d fallen for the first scam India had to offer.

Happily the customs officer took pity on us (or perhaps decided we didn’t have enough cash to bother demanding any) and after some careful ‘corrections’ to our customs form we were waved through.

Forcing our way through a melee of taxi drivers all vying for our attention, we made it out on to the Amritsar road where we flagged down a cycle rickshaw driver who agreed to take us to the nearest bus stop for 20 rupees and a handful of Lays crisps.

So that was it. Three and a half months of buses, trains, trucks and rusty cargo ships and we’d made it from Dalston Junction to India.

In my mind’s eye I’d imagined coming back to India would be like putting on an old, comfy pair of slippers. ‘You’re practically Indian’ my roommates in Bangalore had told me a few years ago as I ate rice with my fingers and did the head-wobble. Now though, I was most definitely foreign and jittery and wondered if I’d been naive to think I’d ever been otherwise.

In Delhi 24 hours later, having become recipients of the immense hospitality of my old friend Prashant, his flat-mates and cook, and holding glasses of ‘Old Monk’, such concerns were melting away. If re-acclimatisation came with hot showers, delectable food and full mugs, it wouldn’t matter if it took some time, we decided.

Sufi Night

In search of dervishes, we spent our last night in Pakistan at a Sufi shrine in Lahore.

Billed in our guidebook as “one of the wildest trips you’ve ever been on”, Sufi Night is held in the courtyard of a shrine containing a few hundred jostling people and an enormous cloud of hash smoke. Initial proceedings however, were more reminiscent of closing time at the Ministry of Sound than a night of mysticism.

A couple of glazed-eyed blokes wobbled about on the ‘dance floor’, vigorously defending it against anyone who had the audacity to try any of their own wobbling. A pair of Government of Pakistan officials, apparently tasked with crowd control, played good cop bad cop. One used a stick to thrash anyone who dared place a hand or foot over an invisible line that marked the dance floor, whilst the other rescued foreign-looking people and gave us somewhere to sit out of stick-reach.

Like many spaces we’ve encountered on our travels that seem at first to have a finite capacity, the courtyard of the shine admitted an unlimited number of people. As the crowd and the smoke cloud grew denser, the hypnotic beat of the dhol drums grew more urgent and before we knew it the floor was occupied not by stoned amateurs, but by real, live dervishes with long hair, bells around their ankles and cloaks which floated about them as they whirled.

I’d always understood that ballet dancers stop themselves from getting dizzy by keeping their eyes fixed on a point as they spin, only moving their head around when they have to. These guys don’t bother. They spin in a blur with arms outstretched and hair flying, far faster than naturally possible. One look would have persuaded Billy Elliot to stick to boxing.

Occasionally two or more dervishes would spin simultaneously for minutes at a time before all stopping dead still and bolt upright at the same instant as though on a que from some subtle change of drum beat indiscernable to the untrained observer.

After what seemed like 15 minutes but turned out to be two hours, we were beckoned out by the guy who had brought us. “They’ll turn the power off in 5 minutes and it’s difficult to get out in the dark” he said. Forcing our way out through the dense crowd, we were inclined to agree it was a good time for bed.

Out of the mountains and into the smog

I’d always considered roads to be permanent structures. They get built, are maintained occasionally and then they stay where they are, I’d thought.

Not so the Karakoram Highway. This hairbreadth scratch across the crash site of two continental plates is a constant engineering battle. The pristine, smooth, Chinese-built surface lasts until a glacier casually reaches down and takes a half mile chunk out of it. Or a landslide and resulting flood obliterates 20 kilometers at a time. Or boulders hurtle down the mountain side and smash craters into it.

The route changes on an almost yearly basis as bridges are built over newly silted-up valleys and tunnels are blown through the rock in an immense struggle to bring some permanence in the constantly shifting terrain.

We spent 19 days with the KKH and were sad, relieved and exhilarated when it finally deposited us on the plains of Punjab. We travelled from Karimabad to Gilgit and on to Abbottabad – famous for playing host to Bin Laden during his final years, although the locals seem sceptical about the American side of the story. (Claire is convinced she saw him alive and well in a chai shop). The 15 hour bus journey out of the mountains was punctuated by numerous stops at security check points and at one point a police convoy.

We’ve now swapped cold, clean air and nights spent wearing all our clothes for warmth, mosquitoes and the smog of the megacity. Our first rickshaw ride on the sub-continent brought back all the smells, noise and hair-raising dodgem-driving that we’d come to know in India several years ago.

The streets of Lahore ooze glorious chaos and our almost-forgotten love affair with the subcontinent is back on.

Days like these

On arrival in Karimabad, we quickly settled into a daily routine that closely resembled the tv show ‘Friends’. Every morning we’d show up at the Hunza cafe, drink coffee and hang out with our new mates; Ali, Noor, Philip, Hayden and Timo. In the afternoons we’d split up for our own adventures, only to reconvene over a channa daal and biryani a little later. Ali and Noor, excitable wedding photographers from Karachi and Hayden and Timo, extreme paragliders from Switzerland provided excellent entertainment and plenty of Hunza ‘water’.

It turns out that home brewed mulberry liquor (aka hunza water) is a winter staple in the Upper valley, cited by locals as a necessity to keep warm in the cold winter months. Whilst it was chilly enough in Karimabad but perhaps not cold enough to justify some special brew, luckily there was a suspiciously high number of birthdays or celebrations to merit the odd drop.

Whilst the height of the Muharram festival raved in Ganesh village in the valley below, we spent many happy days in Karimabad, warmed heart and soul by the lovely people we met and the amazing mountain and autumn views (check out flickr for OTT photos of autumn trees).

I don’t think I will ever forget the day Hayden paraglided over Karimabad – all we could hear was the whole town roaring. Families stood on their roofs and hundreds of children mobbed him as he landed in the fields below.

10 days later than planned, with heavy hearts we waved goodbye to Karimabad and headed to Gilgit, our jumping off point to next and final journey on the Karakoram Highway.

Heavenly Hunza

We have been in pakistan for 2 weeks and during this time we have only travelled 50km or so. The reason; Hunza valley is simply stunning, the people unbelievably friendly – we couldn’t tear ourselves away any sooner.

On arrival in Gulmit, we were placed under the wing of 2 new friends, Zahir and Mahboob Ali. With them, we took in the local town, trekked over glaciers and up to glacial lakes. Making up for a 2 month milk tea deficit, we drank lots of chai and dived into our first daal. Each time we ventured out, invariably we were invited into a strangers home for chai and chapatti or our pockets were stuffed with home-grown apples, apricots or walnuts.

Whilst everyone we met urged us to come back in spring to see the blossom (and attend the odd wedding we were invited to), the autumn colours were stunning enough for us.

In upper Hunza, most people are ismali, a sect of shia islam, led by current spiritual leader, Aga Khan. Every 10 years Aga Khan sets a community plan, presently prioritising health and education improvement. We were impressed to find local college graduates working in the internet cafe as e-marketeers (with a very slow satellite connection mind) and so many schools and colleges for a community of 2000 people. I was personally relieved to find the attitude towards women quite relaxed; ismali women are uncovered, present on the streets and chatty.

4 years ago, Upper Hunza valley was devastated by a landslide which blocked the Hunza river and slowly flooded the valley, claiming vast areas of fertile land, homes and businesses. Today, the town of Gulmit stands 250 metres above where the central bazaar was. The valley floor is caked with millions of tonnes of sediment/sand. Lake Attabad is slowly receding, but 4 years on, access to Upper Hunza exists only via perilous boat. A chinese-built tunnel will open next year, connecting china to Pakistan by road once again. In Gulmit, hopes are high that trade and tourists will return.

After 5 days, we bid goodbye to Gulmit (4 nights sleeping in hat/coat/scarf combo was all we could take) and headed down the valley to Karimabad, crossing Attabad lake on a calm, sunny day. Our boat was relatively unoccupied, save the odd motorbike and tree. As we passed other boats carrying small trucks parked crossways, stacked so high and heavy the water lapped the rim, we were glad to walk the plank onto dry land and squish into a Suzuki heading for Karimabad.

To Pakistan the back way

Unsure whether or not we’d be the only people stupid enough to be crossing into Pakistan via the Khunjerab Pass, we were relieved to be joined at customs by 20-odd loud and boisterous English speaking Pakistani traders. Watching the somewhat authoritarian Chinese border guards trying to organise them into lines to check their passports must have been where the expression ‘herding cats’ came from.

After about an hour of frenetic activity during which all manner of Chinese wares were stuffed into every spare crevice on the bus, we were allowed to board it and set off. We realised we needed to shift to Indian sub-continent mentality when we discovered that there were no seats on the bus; only bunks and that our designated ones were already filled with other people and their considerable luggage. We squeezed in and the shower of Pakistani hospitality commenced. Bunches of grapes were handed out, cigarettes were lit up in abundance and cans of Chinese Red Bull were forced upon us. We tried to share out our unappetising peanuts in return but were too embarrassed to reveal the stale bread and processed cheese we’d also packed.

We made friends with 24 year old Amir, a trader of semi-precious gems from Hunza who caught this bus backwards and forwards from Pakistan twice a week. He told us how Bengal tigers roamed the pass (we think he meant snow leopards) and told us of his suspiciousness of any Pakistani person from outside his home valley.

At the top of the Khunjerab Pass at 4730m above sea level, we were told to get out of the bus into the bitter cold to be counted and have our passports checked again by the Chinese army. This was presumably in case anyone had entered or left the bus whilst it was moving and under armed guard. The well regimented lines of people were, we suspected, the last we’d be seeing for some time.

After a 3 three hour descent through narrow, shear-sided gorges, occasionally glimpsing towering white pinnacles of rock thousands of feet above, we arrived at Pakistani customs in Sost.

The passport desk was a scrum with shouts and passports waved above heads. We were stamped in within minutes and were told we were welcome to Pakistan. Unsure whether there was any more to the procedure or not, we were already surrounded by a throng of shouting taxi drivers. Trying to brush them off, we bumped into a man who announced ‘I am the customs officer. Are these your bags? You are free to go’ without pausing for breath. We thanked him and were rescued by Amir.

Amir helped us change money and organised us seats on a minibus down the valley. He then insisted on unhurriedly buying us tea and introducing his friends whilst the over-full minibus waited for us.

A late miss-hap saw us mistakenly get off the minibus 15km short of our hotel and have to hitch the rest of the way in a truck with only two working gears. Intricately decorated and with a top speed of about jogging pace, the truck was up to the challenge when the excellent Chinese-built road abruptly turned into a river bed and then a river.

Despite some hair-raising manoeuvres past oncoming trucks mid-river and much grinding of gears, we were delivered safe and sound and very ready for curry to Hotel Continental, Gulmit.