Jake Morgan - Kutundu
Back in Yangon.
The Singapore airlines flight out of Auckland was absolutely jam-packed full, and for the first time I am offered big cash incentives and upgrades for choosing to fly the following day, but had no choice except to decline – I was meeting Brett the following afternoon before he headed off to Bhutan.
It was a strange feeling landing on the tarmac at Yangon. When I left about 5 years ago, the circumstances of my departure from IFC / Paul Strachan were such that I never really expected to be coming back and it was with that feeling in my mind that I had taken off. It is perhaps some small measure of justice that while I have returned, Paul is now persona-non-grata in Myanmar. The grapevine has it that he’ll be arrested if he does.
Still no jet-ways here, I clamber down some rickety metal steps into the blinding sunshine, some seriously over-weight hand luggage cutting into my shoulder and onto one of a series of clapped-out buses that ferry us to the terminal. Memories start coming back, quick - a seat near the door, first off and straight into the immigration lines.
Inside has been revamped somewhat, the old wooden counters replaced by gleaming formica, and the desks where one would have to change the obligatory US$200 into FEC (Foreign Exchange Certificates) have disappeared. Amusingly there is still only one luggage conveyer belt though and a small one at that, so people crowd round it 5 deep. While I queue to get my passport stamped a petite Burmese woman scans the crowds and calls out my name – apparently she has been sent by “Mr – ah, Britt” to smooth my path through the formalities. A dozen times through here before, occasionally with somewhat questionable luggage (satellite phone, anyone?), yet I have never previously needed a babysitter. I find the whole incident quite amusing and content myself to stand back and admire the scrum while she scurries forth to look for my luggage. Ironically my case is the last off the plane, and by the time that we have made a report in triplicate to the airline rep that the suitcase handle did not survive the journey, I am the last foreigner in the building. So much for expediting my passage.
Burmese words unused in half a decade spring unprompted from my lips – “kanahli, kanahli, car shiday” to a porter who makes to head off with my bags to a nearby taxi. Slow down, wait a moment, I have a car.
Rangoon is, to borrow a phrase from the Thai’s, “same same but different”. It looks and smells the same at first impression. If anything there is increased bustle and the traffic seems worse, although more of the cars seem older. Construction seems to have largely stopped while I have been away, and in a sense it’s nice that there are few obviously new large concrete tower-blocks. But several of those there are seem to have suffered from lack of investment and maintenance, and the harsh tropical climate beginning to make it’s presence felt.
We grind into town, many Burmese drivers seemingly content to let the car strain away in 3rd or 4th rather than change down a gear. I fondly recall days when I would buzz about town in a decrepit bright green VW beetle. Questionable brakes, an inoperable fuel gauge (had to make enforced emergency fuel stops more than once), and my Burmese ‘driving license’ in the glove box – A 500 kyat (pr. ‘chat’) note. Worth about 50c, but I never needed it. Don’t think I’d get away with it these days though.
A shiny double-cab hilux bounces past, an army vehicle with a couple of soldiers perched in the pick-up tray. Looking slightly menacing with it’s tinted windows, it’s one of the newest cars on the road. Reminders of where we are, passing by government controlled compounds behind wire fences and high walls with gun-ports set into them at regular intervals. It’s a different kind of defensive paranoia than piling concrete barricades around London’s houses of parliament.
A day or 2 later, and I’m out as dusk is falling. A thick cloud of dust and fumes hangs heavy on the air; far, far worse than I ever recall. People I ask about this explain that an import license to bring in a new car can cost US$50,000 (just for the license – as a consequence, any newer cars you do see tend to be top of the range landcruisers or pajeros). So old cars are patched up and kept going well past their use-by date, belching out thick exhaust from tired, out-of-date engines. Battered 15 year old vehicles can command as much as US$25,000 to buy. Most taxis make my somewhat tinny corolla back in Auckland feel like it has the build quality of a lexus by comparison, and many have a particular trick to getting the doors open – get in one side only, or push the door frame upwards while pushing out – that kind of thing. Air-conditioning? Yes, sort of. Many of the windows don’t work or the winders have fallen off. Presumably they find a way to close them for the monsoon season.
Back to that import license business. I’m told that recently all of the customs officers were arrested on charges of corruption. Since this was often the only practicable way to go about getting things brought in, the resulting chaos has meant that for the last few months, very little has actually been making it’s way across the borders, and containers with untold quantities of goods sit awaiting clearance. The country reportedly ran out of tonic water for an extended period and I’m told that the Strand Hotel took to sending a staff member to Bangkok to fly back with 20kg worth. Conventional wisdom dictates that if you see something you need for sale, buy it – don’t think about it and maybe come back tomorrow, because it won’t be there.
It’s that kind of place.
Days pass at the office, trying to get my head around the 1001 things all taking place simultaneously, and equate them to a lodge in a place I haven’t been to yet. Steve, the Spa Manager, asks if we need a toaster? ‘A toaster??’ laughs Edwin (departing Manager) “you think you have bread..??!!” A foretaste of things to come.
We’re out for a small drinks and canapés event in the bar at the Strand Hotel, a gathering of friends, clients and customers of Brett and Omar’s – a thank you for their support with the Ballooning business over the years, and an introduction to the new team heading North. Brett reminds me of how happy I used to get, to come to Happy Hour at the Strand on a Friday night on returning to town after months upriver. A tiny expat circle to them made for a heady whirl of new faces and people to talk to for me – helped along by several rum sours.
The evening runs on, and we are invited back to a restaurant owned by one of the guests. When the alarm shrieks into existence at 4.30 the following morning it is with somewhat leaden head that I drag myself out of bed and heave my bags down to the lobby.
The logistics of getting supplies and equipment up to the lodge necessitate that those flying up take as much as possible up with them, and boxes upon boxes accompany us. Edwin has been through this many times and has a ‘man’ at the airport. He takes our stuff and weighs it – 200kg excess, but by the time he reports this to the check-in clerk, mysteriously it has shrunk to only 120kg. Edwin then steps in, wheedling, arguing, and creating confusion. Somehow when it has all been concluded, we have agreed to leave one box behind for the office to come and pick up and send later, and have paid excess fees for only 10kg. I try not to dwell on how many of the other passengers are pulling similar strings.
The trip upcountry is a 3 stage journey, and as the plane lifts off from the tarmac at Rangoon the sun is just rising. We stop at Mandalay and deplane to stand around in the shadow of the aircraft, as the sun is by now by now bright and getting fierce. Next stop is Myitkyina, where once agin we are turfed off to ‘stretch our legs’. It is very much a provincial airport, with a soldier sat on the edge of the concrete airstrip – perched on a tall chair, rifle across his lap and a look of complete disinterest on his face. We pay more attention to the fact that all the luggage and freight is being unloaded and repacked, keeping a close eye that all of our bags and boxes make it back on to the plane. We have been warned that the baggage handlers at Myitkyina are often ‘tipped’ to make sure certain bits of cargo make it onto the flight. Obviously they haven’t received any money for freight or bags from Rangoon, and the Rangoon porters are a long way away. It is quite common for passengers and belongings to become separated at this point.
The flight is delayed for an hour due to low cloud or mist at Putao and we have full opportunity to watch the plane being refueled barely feet away from where we stand. Edwin takes a chance to speak to someone he knows about trying to get a lorry engine block added to the manifest. Apparently it belongs to a lodge vehicle and has been away for repairs. There is a collective sigh of relief when he fails in his endeavour.
We fly into Putao, a brown and dusty valley for this is the dry season, but ringed with enormous hills, and further, snow capped mountains. As we land and step out onto the tarmac, the sense of removal from the outside world is compelling. The icy peaks before us form the border with India. As the crow flies barely 30 miles away, but immensely difficult traveling, through heavy bush and jungle, over hills, ridges and valleys.
We move into the ‘terminal’, a ramshackle building with tin roofing and Chinese style adornments, white-washed walls. We start immigration procedures for this is a sensitive area still, and special permission must be sought well in advance of traveling. As we do so, the plane turns on the runway, and starts taxiing to leave. Baggage that has just been unloaded still sits on the runway, among it a large bunch of flowers that we have witnessed carefully nurtured up throughout the journey. As the prop-wash catches the pile of bags, they spin chaotically, end over end among a flurry of petals and dust across the tarmac….
The Singapore airlines flight out of Auckland was absolutely jam-packed full, and for the first time I am offered big cash incentives and upgrades for choosing to fly the following day, but had no choice except to decline – I was meeting Brett the following afternoon before he headed off to Bhutan.
It was a strange feeling landing on the tarmac at Yangon. When I left about 5 years ago, the circumstances of my departure from IFC / Paul Strachan were such that I never really expected to be coming back and it was with that feeling in my mind that I had taken off. It is perhaps some small measure of justice that while I have returned, Paul is now persona-non-grata in Myanmar. The grapevine has it that he’ll be arrested if he does.
Still no jet-ways here, I clamber down some rickety metal steps into the blinding sunshine, some seriously over-weight hand luggage cutting into my shoulder and onto one of a series of clapped-out buses that ferry us to the terminal. Memories start coming back, quick - a seat near the door, first off and straight into the immigration lines.
Inside has been revamped somewhat, the old wooden counters replaced by gleaming formica, and the desks where one would have to change the obligatory US$200 into FEC (Foreign Exchange Certificates) have disappeared. Amusingly there is still only one luggage conveyer belt though and a small one at that, so people crowd round it 5 deep. While I queue to get my passport stamped a petite Burmese woman scans the crowds and calls out my name – apparently she has been sent by “Mr – ah, Britt” to smooth my path through the formalities. A dozen times through here before, occasionally with somewhat questionable luggage (satellite phone, anyone?), yet I have never previously needed a babysitter. I find the whole incident quite amusing and content myself to stand back and admire the scrum while she scurries forth to look for my luggage. Ironically my case is the last off the plane, and by the time that we have made a report in triplicate to the airline rep that the suitcase handle did not survive the journey, I am the last foreigner in the building. So much for expediting my passage.
Burmese words unused in half a decade spring unprompted from my lips – “kanahli, kanahli, car shiday” to a porter who makes to head off with my bags to a nearby taxi. Slow down, wait a moment, I have a car.
Rangoon is, to borrow a phrase from the Thai’s, “same same but different”. It looks and smells the same at first impression. If anything there is increased bustle and the traffic seems worse, although more of the cars seem older. Construction seems to have largely stopped while I have been away, and in a sense it’s nice that there are few obviously new large concrete tower-blocks. But several of those there are seem to have suffered from lack of investment and maintenance, and the harsh tropical climate beginning to make it’s presence felt.
We grind into town, many Burmese drivers seemingly content to let the car strain away in 3rd or 4th rather than change down a gear. I fondly recall days when I would buzz about town in a decrepit bright green VW beetle. Questionable brakes, an inoperable fuel gauge (had to make enforced emergency fuel stops more than once), and my Burmese ‘driving license’ in the glove box – A 500 kyat (pr. ‘chat’) note. Worth about 50c, but I never needed it. Don’t think I’d get away with it these days though.
A shiny double-cab hilux bounces past, an army vehicle with a couple of soldiers perched in the pick-up tray. Looking slightly menacing with it’s tinted windows, it’s one of the newest cars on the road. Reminders of where we are, passing by government controlled compounds behind wire fences and high walls with gun-ports set into them at regular intervals. It’s a different kind of defensive paranoia than piling concrete barricades around London’s houses of parliament.
A day or 2 later, and I’m out as dusk is falling. A thick cloud of dust and fumes hangs heavy on the air; far, far worse than I ever recall. People I ask about this explain that an import license to bring in a new car can cost US$50,000 (just for the license – as a consequence, any newer cars you do see tend to be top of the range landcruisers or pajeros). So old cars are patched up and kept going well past their use-by date, belching out thick exhaust from tired, out-of-date engines. Battered 15 year old vehicles can command as much as US$25,000 to buy. Most taxis make my somewhat tinny corolla back in Auckland feel like it has the build quality of a lexus by comparison, and many have a particular trick to getting the doors open – get in one side only, or push the door frame upwards while pushing out – that kind of thing. Air-conditioning? Yes, sort of. Many of the windows don’t work or the winders have fallen off. Presumably they find a way to close them for the monsoon season.
Back to that import license business. I’m told that recently all of the customs officers were arrested on charges of corruption. Since this was often the only practicable way to go about getting things brought in, the resulting chaos has meant that for the last few months, very little has actually been making it’s way across the borders, and containers with untold quantities of goods sit awaiting clearance. The country reportedly ran out of tonic water for an extended period and I’m told that the Strand Hotel took to sending a staff member to Bangkok to fly back with 20kg worth. Conventional wisdom dictates that if you see something you need for sale, buy it – don’t think about it and maybe come back tomorrow, because it won’t be there.
It’s that kind of place.
Days pass at the office, trying to get my head around the 1001 things all taking place simultaneously, and equate them to a lodge in a place I haven’t been to yet. Steve, the Spa Manager, asks if we need a toaster? ‘A toaster??’ laughs Edwin (departing Manager) “you think you have bread..??!!” A foretaste of things to come.
We’re out for a small drinks and canapés event in the bar at the Strand Hotel, a gathering of friends, clients and customers of Brett and Omar’s – a thank you for their support with the Ballooning business over the years, and an introduction to the new team heading North. Brett reminds me of how happy I used to get, to come to Happy Hour at the Strand on a Friday night on returning to town after months upriver. A tiny expat circle to them made for a heady whirl of new faces and people to talk to for me – helped along by several rum sours.
The evening runs on, and we are invited back to a restaurant owned by one of the guests. When the alarm shrieks into existence at 4.30 the following morning it is with somewhat leaden head that I drag myself out of bed and heave my bags down to the lobby.
The logistics of getting supplies and equipment up to the lodge necessitate that those flying up take as much as possible up with them, and boxes upon boxes accompany us. Edwin has been through this many times and has a ‘man’ at the airport. He takes our stuff and weighs it – 200kg excess, but by the time he reports this to the check-in clerk, mysteriously it has shrunk to only 120kg. Edwin then steps in, wheedling, arguing, and creating confusion. Somehow when it has all been concluded, we have agreed to leave one box behind for the office to come and pick up and send later, and have paid excess fees for only 10kg. I try not to dwell on how many of the other passengers are pulling similar strings.
The trip upcountry is a 3 stage journey, and as the plane lifts off from the tarmac at Rangoon the sun is just rising. We stop at Mandalay and deplane to stand around in the shadow of the aircraft, as the sun is by now by now bright and getting fierce. Next stop is Myitkyina, where once agin we are turfed off to ‘stretch our legs’. It is very much a provincial airport, with a soldier sat on the edge of the concrete airstrip – perched on a tall chair, rifle across his lap and a look of complete disinterest on his face. We pay more attention to the fact that all the luggage and freight is being unloaded and repacked, keeping a close eye that all of our bags and boxes make it back on to the plane. We have been warned that the baggage handlers at Myitkyina are often ‘tipped’ to make sure certain bits of cargo make it onto the flight. Obviously they haven’t received any money for freight or bags from Rangoon, and the Rangoon porters are a long way away. It is quite common for passengers and belongings to become separated at this point.
The flight is delayed for an hour due to low cloud or mist at Putao and we have full opportunity to watch the plane being refueled barely feet away from where we stand. Edwin takes a chance to speak to someone he knows about trying to get a lorry engine block added to the manifest. Apparently it belongs to a lodge vehicle and has been away for repairs. There is a collective sigh of relief when he fails in his endeavour.
We fly into Putao, a brown and dusty valley for this is the dry season, but ringed with enormous hills, and further, snow capped mountains. As we land and step out onto the tarmac, the sense of removal from the outside world is compelling. The icy peaks before us form the border with India. As the crow flies barely 30 miles away, but immensely difficult traveling, through heavy bush and jungle, over hills, ridges and valleys.
We move into the ‘terminal’, a ramshackle building with tin roofing and Chinese style adornments, white-washed walls. We start immigration procedures for this is a sensitive area still, and special permission must be sought well in advance of traveling. As we do so, the plane turns on the runway, and starts taxiing to leave. Baggage that has just been unloaded still sits on the runway, among it a large bunch of flowers that we have witnessed carefully nurtured up throughout the journey. As the prop-wash catches the pile of bags, they spin chaotically, end over end among a flurry of petals and dust across the tarmac….
posted by Mike J. Stark @ 8:00 am
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