Panjim and Old Goa

“Everything that happens once can never happen again.  But everything that happens twice will surely happen a third time” (The Alchemist).  There wasn’t an alternative, so we again boarded the Paolo’s Travel Bus for the overnight trip to Panjim.  If things were bad 60 hours ago, they were worse now.  We settled for seats with little legroom, enclosed by metal bars.  The door didn’t close properly, so it felt like a birdcage in a roaring wind tunnel.  This time, it was 40 rupees extra “security fee” for bags in the storage hold.  After one of the toilet stops, many passengers came back with ½ inch-long thorns piercing their flip-flops – a gift from the roadside bush.

The small Goan capitol was still asleep at 6 in the morning, but the warmly lit Christmas stars on all the chapels and old homes were a welcome sight.  By 8 AM, we had done a couple of laps around the narrow streets of Sao Tome and Fontainhas, the small neighborhoods replete with white-washed chapels and the yellows, blues, and maroons of the old Portuguese buildings.  So close to the New Year, many of the small guesthouses were full, but near the end, we scored with a big bright top floor room with sunny terrace, for a not bad 800 rupees (little over $15).

Many of the locals were named Jose, Luis, or Claudio.  It still felt like Christmas, with decorations and Nativity scenes fronting many homes.  The streets were great for strolls and free of cattle and their remains.  Some cars actually stopped to let you pass.  In contrast to most of India, wine and drink shops flourished Kingfisher beer was served at every establishment.  A particular specialty was feni, local distillate from coconut juice or cashew nuts -- the latter was better neat.  Several casino boats operated from the riverfront, attracting Indian tourists looking for a party.  We found a few nice restaurants that left us wanting more Kingfish curry rice and chicken biryani.  And I must definitely look up recipes for Chicken Cafriel (mint and coriander marinade) and Chicken Xacuti (spicy Goan coconut curry) and Chanok Recheado (Red masala stuffed Snook).     

In nearby Old Goa, much of the former grand colonial port had faded, but the 16^th and 17^th century religious edifices couldn’t be more atmospheric.  The dome of St. Cajetan and the façade of the Se Cathedral left me with appreciation of what they achieved 400 years ago.  The Basilica of Bom Jesus displayed the remains of St. Francis Xavier, who had traced an incredible lifetime journey to Brazil, around the Cape of Good Hope, East Africa, South India, the Mollucas, Macao, and even Japan.   

Boulders, Temples, and Palms

The overnight “deluxe” sleeper bus from Canacona to Hampi proved to be a first rate slapdash operation.  After it arrived an hour late, the busman rushed 6 of us in, shut the door, and drove off.  “Next bus!” he shouted to the dozen others still holding tickets.  Inside, it was ridiculous – backpacks and luggage clogged up the entire aisle.  You had to climb in to find any space – one girl slept in the middle on top of the packs!  I felt bad for the few more passengers coming in later.  The “air suspension” left us all deflated in the morning, but relieved to finally arrive.

The unique landscape featured hills of giant boulders with tall palms and deserted 15^th Century Hindu-Muslim temples strewn about.  Verdant rice paddies and banana fields filled out the “Flintstones” impression.  Beside the river, lay the small settlement of Hampi Bazaar. 

Our guesthouse on the opposite bank was reached by a little motorboat ferry.  Nearly every place featured swinging beds or hammocks and meals were on low tables and obligatory bed-like mattresses.  Along with breakfast, the owner offered the off-menu “smokes” (convenient, but no thanks…).  After a short nap, we rented clunky bicycles to take in the bucolic surrounding settlements.  One of the Indian tourists must have had one smoke too many, as he first ran into me, then later lost control of his bike and face-planted right off the road.   A strenuous hike up the stairs to the Hanuman temple rewarded with views of stunning brown and green patches below.  In Anegundi village there was little to see and the children were a bit much.

An early morning led to an all day temple odyssey.  We covered about 7 miles in the scorching hot sun to see the Royal Enclosure, Queen’s Bath, and Lotus Halwa.  At the palatial Elephant stables, Steph was mobbed by a group of schoolgirls on a daytrip.  “What’s you name, where from?”  They were sweet and sang us a few beautiful songs before rushing off to the bus.  Many coconuts and lemon sodas later, the day concluded at the Achyutaraja and Vitalli temples, where the lone frangipani tree stood, its thick twisted trunk reminiscent of an old Oak.

Slow Goa

The surf flattened down into a nearly ripple-less ocean.  Whole days slowed down laying on the beach, swimming in the ocean, and enjoying the great company of Reut and Mor, our new Isreali friends.  “Where’s your watch today?” they would ask. In the evening, we lit Hanukkah candles before sipping Kingfisher beer on their porch steps.

The young children that helped look after the huts were around all the time, eager to offer anything.  Of course, nothing was ever free.  They’re little businessmen and unfortunately shrewd beyond their years.  On the other hand, the family operating a little store next to our huts was refreshingly genuine.  They served up excellent chai, omelets, and samosas straight to our huts.  Dipali also handled the rickshaws, all in a sweet manner.

Where else but Goa would you have two on-duty policemen and the young Indian lodge owner lock themselves in one of the empty huts, only to emerge later from the smoke-filled shack?  As long as everybody is happy, no one's kicking over beach chairs!

It all went by so fast and we wished we didn’t have to leave so soon.  But better to go before the sunsets don’t seem so amazing.  Happy Birthday Reut (and hope to see you in Tel Aviv).  To Mor – safe travels!    

Christmas in Goa

Goa retains a rich Portuguese legacy with the dusty crumbling buildings, Mediterranean architecture, and large Catholic cathedrals.  Mixed with the South Indian culture and swaying palms, it makes for an interesting setting.

It was almost “no-Goa” because every train was fully booked beyond January 1^st. and vacant lodging was getting scarce.  In the morning we scrambled for last-minute plane tickets and a place to stay. It wasn’t quite so simple, as nothing ever is in India.

Arrival in the small beach community of Agonda was a dream.  Our home for the next four nights was a rustic shack on the quiet beach, with porch and hammock steps from the water.  The sun crept down the horizon in a blood red giant disk amidst flaming orange streaks.  The night sky opened to bright Orion and thousands of stars, more than I’ve seen in a while.  We slept to the sound of crashing ocean waves.

More than anything, how good it felt to walk around in board shorts and flip-flops again.  The broad white sandy strip was lined with palms, huts, and beach front restaurants.  There were just enough people around to make it feel habited and not so many where it was crowded.  No one bothered you, except the cow that kept intruding on a couple down the beach – they had food with them, and the cow kept following until they left…

The Arabian sea was every bit as nice as it sounds – warm water with consistent sets of slow rolling waves, close enough to shore, and tall enough to spend nearly the entire day boogie-boarding.  I must have caught a hundred good rides on the spongy board rented from the kids.  Every evening, the setting sun put on a spectacular display.

Our neighbors were 2 very cool Israeli girls from Tel Aviv.  They joined us for a star-lit dinner.  The drinks were cold and food spicy -- the atmosphere complete with fresh ocean breezes and the sound of the waves.  As this is India, something perplexing happens.  At 9:30 a dozen khaki-clothed policemen came up, shouted to the owners, and started kicking over signs, tables, and chairs on the beach, all in front of paying customers.  They then proceeded to the next business.  We moved inside and life went on.

Every meal here was fantastic.  The grilled fish and prawns, the Indian food, naan, and tandoori kebabs were all freshly prepared.  There was even a French creperie around.  I saw 2 young children enjoying their dessert, until another pesky cow moved in to beg for a bite.

Holiday lights were strung outside our shack.  Dinner at Shanti restaurant featured fire jugglers on the beach.  The power went out for a while, but the stars shone all that much brighter.  We missed home, but Christmas here was an experience – Indian Midnight Mass celebrated beachside at the old Portuguese Saint Anne’s Church.  Merry Christmas!!!!

Mumbai

We decided to forego the 26-hour train trip and fly this time.  Traffic in this city of 18 million people was crazy, even at 10pm on a Saturday night.  The ride from the airport marked the first time I ever had to tell the taxi driver to hurry it up, as I wanted to get there literally the same day.  I should have known when he struck a luggage cart leaving the curb…  At least the Punjabi place around the corner from the hotel was open after midnight for great chicken pullao and naan.

The cost of lodging reflected the approaching holidays in a cosmopolitan location, but otherwise this was a fine city.  It’s India’s financial heart and home of Bollywood.  Every other vehicle was the ubiquitous black and yellow taxi.  There is affluence and this reflected in a self-assuredness – of course a sizable number of others live in vast slums. 

We walked around the fort area with its many colonial buildings and parks.  One could hardly tell the horrible massacre that took place less than a month ago, as the strangely Gothic Victoria Terminus, Asia’s largest train terminal, bustled and radiated.  Leopold Café in Colaba was open and packed with foreigners and curious Indians.  The beautiful Taj Hotel was still cordoned off, but welcomed the first returning guests.  It was Sunday and cricket was in evidence everywhere – every park, field, and patch of dirt, even in the streets, young batsmen protected their wickets from the sharp aim of the opposing bowlers.  The air was thick and the sun shone brightly.

 Colaba, where many travelers stay, had its share of inviting eateries.  The aloo gobi was good and the tandoori chicken put a welcome end to the 5 days of vegetarian diet.  The gelato nice, but the internet agonizingly slow.

Varanasi

For millennia, people have gathered here – many to offer sacrifice and some on their way from this life.  Ever since learning about Benares, it has been my resolve to lay eyes on this ancient city on the banks of the holy river Ganges.  What we saw was life along the misty river, the spiritual and the not-so, the juxtaposition of holy men and aggressive touts, of ritual cleansing and floating garbage, and of funeral pyres and laundry lines.  There was the smell of burning human flesh on logs, ash in the air, and the sight of young children flying kites and taking a swim nearby.  Idle boatmen, rather than pilgrims, lined the steps of the ghats and each and every one offered a boat ride.  Cows and mangy dogs everywhere, relieving themselves on the steps, and humans doing the same.  We sat on the steps of Assi Ghat in the morning darkness and watched devotees cleanse themselves in the cold misty waters.  The river was wider than I expected and the sun never broke through the thick fog.  It wasn't what I had imagined, but it was worthwhile to see the old city once.

India - So Far, So Bad...

Getting into Varanasi has taken the cake for unpleasant travel experiences so far.  The good times commenced on the bus leaving Chitwan, with the usual characters: amputated limb shoved in front of your face (earlier had the pleasure of another lifting his shirt to show off colostomy bag) and the “blind entertainer” who was too loud and way off key.  4 hours later, the last stop was again short of where we needed to be.  We trudged the 3 km rather than pay for a ride with the mercilessly annoying rickshaw drivers.  At the border city of Sunauli, we stamped out of Nepal and crossed paths with the surly Indian immigration agent who rudely tossed back the passports after he was done.  What an absolute hole this place was!  There could not have been one honest person, as even a freakin’ storeowner tried to overcharge for a bag of chips -- 45 rupees (about $1) rapidly came down as I walked out.  We escaped the touts and crooks fairly unscathed on the next 3 hour overcrowded bus ride to Gorakhpur.

The Indian train station was the next lovely experience.  Without advance tickets, many of the tourists had to queue in front of “current reservations,” where the arrogant and very corruptible ticket guy wasn’t shy about asking “baksheesh” from each person before taking requests or handing over tickets.  The train ride itself was fine and on time.

Upon arrival in Varanasi, the aggravation level ratcheted up a notch.  We had to argue with the taxi dirtbag to take us where we wanted, rather than the highest commission-paying guesthouse.  It turned out he didn’t even know where the place was!  We knew we weren’t far, so just left the money and hopped out.  He proceeded to follow us, still attempting to steer us to particular places.  So we just sat by the ghats along the Ganges, and after a while he left.  Naturally, that did not deter other “helpful” boatmen and touts.  When we finally entered our hotel of choice, someone outside tried to follow us in to collect “his” commission!  All that before 5:30AM!  So far, so bad….. 

"Shit"wan

The Chitwan National Park, in the Southern plains, is one of the last remaining sanctuaries of the one-horned Asian rhino.  The tourist bus stopped a few km short of town, on a dirt patch nowhere.  We were let out into the melee of annoying taxis and hotel touts (good scam, as it was clear that no one would be lodging on that dirt patch…).  In Sauraha, every place was a permutation of jungle, safari, lodge, view, etc.  All the agencies tried to sell exactly the same program, even with the same boring sounding “canoe trip and jungle trek” drone.  They had fixed the prices of everything.  The electricity was out and it was dark most areas.  There was horse and elephant dung all over the streets…

After a restless night of listening to the rodents’ scratching noises, we switched cottages and visited the Elephant Breeding Centre.  The main attraction were the month-old newborn twins, but the 3 km walk took us by bright yellow mustard fields shrouded in morning fog and the rustic dwellings of the native Tharu people.

Back in town, it was elephant bath time by the river.  Between 12 and 1 pm, all the elephants marched into the water for their daily scrub down.  For a fee you could join in for the dunking.

A small Mahindra “Jeep” took 7 of us, plus driver and guide, through the single track dirt road deep into the Chitwan forest.  The vegetation was dense and the grass tall, so I did not expect to see much.  First we came upon a peacock, then several marsh mugger crocs sunning on the edge of the lake, but for the rest of an hour, not much.  Then, there it was – a big solitary rhino warily grazing in a patch of grass.  We spotted a few monkeys and wild pigs, then another rhino in the middle of an exposed watering hole.  Impressive. 

The elephant-ride safari is quite popular in Chitwan, so the last day we joined a trip.  The remarkably tolerant wildlife hardly flinched when we came close – even the deer hung around a little while before rushing off.  We saw a few more rhinos, including a mother and juvenile, and the forest was quite pristine.  However, the ride was fairly uncomfortable and they managed to cram in way too many people on top of the elephant.

Pictures 

Hello - ok bye

The Nepali children in the areas away from the busy tourist centers are beautifully charming. During a long hike or sweaty bike ride, there’s nothing more refreshing than “hello!” They pop out of nowhere and flash the brightest smiles, followed by “okay bye.”

After visiting the quite worthwhile International Mountaineering Museum, we had stopped for a much needed soda. There was an adult, several older children, and one small one, maybe 5 years old. When we asked how much for one Sprite, everybody looked confused, followed by “Oh, English…” A moment of hesitation reigned until the little one spoke: “Hello! 20 rupees! Thank you!” Of everyone, she was the only one who knew some English!

We rented mountain bikes to see Begnas Tal and Rupa Tal, about 15 km outside of Pokhara. The first part was mostly dodging trucks and weaving around slower vehicles on the busy Privthi Highway. Then all cars stood at a halt for kilometers and people streamed out onto the street. We kept weaving ahead, until the rocks and tree-trunk appeared. The locals had blocked traffic in all directions and a group of people stood obviously arguing. An accident had occurred and no cars would proceed until the reparations were decided. Lucky that we weren’t on a bus… Someone we had talked to before was on a bus when the same thing happened, and his bus turned around after waiting 4 hours!

The rest of the ride was great, with amazing views of the snow-capped peaks and rural countryside. Again, the children were genuine and enthusiastic. Down from the ridge overlooking Rupa Tal, a family invited us down to see their house, but we could not leave our bikes on the dirt road above. We then turned around and raced towards the other lake in 5 minutes (it had taken nearly an hour to climb up). After lunch of Rice and Curry Chicken, it was time to go back – all 15 km at an incline. Funny how we hadn’t noticed that on the way there…

Pokhara and above

Known as the “second city” in Nepal, Pokhara is simply beautiful.  Surrounded by mountains and situated on placid Pehwa Tal (lake), the magnificent Annapurna peaks dominate in the distance.  It’s quiet, peaceful, and is the starting point for the famous 18-21 day Annapurna Circuit trek.  The lake looks inviting enough for a dip, perhaps when the weather is a little warmer.  The nights are cold, but it is still a warm 78F when the sun is out.  A string of guesthouses, restaurants, and shops runs along the lake, just conveniently enough.  Most of the restaurants amusingly offer identical fare – Indian, Nepali, steaks, Italian, and

Mexican from one menu…  We were a bit skeptical of the steak, but the big chunk of tender beef, served with vegetables, fries, and a drink for $4 was a steal.  And the pasta with salad and “garlic bread” was ok for a little over $2.

Nearby Sarangkot occupies a prime spot over Pokhara below.  Not only can you hike up, but also it’s a great place jump off the mountain and paraglide.  So we put the fear of heights aside and signed up for the next morning.  What a thrill it was to glide through the air and spiral up the mountainside afternoon thermals, only to be deposited several hundred feet higher in the 7000 ft clouds!  The cold wind rushed through and you could even smell and taste the moisture. While soaring with the Griffin vultures, kites, and eagles, we rode the thermals over several mountaintops with views of Phewa Tal and the Annapurnas.  Hoping to catch one last ride up, the thermal broke up, so we were headed down. The tandem instructor performed a few acrobatics on the way down to a perfect landing.  The hour felt even shorter than the mountain flight a few days before.  I’m already calculating whether I can afford another jump.

Flying with Buddha

Trekking to Everest Base Camp was not in the cards, so the last day in Kathmandu we splurged on a mountain flight for a closer view of the Langtang Himalayan Range.  On Buddha Air, nonetheless...  The 7 AM flight was delayed three hours due to fog and poor visibility, but shortly after take off the amazing snow-capped peaks appeared high above the clouds.  First Shasha Pangma (2690ft), then Dorje Lakpa (22854ft), then a host of others of similarly spectacular peaks, until Everest at 29028ft with Lhotse adjacent.  The panorama was at cruising altitude for most planes and still the tall peak loomed above. It was absolutely thrilling to be that close in clear blue skies.  As the aircraft circled back and landed in dusty Kathmandu, it felt like the shortest hour in recent memory. 

Next day’s bus trip to Pokhara wound out Kathmandu Valley and dramatically down hairpin turns into the canyon carved by the Trishuli River.  Only 50 km outside, these villagers clearly lived a different existence.  Any arable land was terraced for growing crops, but the bus hugged the steep mountainsides and took us by incredibly scenic villages, river gorges, and mountains.  The whole way, I fought off sleepiness to peer out the window.

Bus (Mis)adventure

We’ve tried using local buses and public transport as much as possible this trip.  There's a sense of accomplishment in getting somewhere on our own.  It hasn't been bad, and sometimes led to surprising experiences.  Best of all, it's cheaper than other means by at least tenfold. Unfortunately, as we found out the other day, it can also be that painful.

The trip from Kathmandu to Bhaktapur, despite the mere 15 km, dragged for one hour.  It was a slog of a ride and slower than I’d ever experienced, but we made it fine.  We later whimsically decided to continue to Nagarkot, uphill on the rim of Kathmandu Valley (this would have cost at least $60 by car).  After quickly identifying the right bus to step in, the wait started.  45 minutes later, and packed to the gills, the vehicle finally lurched forward, only to stop again to allow more in.  Yes, we rode one of those buses stuffed with sacks of onions and potato, tons of bodies crammed in, and more riding on top.  An hour later, we arrived in time to get a glimpse of the imposingly stretched out Himalayan Range and the distant Mount Everest at dusk.  Impressive, but the valley below was hazy and the snow line high and thin. 

So we got back on the bus.  This time even more bodies inside, on top, and hanging on.  I counted at least 75 (for about 20 seats).  The creaky metal can could not have rolled down any slower (probably best) and people were squeezing on and off every 100 meters.  We returned to Bhaktapur in pitch darkness.  One and a half hour for 15 km – downhill…  Only to learn that buses to Kathmandu had already stopped running, despite what we had been told earlier.  Following a small group of Nepalis, we then rushed another 1 ½ km to the other side of town to wait for a through bus on a random spot along the dark highway. 

After a bunch of buses passed, one finally seemed headed for our destination.  Completely disoriented now, the bus then made some strange pit stop in a gated compound in the middle of nowhere to load “cargo.” 20 agonizing minutes later, the motor started and we were back on track.  After a bit of a drive I recognized the route, and in time, the guy indicated that this was our stop.  We disembarked somewhere on the outskirts of Kathmandu, but had no idea where.  A cab approached.  Aah, screw it.  We forked over the $5 to get us to the hotel.  30 km in 3 hours…

Around the Valley

We made day trips to Patan and Bhaktapur, not far outside the main city.  Both were previous sites of Newari Kingdoms in the Valley and carried fine examples of the intricate architecture in the central Durbar Squares.  The Patan museum, a former palace displaying countless works of Hindu and Buddhist art, was very well executed. Each place seemed to have more temples than the other, but Patan definitely had more would be guides (but both apparently less hash than Thamel).  

The freshly fried samosas and  steamed buff momos were ready and cheap. We stumbled on a good place for giant masala dosas.  The rice with daal wasn't bad.

I especially liked Bhaktapur for its warm and friendly people and well-retained medieval atmosphere.  Artisans were carving beautiful wooden frames, boxes, and furniture.  The narrow alleys permitted little motorized traffic and I heard “hello, one chocolate, one pen, one rupee” only once in the more commercial central square.  It was a real town with people going about their normal affairs at the market, washing clothes, knitting, and just sitting around.  Approaching the periphery, the river was little more than open sewer trickling with garbage and dark gray septic water, but on the opposite bank a shrouded body was being cremated on a funeral pyre.

Kathmandu

We’ve dreamed of traveling to Nepal and here we are in Kathmandu at long last.  Sure, it’s chaotic, polluted, and a bit dirty (actually, very dirty).  There seems not one proper road and someone is leaning on the horn all the time, but this place has so much soul.  It’s where Tibetan and Indian culture meet, and blend together with the many other tribes.  The people are beautiful and smile warmly to your “Namaste.”

Almost every traveler to Nepal comes to Thamel.  The neighborhood is packed with shops, guesthouses, eateries, trekking agents, and more shops.   And with it come the legions of opportunists and beggars.  Within a minute of having dropped off our packs at the hotel, I was offered hash on the street.  Um, don’t smoke, except for all the exhaust fumes…  A normally dressed woman came up and asked for money, as well as another with infant and “empty” baby bottle.  After that, you can get pashmina, cheap trekking gear, pirated media, and yak wool everything until about 10 PM.  Noise dies down, as the power is cut an average 7 hours daily, on a rotating schedule.

The first evening was spent at the Thamel House, an incredibly atmospheric restaurant serving Nepali and Newari food in a restored merchant building.  The set meal came with wild boar, curry chicken, mutton, daal, and a host of other treats.  It all went down very well with Everest Beer.  The traditional Nepali dance performances in the dimly lit garden were entertaining -- especially the audience participation, us included.  The hosts had been liberally pouring complimentary Raksa (rice spirit) in flat clay saucers.  Eight shots was a good stopping point.

The walk from Thamel to Durbar Square wound through the old part of the city, a wonderfully medieval neighborhood with alleys densely packed full of vendors and chaos.  Your eyes wandered to admire every dwelling, whether it be the intricately carved doors and windows or because it seemed ready to crumble and fall over (with the people living inside). Every hundred steps would reveal another small entrance leading to a temple, shrine, or interesting courtyard.  Otherwise, much attention was occupied dodging obstacles on the ground or the irritating motorbikes…

Durbar Square was the big draw in this city.  The many temples were antique, impressive, and ornate.  And even amusing, as there was one with various tantric explicit sexual positions carved into the wood of the roof struts.  In the Kumari House lived the Kumari Devi, the prepubescent Living Goddess chosen by the Nepalis.  She’s almost 4 years old and, standing in the lower courtyard, we could hear her shrieks from above.  As we stood there, she came to the window and looked down for a brief few seconds.  She wore traditional black eye make-up and a red dress.  It was strangely amazing to see her, and it is considered good fortune.  

There were tons of temples and, apparently an equal amount of hash, as I was again offered it several times that afternoon...

PICTURES

Leaving the square, we hiked up the several km to the Swayambunath Temple and Stupa overlooking Kathmandu Valley.  The impressive location and iconic stupa with a depiction of the all-seeing eye are pictured in many books.

 

Yes, we made it out...

With hopes the airport would open soon, we returned to Bangkok.  There wasn’t much else in Thailand we really wanted to see, especially the bus terminal at a disorienting 4:30 AM.  Felix graciously let us stay at his flat later that morning, as we were still going nowhere.  The news outlets were reporting that the Thai Tourism Agency was crediting stranded travelers a very generous 2000 Baht per person/day towards accommodation and food at participating hotels, so we checked into the 4-star Amari Boulevard, with its nice pool and gym.  We stayed three nights in probably the swankiest lodging this trip, proving that every cloud did have a silver lining.

December 5^th was the revered King’s 81^st birthday.  I thought there might be a grand parade, but the streets were decorated with strings of lights, people lined up outside with candles, and commemorated the event with songs.

So after been stuck in Thailand for 10 days, we finally left Bangkok this Saturday.  We put off Burma. 

 

Mae Sot

Transport was a rickety minibus scarcely larger than my Jeep Cherokee, 15 people packed inside and luggage strapped on the roof.  The windy road on the undulating mountainous terrain seemed almost too much for the old engine, as it would slow down to crawl on the steeper stretches.  Good thing the driver kept it in low gear on the way down.

Mae Sot didn’t seem to have much of an obvious draw, but it proved to be an illuminating experience -- life in a border town and the inequities in circumstances.  A fascinating mix of Thai, Chinese, Burmese, Indian, Karen, and several other minorities populated the Thai side.  Tribal weaves were just as common as longyis (something like a sarong worn by Burmese men), and many of the women applied the yellowish thanakha paste on their faces. 

It has the reputation lawlessness, mainly due to the illicit trade of teak and gems from Burma for consumer goods and cash out Thailand.  We rode bicycles to the river separating Mae Sot from Myawadi.  The decently stocked market was nearly devoid of buyers.  We watched ordinary people eking out an existence, on inflated inner tubes hand paddling across the river to offer contraband cigarettes, booze, or cheap labor.  The Thai army rangers with their AK’s look the other way, as long as they return by nightfall.

The gem stores in the center of town bustled only for part of the day, with gem traders inspecting stones through focal loops and moneychangers milling about.  A fair number of Westerners represented the other main activity – NGOs and charity work.  An hour outside of town was Mae La, a refugee camp still housing 6000 Burmese refugees.  MSF and the Mae Tao Clinic, run by a Burmese doctor, provide much of the healthcare, as malaria is endemic and TB is highly prevalent in the underserved migrant population.

The town proved pleasant and people friendly.  The night food stalls were crowded with way more than the usual fried crickets, caterpillar larvae, and other crunchies.  We found excellent tea leaf salad with fried peas, Burmese curry, roti, and samosas.

Jupiter and Venus shone brightly, and together with the sliver of a crescent moon, one evening formed a perfect smiley face on the dark sky.  So close to Burma, yet so far away...