Number 7: Burma 1982

Trip into the colonial part

In 1982 Burma was a remote place. Tourists could get a visa for 7 days. For a student, the disadvantage of a the short trip was compensated by the advantage of the low costs. For a bottle of whiskey and a box of cigarettes you get enough Burmese money enough for all the expenses of the 7 days. In addition, by taking advantage of the IATA regulations of the time, we managed to get the tickets from Bangkok to Rangoon and back for free from the Lufthansa office in Bangkok.

Shwedagon pagoda

Typical street in the town center of Rangoon

We arrived in a country, where little had changed in the years since the second world war. Rangoon was a decrepit, sleepy capital, where only its most famous attraction, the Shwedagon pagoda, the biggest in the world, had received some attention. Most of the buildings were broken down and moss covered. The streets were covered in dirt. At night in the hotel, where the sleeping quarters were only separated by low cardboard walls, somebody threw a dead rat over the wall from his into our room.

The morning after - night train ride from Rangoon to Mandalay

Intermediate stop of the train from Rangoon to Mandalay

From Rangoon we took a crowded, dirty night train to Mandalay. The town had been ravaged by war and big fires. The royal palace was reduced to ashes and only the freshly painted outer wall remained. Water basins at the street corners served as public bathrooms for the local population. Food was available from stalls in the street. Ancient English built buses, sometimes with wooden bodies, were the main means of transport. Besides some modern cars, like at least 25 year old beetles and mercedes´s, most of the rare private vehicles were from before WWII.

Train from Mandalay to Mamyo

For the British colonists, the valley of the Irrawaddy River, were most of the economic activity took place, was much too hot. Therefore they preferred to stay in much cooler hill stations in the mountains. In Burma, that was Maymyo. In the meantime they have changed all the colonial names of the towns in Burma and Maymyo now has the memorable name Pyin Oo Lwin. Like other comparable places in India or Sri Lanka, the town is a odd mixture of English countryside architecture and local additions like ox carts with Zebu oxens, colourful open markets and the omnipresent pagodas.

The (formerly British) government hostel in Mamyo has the atmosphere of the novels of Somerset Maugham, Orwell or Kipling

The main place to stay still was the former British government guest house, where we got a huge room and a splendid dinner. After dinner, we found that somebody had lit the huge fireplace in our room which was light after dinner.

In the streets of Mamyo

Preparing truck convoys into the mountains of the golden triangle

From Maymyo, we took a jeep back to Mandalay, where we boarded the boat, which ploughs the shallow waters of the Irrawaddy, down to the famous temple city of Pagan. On the boat, we had the luxury of a one of the few cabins, which we shared with a couple of monks. They offered us half of their water melon. After arrival in Pagan the next, my stomach went ballistic. I got so sick that for many years, I could not stand even the smell of water melon any more. To keep it fresh, the locals throw the water melon into water. Probably some bacteria survived in the melon and found their way into my belly.

Sunset on the Irrawaddy river

Pagan is one of the greatest historic sites on the planet. At that time, nobody took care where you went. You could climb the pagodas to watch the sunset, and the village was just an assembly of huts in the middle of the ruins. However, because of my bowels, my pleasure of the visit to Pagan was greatly limited. Walking around on the long dusty tracks between the ruins when you have to vomit or retreat into the bushes regularly is a bit inconvenient. Unfortunately I never had the chance to go back.

The plane from Mamyo to Rangoon

When I travel now, I already get nervous a week in advance that I might miss my flight back. We stayed in Pagan until the last day of our permit of seven days. There was a flight from Pagan to Rangoon but we did not have a ticket. So we went to the airport and requested a seat on the hint that we would have to overstay our permit if we could not get a ticket. And we got it.

View from the plane's window over the Irrawaddy plain

The quality of the scans is not great, but I hope it is sufficient to give an impression how things were almost 40 years ago.

Only a few buildings which survived the great fire in Mandalay. At the corner one of the public baths

Many street blocks of Mandaly are empty of buildings

One of the means of transport

Street cafe Burmese style

Street cafe serving juice of sugar cane

Two of the typical buses. Note the quality of the tyres

Bus driver in the typical skirt. Note the wooden body of the bus

Historic cars in the streets of Mandalay

In Burma I met Jonathan, who now is professor in Leiden. Even without internet we were able to stay in contact all that time

Cars were few, but an ox cart is better than nothing

Mandalay not only had a royal palace but also plenty of temples and pagodas. Most of the latter survived war and fires

Google shows that their atmosphere did not survive the impact of modernisation. Today these places look like a Bhuddist disneyland

Sunset view from a pagoda in Pagan

Number 6: South Africa 2005

Sorcerers and witches

The mouth of the Umzimvubu river. At the end is Port St. Johns

Shortly after christmas in 2005 we ended up in the little town of Port St. Johns on the wild coast in eastern cape province of South Africa. The town is situated at the mouth of the Umzimvubu River.

These crabs were all along the road and on the lawn of the campground where we stayed

The town was the principal port of the defunct Republic of Transkei (1976-1994). Of the population of 6,500, about 90% are Xhosa-speaking.

Due to silting up of the river mouth, the port of St. Johns was abandoned. However, it still is the local trading center for the surrounding rural communities and a pleasant, modest tourist destination with three beaches and a couple of nature reserves. The high indigenous population and the people coming from the local communities to the market in town make for an interesting mix in the few streets.

One of the activities on offer was the visit in one of the local villages including lunch and the performance of a medicineman. Although this certainly was made up for tourists, it still gave a little insight in the life of the locals. Little Lotte (6) and Hannah (3) were quite impressed.

The medicine man

The village medicinmen are called sangoma. During times of celebration (e.g. at an Initiation) the possessed sangoma is called to dance and celebrate their ancestors. The sangoma will fall into trance. When in trance the Sangoma the ancestors will be channeled (which is signified in Zulu traditions by episodes of convulsive fits) followed by the singing of ancestral songs. These songs are echoed back to the ancestor via the audience in a process of call and response. The possessed sangoma will then change into their traditional ancestral clothing and dance vigorously while others drum and sing in celebration (Wikipedia).

Sorcerers need witches

Later on the same trip we went to a kind of museum of Zulu culture called Shakaland. Although this also was done in best intentions, it was not able to give the same feeling and atmosphere as the little local village near Port St. Johns.

The tourist village of Shakaland

The meidicne man of Shakaland

Dancers of Shakaland

The exterior of the bookshop in the town center of Port St. Johns

And the interior of the bookshop

Selling chicken in the markete

  

Local medicine

The local cobbler was able to repair my sneakers

People in the market

One of the beaches of Port St. Johns

The hut of the sangoma

The main actors

The acoustic accompangniment

Dancing to unknown tunes

Traditional lunch

New friends

Riding lessons

There is not a lot to do in rural Port St. Johns. People try to get away

Number 5: Oman 2017

 The good djinn

Djinns, so ghosts, are important in Omani life. They might not be visible, but they might be responsible for bad luck and good fortune. However, does that also apply to the traveling foreigner?

In January 2017, four of us went down along the coast of Oman in a posh 4x4. It is a spectacular trip. Deserted beaches, breath-taking landscapes, you can camp anywhere and if you need something for dinner, you just buy a fish from a boat in one of the little fishing ports.

Buying fish in a desert port. The ice we got for free

At a certain point, after a couple of sharp turns and a steep descent, we end up on a bridge over a wadi. Below us towards the sea a lake surrounded by palm trees. Such a splendor of green is rare in the desert. Despite the hurry, we decide to take a detour. A bumpy track passes a construction site that is likely to become a parking lot and then plunges into the thicket of palm trees. We leave the car and I continue on foot with one of the friends. We arrive at a greenish body of water, a black Toyota pickup, a smoking fireplace and two Omanis in undershirts, who greet us warmly. They get something out of the firepit, which turns out to be freshly caught and roasted lobsters dripping from fat. After the snack, the men show us the rest of the oasis and the large lagoon. One of them convinces my friend to put on his Dishdasha and turban. Indeed, now he is indistinguishable from an Omani. I take a picture of him and the Omani owner of the dresses in the undershirt with my friends i-phone and after the return of the clothes we say goodbye and set off for the journey.

Chance meeting in a thicket of palm trees

Change of outfit

From the oasis the impressive road climbs through the mountains in hairpin curves until we suddenly drive into a fantastic panorama of the coastline and the sea. My friend wants his phone from me to take a picture and can't believe I don't have it. He thinks since I have taken a photo of him in the oasis I should have it. I know for sure that I returned the phone to him right after the photo. Nor is the phone with his wife. She suggests calling him on her own phone. We hear nothing ring, the phone cannot be in the car. We are driving towards a parking lot on a kind of plateau over the sea and stop…. if the phone is not in the car, we have no choice but to go back and search the oasis for it. Just when I get out to take at least a photo of the coastal panorama, a black Toyota pickup arrives and our two new Omani friends get out. My friend runs straight to them and asks for his phone. The two appear puzzled. Apparently they haven't seen the phone. During the subsequent discussion, someone walks around the rear of the pickup and points at the bumper. And in fact. There it is. My friend’s phone. With a maximum enlargement of the photo of the cars in the parking lot can see it lying there. But the miracle is that it stayed there all the way along the bumpy track in the oasis and on the winding mountain road.

Our new friends can only attribute this to a good Djinn who accompanies us.

Diversity of Omani landscape

The rough coastal mountain range

Camels "grazing" on the beach

Looking for a camping spot on the beach

Tents are set up. Time to prepare dinner

Sunset at another campsite

It is getting cold quickly in the evening. Late nights are rare