Old Burmese Adventures (oh, so many!)
FR

Translated into English.

SO Songsam Veteran ·
The Bridge

We only stayed in Mandalay for the day to see what there was to see. Around 11 PM, we got back in the car for another nighttime drive to Bagan, which shouldn’t take more than 5-6 hours if we don’t break down (I’m hopeful). That’d get us there nice and early. Just enough time to drop our bags at a guesthouse, freshen up, and we’d be at the pagodas first thing—perfect morning light for great photos. By then, we’d be on our second night in a row without sleeping in a bed, and after rushing through Mandalay and its surroundings, we’re exhausted. The "room" setup was the same as always: one girl (the same one) up front, two girls on the back benches, and the two guys and the fourth girl on the floor between them. Despite the discomfort—thanks to the road conditions—we fell asleep easily.

The engine noise and bumps stopping woke me up: we weren’t moving. I stayed still, waiting to see what happened next. Straining my ears, I heard Sonny talking to unfamiliar voices. I sat up and looked: the cops. Their conversation dragged on, which wasn’t a good sign. I got out, head spinning, to find out what was going on. Before I even spoke, I caught a glimpse of the problem: we had a bridge to cross, but its access was blocked by a barrier the officers seemed to be guarding. Annoying, because in the police (like in the military), they never assign this kind of job to the brightest. Sonny told me the barrier wouldn’t open until 6 AM. I checked my watch: it was 1 AM... I tried striking up a conversation with the one who seemed to be in charge, but his response was to ask for my passport. Could he read anything other than Burmese? I doubted it. Meanwhile, my passengers had woken up and were all visible. I expected him to ask what a group of six tourists was doing out this late in a vehicle that wasn’t even officially authorized for this—he probably already guessed the answer, and it spelled trouble for us, especially Sonny and me.

But no, he handed my passport back. Okay...

Still, we were stuck there, and that wasn’t good for me—first, because he wasn’t saying anything about us waiting five hours in the middle of nowhere with sketchy company, and second, because it’d make us arrive in Bagan much later, at the worst time of day. And there were other photographers in the group.

Conclusion: I had to try psychology, my way...

I went to the car and quietly took a pack of cigarettes from my bag, opening it and emptying three-quarters of its contents. It was the brand with the cowboy—one pack costs a Burmese the equivalent of about four days’ salary at the official exchange rate.

In front of everyone, I offered a cigarette to Sonny, the driver, and each of my passengers. "No, thanks, I don’t smoke," the first one declined. "Yes, today you’re all smoking! Take one, light it, and look relaxed." But since I’d made sure there were only five cigarettes left in the pack, there weren’t enough. "Oh darn, I’m out," I said, faking disappointment as I showed the empty pack to everyone—including the cops, who were watching the whole scene. But since "they were on duty," I hadn’t offered them any...

I went back to my bag, took it out of the car, and reached in, pulling out—oops—two packs by accident. One was extra, so I offered it to Sonny like I was being generous rather than bothering to put the pack back. I finished handing them out to the passengers who hadn’t gotten one yet. I watched, amused, as they pretended to smoke—it was funny.

Then I gestured to the driver. "You want a pack too?" Of course he did—he’d smoke it or sell it. I reached into my bag again, this time pulling out the whole carton in full view of everyone, took one pack out, and gave it to him.

We kept smoking casually, chatting among ourselves and showing no impatience. The cops watched. After a while, I gestured: "Want one?" The chief said yes, and the others followed. I handed them out, saying, "I really like this brand—do you?" Sonny translated; the answer was positive. "I got them for a good price at Bangkok Airport. They’re expensive here, right?" (I was being diabolical...) The answer was *very* positive this time.

Then I looked at the lowered barrier, clearly annoyed, then at the carton of cigarettes, then at them. "Want a pack?" The question was unnecessary. I dug into my bag, found the second carton, and gave them two packs each.

The chief signaled to one of his guys, the barrier lifted, we got back in the car, and we were off.
CH Chaiwala Veteran ·
I took a flight to Heho and then a taxi to Aungban. Then a bus to Loikaw.
SO Solene40 Globetrotter ·
Well, Thierry, that’s what I call playing it smart! I’m a fan of your adaptability 😂
SO Songsam Veteran ·
The Plane.

We’re in Bagan, in the morning, after visiting its 10,000 pagodas (yes, I counted) by ox cart yesterday and then spending a restful night in a guesthouse after two consecutive nights in the car. It’s around 9 AM, and we’re about to leave the city for Kalaw, about 250 km away. Today will be a day-long city-to-city trip. Is there less risk of getting caught on this route? I don’t know, we’ll see.

As soon as we step out of the accommodation, we all sense something odd, unusual. The people here are behaving differently than we’re used to in Myanmar—they’re talking louder and faster, and I can tell they’re agitated. The atmosphere feels electric. Even our driver, usually so quiet and reserved, is speaking up. We’re loading our bags into the car when Sonny approaches me: « This morning, a plane from Yangon crashed during landing. « ??? » I react. « Usually, that flight is mostly full of tourists. Do you want to go check it out? I think for five seconds. « No. My answer seems to bother him—he’d love to take a look... « Is the airport far? « No, it’s really close. « Go ahead if you want, with the driver, but we’re not going. We’ll wait here. Don’t be long. I break the news to my little group, who are, of course, stunned, and explain the situation. We quickly unload our bags, and our two Burmese friends leave in the pickup.

Half an hour later, they return, shaken. « It’s horrible. They’re all dead. The back of the plane broke off on impact, and people were thrown out... Then, embarrassed and ashamed, he adds quietly: « The bodies that were still intact were naked... I see. « And the others, the ones in the front of the plane? A pause. I can tell he’s about to be sick. The driver has walked away, probably relieved for once not to speak English. « They all burned. My travelers have also heard the conversation. We’re all devastated, silent, avoiding each other’s eyes, just taking it in. What to do about the situation? If there had been survivors, I might have suggested staying an extra day to lend a hand, even if it messed up the rest of the trip. But now? And what about my shocked group? What to do for them? Nothing, I decide. They’ll recover. What *does* bother me, though, is that the plane was full of tourists, so news of the crash might reach our home countries... We load the bags back up and get ready to leave. But we don’t start driving.

Sonny is talking to a big cop—alone, which is unusual—who discreetly shows him something I can’t see. We wait. Their conversation drags on, and we still have 250 km to cover. From a distance, the cop points at us, and they walk to the back of the pickup. Sonny turns to me, clearly uncomfortable because he knows, given the morning’s events, I’ll understand—and I won’t like it: « He wants to know what he can do with this... The cop holds out a traveler’s check from SFCV for 1,000 francs, looking hopeful. He’s probably never seen one before but knows it’s money. I look at the check. It only has one signature, but if it were his, there’d be two. And anyway, who would need to give a cop—especially a Burmese one—1,000 francs *on top of that* in traveler’s checks when two packs of cigarettes are usually enough to bribe them (you know my experience with this...)? « Nothing. Sonny translates. The cop looks disappointed and asks another question: « How much is 1,000 francs in dollars? « At least $1,500. » I lie very seriously, with relish. Yeah, buddy, you’re not getting an extra year or two’s salary that easily. Sonny immediately realizes I’ve exaggerated the conversion but, clearly enjoying this too, doesn’t say anything to the cop. The body-looter leaves, his head full of crumbling dreams.

But I’m left wondering: this traveler’s check in francs makes me think that among the victims, there might have been French people, which reinforces my idea that news of the crash could reach France. I grab Sonny’s arm before he gets back in the car: « Wait, we’re not leaving yet.

Somehow, my little group needs to reassure their families in France (and Mexico!). But how? By phone? Even if it’s possible, getting a connection could take hours—five of them, in fact. By telegram? Is that even an option here? I don’t think so. By email? Darn it, that hasn’t been invented yet—how did people live without it for millennia?... I rack my brain... Swift? No, Myanmar isn’t really connected to the system, so I won’t find a way to send a 999. But the idea of Swift gives me a *brilliant* idea.

After explaining why, I ask my group to write down the name, first name, and phone number of a loved one clearly on a piece of paper. I tell Sonny to find either a major post office, a communications center, or a big enough company that might have... a telex machine. With that, I’ll be sure the news reaches its destination quickly (I still have cigarettes and perfume samples). Who to send the telex to? And what number? Do *you* have that in your address book? I don’t. But I *do* know the international number for my employer’s service by heart (and it’s not the travel agency that sent me here). To avoid confusing the Burmese operator who’ll transmit my telex, I write the text in English, briefly explaining the situation, what to do upon receipt, and include the contact info my group gave me. At my office in Paris, they know where I am and how, so I have no doubt that when they receive my telex, they’ll act and call the people on the list—including in Mexico.

An hour later, I have the telex copy in my pocket, and we’re finally on our way to Kalaw.

A few days later, we’ll learn that the plane’s pilot was smuggling fuel and probably didn’t account for its significant weight in the onboard computer’s landing calculations.
VP VP44 Regular ·
Thanks for the article and the continuation of the story. Still just as eventful and exciting to read.
SO Songsam Veteran ·
Final part.

After leaving the bustling life of Bagan, we continued to Kalaw for one night before covering the sixty or so kilometers to Inle Lake early the next morning. After spending the rest of the day on the lake, we slept in Taunggyi. On the 7th day, we spent the entire time in the pickup truck heading to Thazi. Since it was our last day with our two Burmese companions, I decided to celebrate our goodbyes by opening the bottle of whisky I had brought as a potential "gift" but hadn’t ended up giving (I wasn’t about to haul it back for the return flight...). For the occasion, Sonny and the Mexican joined us in the back. Though a liter for seven people isn’t much, the atmosphere was still lively...

That evening, we were at Thazi station to catch the overnight train to Yangon, which I hadn’t been able to book earlier. Problem 1: finding 6 seats in the least awful class at the last minute. Suspicious of the officials I might encounter at the ticket counter, I’d stashed perfume samples in my jeans pocket and a pack of cigarettes in my shirt pocket. The ticket clerk informed me there was space. But with a suspicious look, he first seemed surprised that I was buying 6 tickets (I’ll admit, I was pushing my luck a bit...) before finally saying nothing. Then came problem #2: I had to pay with kyats obtained at the official exchange rate, but the only time I’d exchanged money officially was in Yangon when I got off the plane—because it was mandatory to exchange at least $100. For the rest of the trip, I’d done it on the black market as we went along. To prove my kyats were legally obtained, I had to show the sheet every traveler carries from the first to the last day, where each bank must note the amounts exchanged. Except for the initial $100 (the transaction date showed it was almost a week ago), mine was blank. I handed it to him, and he saw. But he was the one who seemed more embarrassed—by this point in the trip, I’d learned to set my scruples aside. To ease his discomfort, I discreetly offered him the unopened pack of cigarettes and two perfume samples for his wife. He immediately perked up, accepted my kyats (no questions asked about where they came from), returned my sheet, and gave me the precious tickets. I went back outside to rejoin my little group, along with Sonny and the Driver (they couldn’t risk entering the station, so everyone was waiting outside). We said our goodbyes—hugs, almost tears, *see you next time*—then they got back in the pickup and drove off to who-knows-where in search of new travelers to guide.

On the train, the seats were the kind you could recline almost horizontally, no AC. As I’d hoped, it was the best class—they didn’t have sleeper berths. Aside from the swarms of insects flying around the neon lights right by our heads, it was fine. We managed to get enough sleep to arrive in Yangon the next day (almost) fresh and ready.

By midday, we were at the airport for the return flight. In theory, the officers were supposed to check that the amount of non-Burmese currency we had left matched what we’d arrived with minus the amounts exchanged at banks along the way. Given all the black-market exchanges we’d done, that wouldn’t be the case. And this time, I couldn’t fix the problem for everyone—my fellow travelers would have to handle it individually. I’d already given each of them several perfume samples and two packs of those cigarettes with the brand name made of three identical numbers, which are popular with Burmese and which I’d saved for this purpose. I’d also explained how *not* to be a "good briber"—like saying something to the officer along the lines of "here, take this and leave me alone." You’ve got to be more subtle. Naturally, the group was a little nervous—up until then, they’d been used to watching me handle things, and not a single one of them had spoken up. Even the Mexican had (very temporarily...) gone silent. Trying to reassure them, I told them I’d go first and then wait nearby until they’d all gone through. But in the end, no currency check was done—the guys just took our sheets without even looking at them. Almost insulting! Then we passed the customs officers, who did verify that the material goods we’d declared and noted on arrival were still with us. No issues there—we were good.

Back to the RATP bus, back on a Burma Airways flight, adios Burma. The trip was fast-paced and intense, but it was great.
AT Attila Globetrotter ·
I went to Burma in the early 2000s. It’s changed a bit since then…

Back then, it was less touristy than Laos or Cambodia, which I’d visited around the same time.

Pretty standard for a traveler, except that credit cards were pretty much useless.

Though…
HO Horizont ·
Who among our generation of travelers hasn't passed through the Point de Mulhouse! Me too... You in 1987, me in 1984... Have you ever heard of the "Délivrance" circuit?... Like you, I have this problem—tons of slides from the 80s, so many, that I never scanned because it was too expensive at the shop.

Back then, the visa for Burma was only valid for a week. I knew this because I had a friend who sponsored a little Burmese girl and traveled there, which is how I first became interested in Burma. I didn’t actually go until... 2012, with my two daughters, completely independent using local transport. A 28-day visa, an AirAsia flight from Bangkok—though some regions were still off-limits to tourists, and in certain places, I felt "watched." Travel agencies had a stronghold, booking up all the rooms (often just 20) in guesthouses for groups or independent travelers who booked everything through them.

But it wasn’t too much of a hassle, and it went well, with lots of great encounters. We still managed an epic journey from north to south. Now, Myanmar is "complicated" again. We were lucky to have gone when we did! !
SO Songsam Veteran ·
me 1984... Have you heard of the "Délivrance" tour?...

No, but someone mentions it in this blog—traveled there in 1984, in fact: http://jocie.free.fr/pages/page15_rca/page15_rca.html
GA Gaura Veteran ·
What an adventure this trip was! It was fascinating to read, thank you. I went to Myanmar in 2004 without daring to organize the trip myself. It was a tour with Nouvelles Frontières, a group of about ten people who knew not to expect much in terms of comfort, transportation, or food! It was thrilling—we had a French-speaking guide who supported Aung San Suu Kyi, who was in prison at the time. The guide was delighted to speak freely since the drivers didn’t understand French, so there was no risk of being overheard. He steered us away from tourist shops owned by the military and advised us to spread our purchases among small vendors to help as many families as possible, rather than grouping them to negotiate a better price—which would’ve saved us just 1 or 2 €. At the major sites, we were greeted at the bus by cheerful kids selling trinkets, saying in French, "It’s pretty, it’s cheap, and I made it myself!" They were irresistible, but the guide warned, "If they earn money this way, they won’t go to school." Of course, we visited many wonderful sites and monuments. We were used to traveling in Southeast Asia, and I’m a fan of handicrafts: textiles, wickerwork, carved wood... In Myanmar, I had a blast. Back then, Thai Airways allowed 25 kg of luggage per person with no limit on the number of bags. I packed empty duffel bags in my suitcase and came back with loads of stuff—especially everyday items like the basket I used as a carry-on for the return trip and now keep as a toilet paper stash! I bought lots of textiles, including fine cottons, large marionettes in gorgeous outfits, and lacquerware. Some fabrics were sold in a unique way when we sailed down the Irrawaddy: women in small boats tossed their textiles to the sailors on our moving boat. We bought what we liked, and the women collected the money and unsold items on the return trip. Another memory—this one terrifying: driving the bus in the mountains! We had a driver and an assistant because traffic was on the right, but the bus had the steering wheel on the right too, so the driver couldn’t see when overtaking. Our survival depended on the assistant. Plus, the roads were in terrible condition, with at best 50 cm to 1 m of asphalt in the middle of the lane, making the "right-side driving" mostly theoretical, as Songsam also described nearly 20 years earlier. We even drove at night in the mountains after a breakdown or flat tire—obviously, most vehicles on the road weren’t lit. I was sitting by a window on the left side of the bus and still remember the tiny lights of villages far below in the ravine when the bus veered left instead of right! The guide said we’d have been even more scared in daylight!

Thanks for taking me back to these memories.



I used the fabrics to make cushions.



Ultra-thin and flexible bowl, traditional technique: frame made of thin bamboo strips, woven horsehair covered with genuine lacquer (tree resin), decorated with gold leaf.

Traditional lacquered and carved wicker lunchbox used to carry meals. And a woven ball for the popular game called *takraw* in Thailand.
SO Songsam Veteran ·
I'm a craft enthusiast: textiles, basketry, carved wood... in Myanmar, I had a blast.

I never bring back souvenirs, but my fellow adventurers didn’t hold back. It makes sense since it didn’t cost them much—they often traded them for perfume samples, which the Burmese loved. Once, I even paid for an entire meal (for 8 people) with just 3 or 4 of them.

That was fascinating to read

It’s not quite finished—I still have to wrap up the story with a short epilogue—but thanks for the kind words.
JO Jojoone1 Globetrotter ·
This kind of vintage travel journal is so nice, and it always feels way too short for the reader. Hard to believe we now get fussy over the slightest hiccup...
SO Songsam Veteran ·
Epilogue.

Back in Bangkok, my gig is over. I was lucky not to have any troublemakers in the group—thankfully, because that could’ve messed up the smooth running of a trip under such unusual conditions. We all have a big feast together. Some have to catch their return flight to Paris the next day, while others have a few more days to kill without really knowing where to go, and I’ve got two weeks left. The next day, I head to Silom to the Bangkok office of the agency I guided for, while the others are either taking their flights or visiting Wat Phra Keo. That evening, the remaining ones join me on a train to Chiang Mai. Once there, I show them the little I know (it was only my second time in the city). Four days later, they take an early morning flight back to the capital after leaving me a sweet little note at the guesthouse reception to say they enjoyed their trip—I still have it. We never saw each other again.

I continue solo to Chiang Rai.
SO Solene40 Globetrotter ·
Thanks for sharing this big-A adventure, Thierry. And also, like many here, for the reminder of memories from a country dear to my heart. I really hope they’ll finally find peace! When was the last time you were in Myanmar?
SO Songsam Veteran ·
I never went back. Except once in 2010, sneaking in to photograph the gas metering station for the Total pipeline, but that was just on the other side of the border, and I could only stay for an hour because of a Burmese soldier who kept hassling me.

"About TotalEnergies in Myanmar" https://totalenergies.com/fr/actualites/communiques-de-presse/totalenergies-se-retire-du-myanmar

The metering station on the Burmese side:



And its counterpart on the Thai side:



The pipeline itself is underground, with a plaque marking its location:

DE Dennis2 Regular ·
Thanks for this story—it’s well written and brought back some memories for me! On my end, what I remember about that country is pretty hazy, and you just reminded me of those free/corruption packs of cigarettes. Bravo for your memory!

Did you keep a daily travel journal?
GA Gaura Veteran ·
I don’t bring back "souvenirs" in the usual sense. I’m fascinated by the fact that in every culture, with limited resources, people have created utilitarian objects of real beauty. They’re functional and also decorated to be beautiful. For example, lacquer extracted from trees coats baskets to make them waterproof, so they can be used as cooking containers or to store cereal seeds safe from rodents. Similarly, fragile pottery is covered with basketry or intricate cord weaving to make it easier to carry and prevent breakage if they knock together.

You used to find magnificent weaving and basketry everywhere, but I knew it would disappear with "progress" and felt the need to preserve these skills.

What I bought 35 years ago from Thai ethnic groups or 20 years ago in Vietnam can now only be found in antique shops. The "souvenirs" sold today are made in Chinese factories—I’ve seen Hmong people in Thailand and Vietnam assembling pom-pom bags and fabric trinkets shipped from China to make garlands that are labeled "handmade" in "humanitarian" shops and at the night markets tourists love.

I’m glad I saw these countries before their craftsmanship disappeared, but I think it’s only fair that ethnic minorities—often looked down on by political powers—can improve their resources and standard of living.

With the contents of my closets, I could open a museum of Southeast Asian and Romanian textiles... I have sarongs, bridal shawls, baby carriers, bags, and all kinds of headpieces, bought directly from the women who made them at a price that respected their work.

In that sense, these are true "souvenirs" of quality to me.
SO Songsam Veteran ·
and you brought back memories of those gift/bribe cigarette packs....

When you were there, were their banknotes still in broken face value?

Or were you keeping a daily travel journal?

No, neither in Burma nor anywhere else. Plus, I hate writing—it comes from the fact that, even though I was born left-handed, my parents forced me to learn to write with my right hand.
DE Dennis2 Regular ·
Hello, no, I don’t remember the currency back then… but your story reminded me that you had to give cigarettes at the airport on arrival to avoid the mandatory exchange. Those officers must’ve made a fortune reselling all those smokes…

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