Old Burmese Adventures (oh, so many!)

Hey everyone,

Yesterday, I checked the Thailand forum to see if there were any questions to answer, but not much was happening—it was pretty quiet. Then I scrolled through the Southeast Asia section and realized that, even though Burma (Myanmar) was included, there weren’t many posts about it... I’ve only been there once, back in 1987, so it’s hard to create a photo thread about multiple trips like I sometimes do for Thailand. Still, that one trip was packed with unusual adventures, so I thought I’d share a few stories from it.

Since I didn’t take any notes at the time, this is all from memory—it’s not an exhaustive travel journal and isn’t meant to help plan a future trip to Myanmar.

Don’t expect photos; there won’t be any. I have some, but they’re slides that would need scanning and editing one by one to fix the wear and tear of time—way too much work.

The Context.

Back then (reminder: 1987), I was volunteering in Paris at the counter of a travel agency on Rue des Écoles. The agency was part of a well-known organization based in Mulhouse that mostly offered scheduled flights to Asia, charter flights to the Mediterranean, and flights to Mali with their own plane. They also had a few rare "roots"-style trips to certain destinations—trips where you didn’t bring your tennis racket but were ready to soak in everything, even if it meant tough conditions.

I’d already been to Thailand, Indonesia, and the Philippines in Asia. The director knew this, so he asked me to accompany a group to Burma. At the time, tours to Burma were already being sold by competitors, but they all had to go through the state-run agency, Touristburma (buses and hotels for tourists, and they only showed you what they wanted you to see—kind of like traveling in North Korea today). The service was only payable in dollars at the official exchange rate (which was six times worse than the black market rate, mind you...), and since it went through the state agency, all the money ended up with the junta.

My job was to do everything *without* going through Touristburma, which was completely illegal there. Nothing would be booked in advance. Back then, the Burmese visa was only valid for 8 days/7 nights, and since clients were paying for the experience, the itinerary was planned ahead. I’d have to find transport and a guide on the black market as soon as I arrived.

The clients weren’t misled—they knew from the start that the trip would be off the books, that officially we’d be a small group of friends (not an agency), unlike the truth (Touristburma wasn’t mandatory for individual travelers), and that it would be challenging. They also knew their trip would cost 3-4 times less while giving them a much better experience of Burma. As for pretending to be a group of friends, there were only six of us, so it worked out.

To cover all expenses (accommodation, transport, excursions), the agency gave me a sufficient budget. They also gave me the *same* budget a second time, which was strictly for bribing officials who might cause trouble, for backshish (tips), and, if needed, to "help" me get out of prison.

Before I left, I was thoroughly briefed by another guy who’d led the previous trip (he’d dealt with all the initial challenges). He explained everything I needed to know, what to watch out for, and advised me on what to bring as "gifts" (samples of well-known perfumes, specific cigarette and whisky brands, etc.). For the perfume samples, I rallied my family, friends, and even stores. For the rest, I’d pick things up at the duty-free shops in Don Muang (Bangkok’s only airport at the time)—I had the budget for it.

I couldn’t wait to leave...

Interesting, can't wait for the next part!

I love the style.

True, there aren’t many travel journals about Myanmar these days... If I’m not mistaken, since March 2020 and the COVID mess, my two journals about Myanmar (one from August 2020, the other from December 2024) were the only ones (sorry again if I’m wrong).

I’m curious—did you stay at The Strand or the Inya Lake Hotel during this trip? Back then, I imagine those were the two places where all foreign tourists in Yangon ended up. I worked a bit at The Strand, and in another job, I managed a business where my boss rented the space inside the Inya Lake Hotel.

I’m *really* looking forward to the next part! !

Thanks for sharing, Thierry. I didn’t think I’d be interested in such an old post, but honestly, the beginning really draws you in. Real adventure, the kind you dream of 🤩

Arrival in Rangoon.

Even though my assignment is from Bangkok to Bangkok, I left Paris on the same flight as my pilgrims. We had time to get to know each other. Among them is a Mexican woman I already know a little because I sold her the excursion at the counter. At first, she was undecided about her destination and wasn’t considering Burma, but since the agency boss had previously warned me, “Only 4 pax for your departure—it’s financially too tight; we need a 5th,” I managed to persuade her...

We flew from BKK to Rangoon on Burma Airways Corporation, one of the worst airlines on the planet, but we’re brave. Upon arrival, to take us from the plane to the terminal, we were surprised to be greeted by a RATP bus—inside, everything was still written in French.

Formalities: presenting the visa, filling out an Immigration form, declaring all the money and valuables we had (which was then checked by a search and would be again when leaving the country), mandatory exchange of a minimum of $100 at the official rate, and a mandatory stop at the reservation counter for two taxis to a state-run hotel in Rangoon. My predecessor had warned me, in the name of “the less the authorities see you, the better you’ll fare,” to do everything possible not to stay there to avoid getting caught up in the system—otherwise, it’d probably be impossible to stay out of trouble afterward.

For me, this taxi ride was a crucial part of my role as a guide because I knew that through it, I could likely find a car and driver who would take us off the grid for the entire trip. Otherwise, all expenses would have to be paid in kyats exchanged at the official rate. To make this task as smooth as possible, I “fairly” split my group—four in the other taxi and just the Mexican woman with me.

At one point, the taxi slowed down and parked. A guy got in, and we drove off. I wasn’t surprised—this was exactly what I’d been hoping for. We chatted: “Where are you from? Which cities are you planning to visit? Blah blah blah. And you—why’d you get in my taxi?” All that. Sure, I had a pretty good idea why he was there, so I got straight to the point: I was looking for a pickup truck and driver for a circuit covering Rangoon, Mandalay, Pagan, Kalaw, Taunggyi, then back from Thazi to Rangoon by train. My new childhood friend said a few words to the driver, and we changed direction. I glanced over my shoulder—the other taxi was still following; I hadn’t lost anyone.

It was nighttime, and we were driving into unlit streets in the city. It was some national holiday—I don’t remember which one—but people were setting off firecrackers everywhere. We stopped and all went into a pretty grimy, dimly lit eatery with a low ceiling, the *flap flap flap* of a huge fan, and cigarette smoke thickening the atmosphere. Tough-looking customers were sitting at tables, silently playing cards and drinking—like a scene even Indiana Jones never saw. I half-expected to spot revolvers on the tables, but no.

The place also served food, and even though we hadn’t ordered anything, they brought us food—apparently, it was the fixed dish of the day. The other customers barely glanced at us, and we ate quietly. At first, my travelers were too nervous to speak, but they relaxed when they saw I was calm. The guy who’d found us in the taxi was still there, talking to some other guys a few tables away. When we finished eating, he came over and invited me to join them. I left my group of five alone. He poured me a glass of something disgusting and asked for more details about the driver service I needed. I told him everything again, this time leaving out no details and making it clear I knew about potential issues caused by the driver during the trip—like, “In Pagan, I want him to take us all the way into the city, not just drop us 10 km away.” He was surprised I knew that kind of thing, unaware that my predecessor in Paris had briefed me thoroughly. Then we finally talked price. He asked for 450, but I knew it was 350. “Okay, 350.” He introduced me to Sonny, the guide, and his driver. The pickup was like a *songthaew*, except at the back—no step, just a horizontal tailgate.

We skipped the state hotel, and they took us to the YMCA (even though we weren’t wearing feathers). There, I learned that only married couples could share a room, but in my little group, there was one couple living in sin... A sample of Chanel No. 5 solved the problem.

Did you, during this trip, stay at the Strand or the Inya Lake Hotel (back then, I imagine both places where all foreign tourists had to go in Yangon)?

Nah, we managed to skip those, you see.

I love this story.

Was the YMCA back then the same building/location as the YMCA International that Google Maps shows now?

Hi Thierry

I’m also heading off on these extraordinary adventures (plus, I have such great memories of my trip to Myanmar… over 10 years ago already!)

Hi Thierry, I’ll read your adventure with nostalgia because in 1974 I set off with the Point de Mulhouse, a small group of 6 self-organized backpackers where Burma was included between Thailand and Laos. A 7-day visa, money to declare like you, and lots of barter items: cigarettes, Johnnie Walker whisky (no other brand), T-shirts—just not yellow (couldn’t trade them, it’s the monks’ color)... the Burmese were eager for everything, especially electric lamps to swap for rubies. Besides visiting Rangoon, we wanted to go to Pagan by train... more than 24 hours stuck on wooden benches, and 36 hours for the return trip, with the visa nearly expired. We had to return to this fascinating country for follow-up visits, round-trip from Bangkok with 7-day visas, loaded with barter goods, and that went on for several more years—many sites were closed outside of Pagan, Inle Lake, and Mandalay. My last trip was 25 years ago... longer visa, and the country had changed little, with the Burmese still as charming. Françoise

Was the YMCA from back then the same building/location as the YMCA International shown on Google Maps?

We arrived there at night after being driven straight to it, so we didn’t have to look for the place. We didn’t go back out since we’d already eaten at that sketchy little eatery I mentioned earlier. We left the next morning when Sonny picked us up, and we never went back. Plus, this was almost 40 years ago—I don’t remember what the building looked like, and I never knew exactly where it was. I just remember the name because it’s pretty common—you find YMCAs in other big cities around the world.

Hi Françoise,

in 1974 I’d gone with Le Point

I had no idea they already existed in ’74. I, on the other hand, spent 2–3 years there toward the end of their time in that form (second half of the ’80s) and stopped going when the Agence des Écoles (in Paris) closed—I figured the good times were over.

Overnight journey to Mandalay.

After that wonderful night at Y....... MCA ♫, we spent part of the morning trying to find fuel (for the tank and jerry cans—I had to front $100) with Sonny, who then took us to exchange money on the black market (six times more kyats than the official rate). Then we visited the Shwedagon and Sule Pagoda, and around 4 PM, we set off for Mandalay.

Soon after leaving Rangoon, despite the hour, traffic was smooth. The road was in relatively good condition, and the driver swerved left or right as needed to overtake cars—we were moving at a good clip. Anyway, driving on either side seemed to be a choice here; not all vehicles even had the steering wheel on the same side. About ten meters away, a parallel dirt lane was reserved for ox carts and other animal-drawn transport. We split up in the pickup: the driver up front (oh, right...) along with Sonny and one of us—who turned out to be the Mexican woman most of the time, because as lovely as she was, she was a real chatterbox, so we graciously let her have the seat. The five of us in the back had two benches running lengthwise. We also had our bags... and the fuel cans. I suggested putting them on the roof, but Sonny said their visibility would make us easy targets for cops, who’d realize we were a group being transported off the books over a long distance. That said, having the fuel with us wasn’t a problem—we had enough space, the cans were clean, didn’t leak fumes, and except for later in the trip when I had to insist, none of us smoked.

We stopped for dinner, and night fell shortly after. Aside from us, there weren’t many people on the road. It was a full moon, lighting up the surroundings, and the driver sped up even more—the whole thing was exhilarating. We didn’t talk much, just soaked in the moment and watched. The only signs of life were in the villages we passed through, barely slowing down. Yeah, at that moment, life was pretty cool... A little *too* cool, actually. I’d warned them at sign-up that it’d be tough, so they’d better stick to the plan! Fortunately, some minor troubles were on the way.

It was around 10 PM. Two of us had stretched out and fallen asleep on the benches, while the other three sat on the floor. We stopped in a village. The driver and Sonny got out and started talking. It dragged on. I got out too and asked the Mexican: " ¿Que pasa?" " No sé, se pararon sin que me digan na'a." Oh, come on—I’m stuck with a “public relations” person like this?! I approached my two Burmese friends with a questioning look. " The car’s got a problem; we need to get it fixed." " You’re gonna find a mechanic at this hour?" " Yeah, we’re in Burma." I went back to the truck and woke up the others—no way I was leaving them alone in some dark mechanic’s shop in a village I didn’t even know the name of. " Time for our second dinner!"

We got out, spotted a still-open eatery, and piled in before stuffing ourselves—we *love* Burmese food (though I’d learn nearly 40 years later it’s pretty greasy). We had time, so I explained why. While we ate, curious faces watched us from outside. After the meal, there wasn’t much to do—the car was at the mechanic’s, so no going back to sleep for those who wanted to. We left the place, exchanged smiles, chatted, and strolled around, like you do in those situations. Then I noticed a crowd in the distance. Not a small gathering like at a Kraftwerk concert—no, this was a *huge* crowd, like when The Warning plays Monterrey. What could possibly draw that many people outside at this hour? One of my group of five acting up? A quick look around: they were all there. Drawn in, we got closer. And then we saw. And we thought, *Burma’s doomed*—like it wasn’t already messed up enough. What were they doing? Go on, guess...

Sonny came to get us: we could leave. We hit the road again. Two reclaimed the benches, two lay down on the floor, and everyone fell asleep. Except me. I sat on the tailgate, legs dangling off the back. We sped along, the landscape rushing by, the moon still there—I was content.

There’d be more breakdowns, but Sonny seemed to know a mechanic in every village between Rangoon and Mandalay, where we finally arrived at 10 AM.

Oh man, the suspense is killing me, Thierry! 😂 I have to admit, I’ve racked my brain trying to figure out what could draw a crowd in the middle of the night in some small Burmese town—I give up! But while I’m loving your story, I wish the RATP bus could’ve told its own journey up to that point too! 😆

Great start to your travel journal! My only trip was back in 2018. For me, it was already an adventure for a month in less-visited regions (Kengtung, Mindat, etc.), but it’s nothing compared to your journey at that time! 😲

I’m picturing a *pwe*, a traditional Burmese show?

A little help: Lots of people, maybe even you, do this every day—but not outdoors.

For me, it was already an adventure for a month in rarely visited regions (Kengtung,

Did you enter or exit to/from Thailand or China? Were you able to arrive/depart from/to the center of the country by road, or was the plane still mandatory for foreigners?

No, not a pwe, nothing traditional. Something way more basic that you might do at home every day—but not outside, like millions of other earthlings.

The flight was direct from Doha to Yangon. However, to get to Kengtung, you *have* to fly from Yangon. Flight with 3 domestic stopovers where the staff offered us food each time 😏 We stayed for 4 days and didn’t run into a single tourist during that time. We were the only ones in the hotel. I think this is still the least touristy region we visited at that time…

How did you leave Kengtung and where did you head next? I’m looking into it because it’s an area I’ve always wanted to visit but haven’t made it happen yet.

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.

I took a flight to Heho and then a taxi to Aungban. Then a bus to Loikaw.

Well, Thierry, that’s what I call playing it smart! I’m a fan of your adaptability 😂

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.

Thanks for the article and the continuation of the story. Still just as eventful and exciting to read.

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.

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…

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! !

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

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.

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.

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...

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.

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?

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:

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?

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.

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.

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…

you had to give cigarettes at the airport on arrival to avoid the mandatory exchange....

How did I not know this...

no memory of the currency back then....

When I was there, the banknotes were in odd denominations like these, all issued in '85-'86-'87 (illustrations from Numista):

Hello,

I need to check when I get back to France (I’m near Trang right now) in my box of old tickets if they’re like this.

It’s true that Burmese people are obsessed with numerology… you don’t think about it, but a banknote can bring good or bad luck!!!!

We didn’t bring much back to avoid overpacking. Around Bagan, we couldn’t resist this lovely handcrafted lacquer item—100% made by artisans:

hi jojoone, that’s a beautiful artifact. Do you know which ethnic group it’s from? And what characters does it represent?

It's a betel box made of woven bamboo, with decoration in yun (a technique used). There used to be manufacturing centers all over Burma. I have a book on this topic, "Laque et or de Birmanie" (Lacquer and Gold of Burma)... but no time to look further right now. The backlit photo doesn’t show the details well. Still, it made me want to dive back into that book after the holidays. I have a few antique pieces, including betel boxes I bought a long time ago in Chiang Mai at a shop owned by a royal foundation supporting ethnic groups.

Hello,

I’m near Trang right now

If you haven’t already, make sure you try the local culinary specialty, moo yang trang—it’s like moo klop but even better, more tender, and slightly caramelized. The best time and place to buy it is in the morning (before 8 AM) at the market, right after it’s been cooked.

Thanks!!

Funny, I was just thinking that pork isn’t something you eat much of here—I’ll have to revise my opinion…

Thanks Gaura for the comment—I really appreciate the photos of objects and artifacts. And this travel journal is so appealing!

It doesn’t surprise me that we find great pork recipes in Myanmar. I’ve often enjoyed pork dishes in Southeast Asia, especially in the mountainous areas where they eat lean pigs that roam freely. I have an excellent memory of the French-speaking guide (a very cultured university guy!) who took us trekking in northern Vietnam. The son of a small farmer from the Hanoi region, he was on the lookout for organic products grown by "minority" ethnic groups. He loved fish, but he’d buy the pork I liked and cook it for us at our hosts’ place—marinated, grilled with the right spices and the right wood. You can compare these pigs to the black pigs of Corsica or Spain and the black-and-white pigs of Tuscany... Our big fattened, confined pigs are just so much less tasty... I’m not vegetarian yet ;)

I'm not surprised we find great pork recipes in Myanmar.

Dennis2 and I were talking about Trang, Thailand—a city famous for this dish.