The Near-Death Railway of Burma
I have dreamed of riding the rail ever since I was a young child. I collected pieces of model railroad sets -- setting them up in my small room -- imagining myself one of the passengers. I would lie on the floor with my ear to the ground, watching the toy engine make its circular path around the small track. Only the slight hiss of the electric motor and the scraping of metal tracks could be heard as it whizzed around in endless circles.
Growing older, my fascination with model railroads waned and I begun looking for the real experience. I toured train museums and ate dinner on vintage rail cars converted to rolling dining halls. I rode the subways of New York, Chicago and the trolleys of San Francisco. I had the opportunity to ride the rail from Venice to Florence, Bangkok to Nong Khai and I even had a chance to ride the historical “Death Railway” across The Bridge Over the River Kwai in Thailand. These were all very impressive machines complete with services you might expect to find from a modern railroad enterprise. The convenience and punctuality of these systems left me satisfied, but craving more.
For over a century, the romantic sensation of rail travel has existed. Travel by rail harkens us back not only to the industrial revolution, but also the advent of leisure travel among the upper crust of western society. These magical overland journeys remind us of exotic destinations and a bygone era. There are places around the world, however, where rail travel remains as much a part of the local culture as it is a means to get to a final destination. The aging tracks of Burma are that kind of railroad.
White-gloved service that accompanied The British East India Company is now a part Burma’s history. These days, many travelers choose to ride the “impress the tourists” route from Yangon to Mandalay, where upper class cars contain modern reclining seats, dining cars and sleeper coaches. The less-traveled routes have barely changed since Burma declared independence from Britain in 1948. Since that time, many of the British-built rails have not been upgraded or maintained. When they are, Burma’s military controlled government tends to build them with reused equipment and forced labor. Fatal accidents are common, but reports rarely make it into the state-run media outlets. Unofficial reports tell a rather grim tale of the Burmese railroad system.
Nearly every local person I talked to about the train immediately cautioned me to take the bus or the boat. They said the train was too expensive for foreigners. Their hushed references to government ownership of the railroad sounded more like a silent protest. They told me that the train was slow and unreliable. Having spent 18 hours in the back of a bus from Yangon to Inle Lake, I had a pretty good idea what to expect of slow and unreliable Burmese transportation.
Having spent the afternoon aboard a private charter boat visiting the ancient city of Mingon, near Mandalay, I decided to forgo the traditional riverboat passage from Mandalay to Bagan down the Irrawaddy River. I asked around about the night train from Mandalay. Thinking I could get some sleep on the train, and save the expense of getting a room for the night, I decided to ride the rails.
After dinner and drinks with my Burmese friends, they offered me a ride to the train station. I arrived early so I could navigate the maze of a ticketing counter. The depot was dark, all signs were in Burmese and there was very little indication that a train was even nearby. I found the only open ticket counter and managed to mutter out the name “Bagan,” a deserted city, from 11th to the 13th centuries -- of magnificent pagodas and temples on the banks of the Ayeyarwady. Bagan is one of the wonders of Asia, one that many believe rivals the temples of Angkor in Cambodia.
The ticket agent spoke English just enough to sell me my $9 USD upper class ticket, a ticket which locals pay only $1.50 for. The high ticket prices aim at dissuading foreigners from traveling by train, reserving the seats for Burma’s rich and military elite. I sat and chatted with a group of vacationing monks before making my way to the Mandalay-Bagan bound train.
As I walked down the dark platform, I passed a countless number of families that had built make-shift residences along the tracks. The environment felt like a small village, people ate, slept and worked there. The smell of diesel fuel and charcoal stoves hung heavy in the air. Food and drink were traded with the train passengers. As the only foreigner on the train that night, I was more of a curiosity to the hawkers than a potential customer. Seeing that I was clearly out of place, a young Burmese traveler helped me find my rail car in the pitch-black night.
As I boarded the train, I struggled to find a torch in my overstuffed bag. The locals were having just as much trouble finding their seats as I was. Fortunately, the British not only left behind these aging green rail cars, but also English seat numbers. Our upper class seats were just as hard as the ordinary class benches, but had a thin fabric covering and pad that made them look somewhat comfortable. The only illumination in the rail car was a single bulb dangling from the ceiling, attached by lose wires, barely making enough light to make itself known.
As I took my seat, I was offered bottled water through the open train windows. The other passengers bought snacks and sometimes entire unidentifiable meals as the train started to slowly fill with local travelers. The family across the aisle from my seat offered me a candle for my table. I lit a mosquito coil in a desperate attempt to discourage the smaller buzzing passengers from feasting on me as their late night snack.
At 10:00, the train blew her whistle a few times to signal our departure. Minutes later, the train lurched forward and pulled out of the station. Through darkness of night, we slowly made are way away from Mandalay. The city lights faded in the distant and was replaced by a shadowy landscape of rice paddies and thatch roof houses. I could feel the countryside passing by, but could see no more than a few inches outside the window. If it wasn’t for the sensation of movement and the click-clackety sounds of steel-on-steel over the rail joints, I might have assumed we were trapped in a dark tunnel.
Further outside of town, the train started to pick up speed. The dangling light bulb became bright as a burning ember. It swung violently back and forth, creating a strobe effect, further enhancing my psychological fear that I was riding this train to certain death. The cars rocked from side to side with fierce motion; the train made back-breaking lunges up and down. I tried to close my eyes, but could only see an image of the train being pulled from a deep ravine below. I struggled to find my rucksack where I had conveniently stored the only device that could save me from death by rail: an inflatable seat cushion.
The nostalgia of riding the rail was now gone, survival mode had become my only consolation. My body curled up like a pretzel, trying to find a spot where I could rest without flying out of the seat. There were times, throughout the night, that the cars rocked so violently I thought they would fly off the tracks. Plunging to the bottom of a dark ravine was not a settling image. During the 8 hour trip I think I had a total of 10 minutes of anxious sleep. In the haze of morning, I sat disoriented trying to figure out how long I had been traveling and if I had reached my final destination. It was a little past 6:00 am, I was alive. The train had followed her rails like she was built to do.
Rather than waking rested and relaxed for a day of temple climbing, I was sure I had a case of vertigo and post traumatic stress syndrome. The memory of riding Burma’s Mandlay-Bagan rail line will not likely fade. Photos and video will never tell the complete story. It’s only through first-hand experience that someone can appreciate what it is like to meet death face-to-face and survive. The next time I travel to Burma, riding the rail will be at the top of my list of things to do.
Politically Incorrect Travel: Myanmar or Burma?
As my plane started to make its final approach, I could see the rice paddies come into focus from beneath the clouds. Far different was this view from the one I had experienced leaving Bangkok just over an hour earlier. From a city filled with millions of people, snarled traffic, towering skyscrapers and pollution to rival all cities in the world, this was a view to be cherished. I had finally landed in Myanmar.
For much of my late twenties I have dreamed of traveling to Myanmar. Aborted plans, visa delays, time constraints and dwindling budgets had kept me from making this crossing. After trying so desperately to make this trip a reality, it almost seemed like my sacred pilgrimage. It was a place that had eluded me not only for the above grounds, but also political reasons as well.
As a military dictatorship, Myanmar, still known as Burma to much of the western world, has been isolated from growth and prosperity that typically accompanies open democracies and free market economies. In 1990, Myanmar allowed its first free elections in over 30 years. When pro-democracy party members won an overwhelming number of seats in government the military junta refused to relinquish power and instead imprisoned much of the opposition leaders. The charismatic woman at the heart of the National League for Democracy was Aung San Suu Kyi. For much of the past 14 years she has been placed under house arrest by the ruling military regime. Despite her restrictions, she has been awarded several international awards for her fight for democracy, including the 1991 Nobel Peace Prize.
Ang San Suu Kyi has advocated boycotting all forms of travel to the country as a means of isolating the government and forcing reform. With a tight control over the tourism industry as a means to finance government and military operations, it has been a difficult choice to make. While some argue that tourism only supports the current regime, I come from the other set of thoughts that believes that tourism will bring optimism. Travelers will bring stories from the outside world and hear stories from within. It is part of a traveler’s creed to pass on and share information with others. This policy seems to be working.
Over the past few years, a free market has developed around tourism. Many government run hotel operations have been sold to private citizens. Travel and visa restrictions have slowly followed. There are now many options to staying in government run hotels and traveling by government transport. While it is not easy to travel using this independent approach, it is possible. It’s also one of the last places in SE Asia that maintains a sense of cultural identity, untarnished by the exports of American movies and fast food lifestyles.
I don’t expect my travels to Myanmar to change the country over night. But perhaps I can bring a few Burmese people a greater sense of hope. If they see that an American is willing to travel over 24 hours to visit their country, they may have an expanded sense of pride. Perhaps I will return to America and my conversations of the beautiful countryside and friendly people will entice others to seek out this adventure themselves. Maybe it helps to have the knowledge that Myanmar immigration officials were more interested in my mosquito coils than my laptop and cameras.
For each individual the choice to go or not to go is one that they have to answer themselves. For myself, seeing silt lined canals, dirt roads and rice fields from a few thousand feet in the air was all I needed to confirm my feelings. I needed Myanmar as much as Myanmar needed me.
What's the challenge in that?
Having just completed my ninth cross-pacific flight, the little voice in my head that asks me why I continue do this seems to be getting louder and louder. It asked me why I continually force myself to endure such travel torture. Why I can’t go to Mexico just like all the Spring Breakers.
Simple. Where’s the challenge in that?
While I have to admit that this trip has been the hardest so far. I was back and forth for days wondering if it was a good time to go, if it was a good financial expenditure, and if there weren’t things at home that I should be doing right now instead of traveling (cleaning my gutters of leaves, perhaps). Then I recalled a great axiom shared with me by a Bangkok Taxi driver, "you can always make more money, but you can never make more time."
What about my gutters? What about my friends and family? And oh, for the love of humanity … what about the cranberry sauce? He never said anything about these things. Could his advice have been tainted? Didn’t he know the complex nature of two family Thanksgiving dinners? Easy for him to say, at the end of his 19 hour shift he got to go home to his wife and family. That’s a little harder for me to do, and not just because the restraining orders and pending DNA tests.
I’m still holding out to see if this was the right trip and at the right time. What I know for sure is that I have to be getting ready for bed. I just checked into the We Train International House. It’s a small guest house located about 10 minutes by Taxi from the Don Muang Airport here in Bangkok. For 400 Baht ($10) a night I have two twin beds (my backpack likes to have his own bed), Air-con, private bathroom, mini-bar, TV (with 6 of the same Thai channels) and although it’s marked "hot," a very cold shower. It also has a private balcony, but I can’t really tell what it overlooks – it’s 1:30 am and it’s really really dark outside.
On a positive note, the profits from the guest house go to Association for the Promotion of the Status of Women’s (APSW) projects. They include Emergency Homes, the Women’s Education and Training Centre (WE-TRAIN) and the Women’s Health Clinic. Can you tell I just took that directly from the hotel’s manual? Since I was only going to be staying less than 10 hours, I figured I would bypass Khao San Road’s hoard of backpackers and stay at someplace that has a philosophy. It kind of makes me feel good. Plus, it was cheap and saved me a 300 Baht Taxi ride.
As for my tentative itinerary:
Tomorrow I will get up early and try to find a haircut, see if I can check email (you’ll know I have if this is posted), then I’ll grab my bags and head back to the airport. I’m heading to Rangoon/Yangon tomorrow morning. I think most of my flight will be pondering what to call the country in my journal. Do I call it by the current Military regime’s preference for "Myanmar", or do I stick with the British colonial name of "Burma?" Burma certainly sounds so much more exotic. And people have actually heard of it. But based on some of the blank stares I’ve gotten from friends, most people probably don’t know exactly where it is on a map. Which is just as well. So the short part of the story is that some cities and places might have two names. Don’t mind that too much. I’ll try to explain as much as possible.
Until then, I wish you all happy times with good fortune and love.
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