Set Our Hearts Alight in KyaingTong

Another border, a new country. From Mae Sae into Tachileik, from Thailand into Myanmar. I remember the bead of sweat trickling down my spine, further plastering my t-shirt to my backpack. Our excitement at crossing the bridge. Stories of a region which had just opened, previously banned to the outside world. And we were going to enter it. We were going to see it for the first time.

We walked past the oversized red umbrellas in the market straddling the border lines, and we were in. The officer’s big khaki-clothed belly shakes before us, Mingalabar! Hello. Welcome to Myanmar wa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. A signature, a stamp and we are set free, free to roam a part of the Shan State. 

Our elation is matched by the noise that engulfs us. The images we had conjured up in our minds of opium dens and drug lords replaced by the metal grind of bubbling tuk tuks and steady buddhist chants emanating from all corners of Tachileik. It was so easy. So easy to walk into this region at the heart of the Golden Triangle. A region embroiled in violence and civil war for the past century.  A region isolated from the world.

As our bus meandered away from Tachileik, through the jungle vegetation of Eastern Myanmar, the thrill of being in this country that I have always wanted to visit is suddenly replaced by nothing. Absolutely nothing. I look out the window at the horizon, wide never-ending hills, trees thick and fat with chlorophyll and, nothing. After 8 months of crossing 15 countries by land, I was feeling an onset of the travelling blues. I am physically exhausted, mentally overwhelmed.

But there is a place called KyaingTong. A place that healed me. A place I don’t really want to tell you about.

But you know I cannot keep it to myself, so here goes.

Our first morning in KyaingTong ကျိုင်းတုံမြို (pronounced: Ja-ing-tong) the mist had descended, water droplets hang heavy, waiting for the sun to suck them all dry; to replace them with dust and smoke from the burning harvest fields. It is quiet and all I want to do is stay in bed or spend my day negotiating with the apathetic internet connection, “please just one page, let me load one page and I swear I will leave you alone.” Being the ever dutiful explorer, that wasn’t really an option, so plan B it is. 

When my traveller’s battery is nearing empty, one of the few things that can convince me to move is a good market. That, and foooood. Markets are the perfect reflection of daily life in a country. It is the no-frills introduction to what the rules are, what the beliefs are, what the addictions are and who the boss is. They are often also beautiful and colourful in every sense of the word.

I drag on my flip-flops and off we go.

In the blazing heat the streets are deserted, but everyone seems to have sought refuge at the central market. One of the biggest in Myanmar, the stalls are clearly compartmentalized. Narrow streets help divide sections and save the buyer time looking for Tiger Balm, eye drops or flip-flops. Behind the pharmacies are the processed snacks – pop soda, Spam and deep-fried peanuts. I feel my inner traveller skip a beat as we approach the food section. My section. The section I sniff for, I crave for, I fantasise for.

As we walk our way through stalls serving up bowls of Shan noodles with meatballs, wontons and tofu slices, we are the only unfamiliar faces, not another tourist in sight. We head towards the dessert section and are gifted with smiles left and right. Mingalabar! Extra big smile. Jizubeh! Thank you. A smile in return so wide, my inner traveller skips another beat. We sample the unpronounceable Gahn Niehn Tok – sticky rice wrapped around sweet plantain and steamed in banana leaf. As I lick the last bit of glutinous rice from my fingers, my inner traveller starts a little dance.

We discover stuffed banana flower petals, deep-fried like Italian courgette blossoms and we learn about Pè Bya – indigo wafers made from steamed and fermented soya beans, waiting to be pounded to a powder and used in the Shan kitchen.

We are offered a taste of sea salt, huge crystals with just that touch of pale grey, glistening in the sun aside tidy stacks of dried sardines and baby blue duck eggs. We are treated to Pè Bong, also known in chinese as “tofu flower” 豆花, a gift of the silkiest sweet soya bean curd, enveloped in spicy ginger syrup.  The butchers wave hello from behind their slotted windows. Their weighing discs hang from the ceiling of the dark hall, hovering above chops, livers, kidneys and black pig hide. We are spoilt by everyone.

The market opened us to the kindness in Myanmar, its people refreshing my inspiration and preparing me to absorb more. We did our last rounds and I thought my inner traveller was going to lose it and start high-fiving me as we were given free garlic, free chillies and a bunch of spring onions for our picnic plans.

Batteries semi-recharged, the afternoon is spent lazing around the hypnotic Naung Tung lake. Rows of palm trees, golden stupas and faded facades cast a melancholic gaze over the rippled water. It is empty save for a fisherman waiting for his fish and we sit to watch him, all of us immobile from the heat and the calm. This suits me. A moment of quiet, as my inner traveller snoozes for a bit. As the sun nears the horizon and the air cools down, the mosquitoes come out to hunt and it is our cue to move, to move indoors and slather ourselves with that familiar smell of South East Asia, the smell of Deet.

Night invades early here and just before 6 it is pitch-black as we go on our own hunting expedition. No street lights, no signs, no food. We begin to worry we would have to resort going to the assigned-tourist restaurant, “The Golden-Something” recommended in the Lonely Planet, where the few visitors we have managed to escape seem to have ended up in. Is there an unofficial curfew? Then we spot the motorcycles. They all head in one direction and so do we. Lights, noise and action, we have discovered the Badaleng Monastery Festival. The Monastery opens its doors to the festival for one week each year, a moment of celebration and gratitude. A gathering around food and fire.

We are surprised to be the only foreigners once again when the restaurant with mixed vegetable fried rice is only 300m down the road, but my inner traveller does not complain, it starts to dress up knowing it is in for a good time. There is something in many of us who travel that searches for that rare experience. Of feeling like you are the only person to see this. You know that others have come before you and that others will follow after, but in that moment, you feel special, unique in your journey into this foreign world.

Priorities clear, we dive into more noodles, sticky rice with peanuts and our new discovery, “begalahbeh” – Shan tofu. Made of chickpeas instead of soya bean, the tofu is sliced and deep fried till golden. The crispy squares are then dipped in a gravy of yellow split peas, coriander, chilli, garlic and salt. Hands down the best street food we have had so far.

With bellies full, everyone’s attention can switch to the main event, the offering of light to Buddha. Fifteen boys and a monk are holding up a giant lantern “Sein Na Pan“, attempting to light a flame at its centre. The hot air flares up and fills it with warmth as the lantern rises up into the black sky. The courtyard is quiet and the lantern’s beauty understated until mini fireworks shoot out from its sides and the party begins.

Out of the corner of my eye, a cart rolls towards us, decorated with palm leaves and thick bamboo, supported by an entourage in metal sombreros and painted faces. It feels like Mexico and its Cinco de Mayo. This is the show everyone is waiting for, the rockets “Nya Mee Gyi”. Often a competition, these homemade concoctions inevitably lead to several tragedies a year in this country in love with its fire. But they are fearless.

A group of women in playboy bunny ears pass around bottles and offer us Coke laced with cough syrup as a monk atop a pick-up truck blasts out loud Myanmar pop. There is dancing and drinking, it is Copacabana in a monastery in Eastern Myanmar. A kind spectator warns us to move back, “this stuff is like C4!”.

Drums and cymbals encircle the rocket, the beat repeats itself faster and faster as the match approaches the wick. Clang! Bo-boom, bo-boom, bo-boom. I already love Myanmar. Clang! Bo-bo-boom, bo-bo-boom, bo-bo-boom. Nobody is breathing. Clang! The rocket explodes, a bottle of champagne shaken till it could handle no more, bubbles that keep on bubbling. Clang clang clang clang clang! We all look up, the crowd is one, illuminated orange and we all laugh. And I remember why we do it, why we travel. Why we cross borders in search of the unknown, of the unfamiliar. I let out a laugh from deep deep inside. I cannot help it. It’s raining light.