Whittoons

OTY: Sweepers could ruin your day. The river erodes the banks, toppling trees clinging to the edges. These trees don’t fall all at once so they linger, hanging over the current while slowing losing their grip. In the horizontal position, these trees pose a threat to both the freight on deck and the boat crew. If not cut down, they can sweep cargo off the barge, wrecking havoc on board. Each trip down river, we had to go out in the pilot boat to do the trimming since new obstacles would certainly appear, given the erosive force of the river. If you held the saw in your hand, you needed to move quickly since the barge was always just around the bend in the river. Though I love trees, starting up a chain saw brought immense joy. The roar of the saw shattered the stillness. Wood chips flew as the teeth sliced through the rings. For a few moments, I was Edward Scissorhands in the wilderness. And then I headed back to the boat for hot coffee and cinnamon rolls.

OTA: I had the tools, and I was ready for the challenge. The wooden chopsticks were an extension of my fingertips, responding to my sensitive touch. The spoon was at the ready to scoop in the broth as I displayed tremendous ambidextrous culinary sophistication. The waiters lined up like Olympic judges checking on our every move. My reputation as a culturally competent epicurean was at stake. What if we got invited to the Captain’s table and I slurped broth across the table cloth? The noodles were not responding to my commands. Like a pit of vipers, they fought me at every stab. Fork Please.

OTY: A good reason to stay alert while on deck is avoid decapitation. If a barge hits a sand/gravel bar, cables snap and whip around the deck. Those flying cables can take out a boatman. We hit the sand/gravel bars three times during the summer. Even with our pilot boat scouting the river ahead, it was difficult to judge the river bottom changes even between two downriver trips. Submerged barriers lurked to impede our progress. Getting off the bar took a couple of days of propeller backwash to erode the bar sufficiently to free the barge. We managed to save our necks and save the load.

OYA: When visiting a Buddhist monastic school, we were introduced to the most senior monk. Our guide presented gifts to the monk who sat in a zero gravity chair. Whether he was enlightened I could not judge, but he certainly must have felt lighter floating on that chair. It seemed a little incongruous. I am not sure what I expected – maybe a wooden stool with carved lotus blossoms. Certainly not something I could get at Big Five. When told we could ask anything of the kindly old gentleman, I posed the conundrum. My question did not even get translated. Just silence. Michele was not too pleased that I had tried to provoke the monk with the indelicate inquiry, but I really had hoped that the man would have some pearls of wisdom. We had come a long way to ask the question, but sublimated prejudice lurked and blocked progress. A year later, hatred surfaced in violence against the Rohingya people.

OTY: Splicing cable was not an easy task. It took three of us to subdue the writhing wire snake. Large marlin spikes (fids) plunged into the beast and forced open the gaps to weave in the vicious strands. Finger tips can be lost in this maneuver. Cables hold the barges fast to the boat, so a poor splice might endanger the barge (and all the materials on board) if it snaps. This was essential work. We were boatmen. We could do this before being whiplashed by the tightly wound steel coils. We would survive.

OTA: There are moments when, seduced by the comforts of a tourist bubble, I could exhibit unbecoming frustration with minor inconveniences. In those moments, someone needs to snap you back to reality. That reality check in Myanmar was at times brutal: flooding, earthquakes, military rule, economic disparity, tribal wars, and interfaith hostility among other factors. I was trying to fix my shoelaces for my Arc’Teryx sneakers on the upper deck, while village women are just below on the shore washing their clothes in the river. I might as well been on the USS Enterprise visiting from another planet. The Prime Directive: First Do No Harm. So I would Burst the Bubble. Make worthwhile connections no matter how brief. Our guide said that some crew members had never seen a white person before. My goal: to make solid first impressions with a few locals and try not to scare people. On another expedition (as a roving free-lance cartoonist) years before, I sat near a fire in a remote part of the Philippine island of Mindinao, and heard a startled cry. Apparently the locals coming to the fetch water nearby were frightened by my appearance. They thought I was a ghost. On this trip, I would try to be real.

OTY: Driving a forklift on a barge was a trick. Driving a loaded forklift off the barge was suicidal. Two wooden planks were between me and eternity. The learning curve was steep…and you mastered the balancing act quickly or you rolled on down at your peril. As the driver, you relied on manual dexterity with one hand on the wheel and the other keeping the forks level on descent, and a spotter who guided you. There was no time to let my life flash before my eyes, I needed all eyes front and center…not looking down. The spotter’s job was to keep s the forklift tires on the planks by signaling the direction of the wheels, so that the driver could make mid-course corrections. The spotter needed a poker face so that eminent danger was not conveyed to the driver. Signals needed to be subtle, without betraying urgency or the driver just might panic and over correct… and plunge into the Yukon. Once I accomplished this task (without death as an outcome), I felt like the Flying Wallenda river rat.

OTA: The various modes of transit provided to carry us around to Myanmar tourist sites were unique. The bikes with side cars were the most unusual and the most rickety pedicabs we have encountered. Our bicyclists were ingenious. Pedals were made of wood, and the side cars assembled with all sorts of spare wooden pieces. Some of our larger fellow passengers barely squeezed into the seats. Though our speed going down the roads was never at Tour de France velocity, there were times when I felt we were going to splinter asunder, leaving me in a trail of debris, splayed across the road as potential road kill.

OTY: People pay big bucks for vibrating beds. Mine came with the job. The huge towboat engines throbbed throughout the day and night, sending shock waves through the hull and superstructure. The vibrations set everything in rhythmic motion. I just needed to get in sync. With time I achieved a certain equilibrium. Rather than keeping me awake, the vibrations lulled me into a deep REM. It wasn’t quite like being rocked to sleep, more like being jiggled.

OTA: When our boat tied up for the night with lines attached to riverbank trees or to stakes driven into the sand banks, it meant our cabin was close to shore and the night sounds flooded the room. No engine noise, just crickets, frogs, bugs and unknown sounds from the edge of darkness. In the midst of the chorus, there was a time to reflect. I had my mid-cruise crisis. Why was I here in the universe, on this earth, in this country, moving upstream on the Ayeyarwady on a cushy bed in a well appointed cabin? Where were the answers? Silence was the response from the night. I had heart burn over concerns for the state of being of those around me. But then I meditated on eructation and all was right with the world…until breakfast.

OTY: Are you what you eat? The cooks aboard the Tanana were determined to Make It So. Marty and Eddie were Diner ladies, queens of their galley. Food (and mostly high cholesterol food ) was plentiful. Marty and Eddie wanted us fatter and happier to replenish the calories burned up running around on deck, and keep us from grumbling about conditions, e.g. long hours, risky work conditions, and a bully Captain. What we ate turned us into diligent able-bodied River Rats. The diet was All-American. The red Meat and potatoes bulked us up. And the plethora of desserts sweetened the transition back to the work shift ahead. We praised our cooks (since making snide remarks would be like insulting your mother) and in return they adopted us into the rat nest.

OTA: I thought that I had seen bountiful spreads aboard the Tanana, but the AMAPur offered an obscene abundance of epicurean delights. Michele and I were so used to eating local dishes on our overland trips in SE Asia and India, that to have the option of of eating good ol’ American dishes seemed absurd. The safe gustatory options satisfied some traveler’s need to only partly immerse themselves in the culture. They did not want to get too far out of their comfort zone. And a few times, we wallowed in our comfort zone too – who is going to refuse ice cream sundaes? Eating local fare did not really turn us into participant observers, it only let us swallow the illusion that we shared some experiences with the local population as we floated by. Eating local was not acculturation. We would never be what we ate.

OTY: We would be pushing hundreds of gallons of jet fuel along the rivers, and layered on top of the barge fuel tanks were stacks of fifty gallon drums of gas, enough lumber to build a few houses, a truck and car, and crates of household goods. No smoking please. And could we steer clear of thunderstorms. We were riding a powder keg, and I lacked life insurance. For many of the villages down river, major freight only came one way – by barge. Since the Yukon and Nenana freeze up in the winter, summertime is the window of opportunity for transporting needed materials. (Amazon was not shipping overnight…yet. Drone delivery might save the day.) If the order is wrong, the return policy might get a little complicated. Wait ‘til next year.

OTA: Loaded aboard the AMAPura, we were a very light but precious cargo. Instructions: Handle with care. More volatile than jet fuel. In case of explosive personalities, douse with cocktails. With 30 staff and only 14 passengers, the crew was prepared for any contingency: dirty walking shoes – they provided slippers for your feet on board while they cleaned your shoes (and if you couldn’t bend over, they would slip them on for you); caffeine withdrawals at any time of the day – they delivered to your deckchair; cultural incompetence facing Burmese menu items – kitchen staff served several alternative cuisines. No one suffered inconvenience. But I could not shake the feeling as the crew secured the bow and stern lines to shore for the night, that I should be helping to tie up. I’d probably rupture something. But this old river rat has the option now of calling his travel insurance company in an emergency and flying away. Toad (of Wind in the Willows fame) would appreciate the escape plan.

OTY: Indoctrination into the River Rat culture was unique. With all the down time moving along the Nenana and Yukon rivers, there were opportunities to be creative. Drinking beer apparently was one creative strategy used by a few river rats. It did promote a stress free break and eased bonding with crew-members. Certainly no mutinies will get hatched if the crew is blissfully blitzed. Yet the aftereffects tended to influence one’s clarity during a shift on deck. Not a good strategy for survival. Our Captain Don was an odd one. He relished his role as Commander, demanded respect (without earning it) yet struggled to relate to the crew. His comment about our rate of alcohol consumption made me wonder what sort of crew he commanded prior to this voyage. Hey Ho Matey! Pass the Grog and fight the Scurvy!

OYA: I have worked for or sailed with four Captains, and Captain Dumwa was the kindest of them all. I held the hand of a Cook Island Captain suffering from early stages of dementia, deflected the creepy paternalism of a racist Aussie Captain, and avoided antagonizing the short, authoritarian bully Captain Don. Captain Dumwa was so kind that you had to avoid mentioning a desire or he just might fulfill it. Shopping for longies, I did not expect Captain Dumwa to be a fashionista, but he knew where to find the best quality and who had an excellent tailor. And he really did deliver the longies to us on board. In return, I volunteered to suffer through modeling the traditional Burmese attire in front of the passengers after supper one night. Given my tall stature and thin build, I was a fun-house mirror reflection of the Burmese look. I spun and my crowd was amused. But Elite Model Management did not get in touch.

OTY: I had been a whirling dervish gandydancer pounding spikes on the Alaska Railroad; a frost bitten doodlebugger laying cable across frozen tundra with Petty Ray Geophysical on the North Slope; and the Night “faker” Baker kneading dough into submission at the McKinley Park Hotel. I yearned to be a river rat working as a deckhand for the Yutana Barge Lines. I had made several visits to the Nenana dock and had received multiple rejections. This time I made the “elevator” pitch loudly over the rumble of huge Diesel engines idling. My pitch: I had experience as a deckhand aboard the Manutea in the South Pacific, so I could demonstrate some ability at handling the lines, sheets, ropes…whatever. I could identify the port and starboard sides of the towboat. Turns out, the crew was short handed. They were desperate, so they hired me.

OTA: Given my past travel strategies – thriving on spontaneity, the idea of taking a cruise struck me as pathetic and contrary to the World Traveler code. As a WT (World Traveler) you willingly exposed yourself to risks and survived! We were travel battle scarred and had the shigella ridden guts to prove it. I did not want someone to lead me by the hand to explore new places. Yet I had to admit that certain exotic spots presented formidable obstacles. A guided tour might open doors that were closed to the itinerant world traveler. I did not want to stress out my wife with travel on a whim and a dime. Who was I kidding? I was not sure I could still handle traveling spontaneously. With age comes wisdom…sometimes. An ad in AAA magazine for a AMAWaterways trip in Myanmar was enticing. So we made arrangements (visas, shot, stylish bug repellent clothing and Traveler Insurance) only to hear news reports describing a series of catastrophes. A huge flood displaced thousands of Burmese, and then the earthquake shook their world. What are responsible, politically correct travelers to do? RIck Steves, oh wise one, what are the options? Many who had booked with AMAWaterways canceled. But really, what were the chances of a third disaster. We would take our chances and sail on, keeping the crew employed and spend some tourist dollars to help resuscitate the struggling Myanmar economy.

OTY: I trusted my intrepid Two Stroke Saab to carry me from Boston to Alaska. And though I left a blue cloud in my wake (owners needed to pour oil in with the gas at every fill-up), the tin can managed to survive the Alaska Highway. The three cylinders would get me enough power to skim the washboard road bed. The only relief came where the Canadian road crew had saturated the road with water, creating a slurry that hardened into a smooth surface. After rattling the car and my bones for miles upon miles, driving on these rare sections was pure bliss. More relief came on reaching Laird Hot Springs that offered an exquisite soak in the moonlight. Shafts of light pierced the birch tree forest. Half submerged, naked figures passed through these shafts in a silent reverie, like nymphs in a magic wood. It was a rustic fountain of youth. I rose from the soothing bath, renewed for the rest of the journey to Ferry.

OTA: Though I have taken advantage of various odd forms of transportation during my world travels, I tend to be skeptical of some local airlines in foreign countries. Often they use older planes and their maintenance standards may a little lax. But sometimes you just have one option. And you cross you fingers. On our descent into Yangon, towering cumulonimbus clouds hung over the City. Now I have landed in a small commuter plane just ahead of a colossal front of cumulonimbus, and I never want to have that thrill again. I was not looking forward to the flight path. Michele admired the view and kindly pointed out all the landmarks. “Look there is the Ayeyarwady!” Not Now. I will see it later…if we survive. Much to my relief, the pilot managed to weave between the dark ominous towers. Houston, the tin can had landed.