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.
And so begins a tale of two river runs some forty years and half a world apart. The first run was on the Yukon River as a crewman working for the Yutana Barge Company out of Nenana, Alaska. The second run was up the Ayeyarwady River in Myanmar as a tourist with AMAWaterways River Cruises.
Though there were strong contrasts in the two voyages, there many parallel experiences. Let me set the scene:
The New York Times just ran a spread (Idyllic Island, Toxic Workplace 4/28/21) that obliterated one of our top epicurean fantasies.
Back in 2019, we had saved up to splurge for a Birthday celebration for Michele at the Willows Inn. We had stayed at the Inn before the “Before Blaine Wetzel” era. Before the place was on the map following gushing reviews in major papers. For us, the Willows Inn had been a quiet retreat situated on Lummi Island. A short ferry ride from the Lummi reservation took us to a less traveled island in the Puget Sound. Lummi Island had always been that mysterious place on the horizon across Bellingham Bay when I was growing up in Bellingham. (Orcas had been our retreat at the time when we were lucky to stay at a neighbor’s cabin.) Getting to Lummi meant driving through the rez, through a world unknown to me except for the annual salmon bakes and wild canoe races. The Lummi people were not a wealthy tribe at the time, rich in culture but not in financial equity. Now they have a casino, so perhaps they share some wealth. Houses were aging in the mossy forest. Old cars rusted in driveways.
On the last visit to Willows Inn, during the off-season several years ago, we and one family were the only visitors. In chatting, it turned out the father was the author of the first Lonely Planet guide to Cuba. He had led bike tours there and Lonely Planet brought him on. It was serendipitous, since we had been scheming for years on how to visit Cuba. [We did eventually make it – see Cuba-The Loveliest Land page on my blog.]
Even then, the food was well presented and lovely with taste treats…but nothing extraordinary by New York food critic standards.
This time, we booked the Willows Inn cabin near the main lodge and settled in.
We budgeted for one dinner and one breakfast at the Willows Inn. The rest of our meals would be elsewhere on the island, or we would make snacks at the cabin.
Preparations for dinner were underway around the BBQ pit as we approached the main lodge to check in for our reservations. All tables were outside. This was to be a total al fresco immersive experience. Having been forewarned, we dressed accordingly but some other guests were in lovely but thin diaphanous fabrics. Space heaters above some of the tables…(except ours), gave you some indication of the possible complications. Blankets on the seats were another clue.
As the twenty plus courses arrived, most of the women started to cover themselves in wool, losing the au couture look, though we were all still cozily wrapped in privilege. Don’t cry for me, bartender. But I must say, since the morsels were tiny, and the air was chilly, some guests started looking as desperate as the Donner Party.
Each course was basically a mouthful, with a few exceptions. We were sampling the “Best of the NW” ingredients from Lummi Island…supposedly. And getting chilled to the bone. Since pneumonia should not be part of the aftertaste of any epicurean indulgence, we requested to move inside near the fire for coffee and dessert. Soon other guests chose the warmth over the fresh air. When your are investing in a meal, you do not want to suffer too much.
The Willows Inn breakfast was served all at once, like on a Thali plate, with multiple bowls of organic goodies. This was a vast improvement over the outdoor dining. We had hot coffee and tea, and we were inside…and comfortable. The staff appeared more relaxed. And we could linger.
We thought it worth another visit to Lummi Peak for the beautiful view spot high above the Rosario Strait, with views of Orcas Island and beyond. We made sure not to step too far back for the selfie. It’s a long way down.
The artist Ann Morris opens up her Sculpture Woods once a month on the first Saturday (10 a.m. – 5 p.m.). Her gallery is open by appointment only. After a long conversation with Ann, we toured her studio to check out her boat sculptures. One of the boats sailed away with us, dangling from the coat hooks over the back seat. It bobbed and swayed with the waves of cross drafts.
Ann Morris’s earlier works are much more substantial metal sculptures of mythical proportions that inhabit the landscape.
The Beach Store Cafe offered a reasonably priced and very nice dinner. The cafe was packed with locals. People stopped by to chat with other diners. Two elder sisters next to us seemed to be the main attraction. This was much closer to the island life I was familiar with on Orcas.
So chock it up to Ignorance is Bliss, but our stay was restful, soothing and tasty. We used the time to recuperate from the stress we had been living with for a good while.
Yes, we regret that so much abuse was taking place at the time, according to the NYT report. Mea Culpa. (And I am shocked that the some of the tasty morsels might not have really come from the island.. the Horror, the Horror.) The Willows Inn did finally reach a monetary settlement, and the chef and management claim they will do better. Right. But this is yet again another tale of arrogant chefs taking advantage of their staff, and many staff being too intimidated to do anything about the abuse. The culture of commercial kitchens needs a revolutionary movement to overturn the modern day tribal lords. As Che Guevara must had said at least once, Viva La Revolucion!
Approaching a small island in the mid-Pacific, it is a bit of a relief to see land after flying above such a vast expanse of water. On landing, my taxi driver tried to rip me off pretending to misunderstand my directions and mumbling responses, but eventually we reached the cheap motel that I had scoped out. It was full. I ended up staying in an extra room at the home of Chief Napoleone A. Tuiteleleapaga.
The imposing gentleman sat comfortably before a large TV, fanning himself and slapping himself under the armpits. His card listed his various titles and interests: Grand Knight, International Mark Twain Society, Private Detective, Musician…member of the Samoan Church Unification Committee, Sierra Club and more.
On my first morning in this remote spot, I headed for the forest. Following a track below the ridgeline, I ended up on the far side of the island and dropped down into a valley. The canopy enclosed the moist space that I had all to myself until I heard the gun shots. Not wanting to be mistaken for a wild boar, I did my best to slip through the jungle following a stream towards the ocean. I ran into the hunters anyway. They were taking pot shots at birds. White seabirds flew overhead, their long 2’ tail feathers making undulating brush strokes across the sky. Enormous fruit bats flapped to their roost. My companions were on the hunt for the huge South Pacific crab that climbs trees in search of coconuts, which they break with their claws. Their meat was supposed to be incredible. I earned a jungle boy merit badge by learning to weave a palm leaf basket which they would use to carry back their haul of succulent critters.
Heading back along the ridge with the guys, they pointed out Western Samoa, its outline broken by a canopy of palm leaves.
My stay was brief since my destination was Western Samoa and Sava’ii. I spent my first night in Western Samoa at a dive called the Casino that was on its last legs and about to be torn down. The bar turned out to have been the local afternoon drinking hole for locals and Peace Corps volunteers. Over beer the PC guys gave me advice and some contacts on Sava’ii. As their story goes, you can tell how long a PC volunteer has been in Samoa by the reactions to a fly in their beer glass. If he/she asks for a new glass of beer, they have on been on Samoa for a couple of weeks. If they pick the fly out of their glass and drink the beer, they have been in country for at least 6 months. And if they pick up their glass and drink the beer, fly and all, they have been around for at least a year.
That night I thought I would walk around town. I did not get far before encountering two gangs doing some ritualized stand-off with rocks in hand on my side of the street. I casually slipped across the street and headed right on back to the safety of the hotel bar.
My flight to Savai’i was canceled since all planes were undergoing repairs. An airline worker invited me to spend the night with his family where cultural immersion began. His sister’s home was a “fale” house with a grass thatched roof. I was given a lava-lava to wear. The colorful fabric wrapped around your waist definitely beats wearing pants in the humidity.
I was instructed in dining cross-legged on mats, eating with my fingers. Flies were buzzing during the meal as a young boy fanned my food. Getting this much attention while eating was a bit disconcerting, so I tried to reduce my intake, and the kid could rest his arm.
Once on Savai’i, I had extra time waiting for a bus. Two boys were fascinated by the “palagi” (white) and every move I made, so I used the time to construct a 5” outrigger with a few sticks and some grass to wrap them together. I advised them not to take it on the high seas. This activity then attracted 15 more kids who came to either admire…or maybe they were deriding my handiwork.
There was an Oregon based lumber company in one village, and my plan was to visit this American compound. But three local girls walked on by, asked what I was up to and invited me to their home. The three lived with family in a beach village next to a bay enclosed by a reef. How could I refuse the offer. Escorted along the beach, they let me push an outrigger out into the bay and paddle. They claimed that I looked like a fisherman, but by their giggling I may have not reached that status in their eyes. Later on a walk (in my lava-lava) down mainstreet, as we carried our bottles of orange drink, Apaula insisted that I not sip from the bottle since these were the same bottles used for beer. Others might think we were boozing it up together. With the guys watching us, I figured it was best to follow her direction. Dinner was fresh fish from the bay, which did offer a change of pace since most Samoans seemed to rely heavily on canned fish.
In the evening, I was given the only bed in the hut. Apaula tucked the mosquito netting in around my bed once I was under the sheets…and then returned to the family compound. I was having a Margaret Mead moment, wondering about Apaula’s expectations and intentions. She seemed to be acting as a sixteen-year-old in search of a husband. From my perspective, she was underage and, though very kind, not eligible for any relationship. Though hesitant, I agreed to stay another night.
Her father left at 4 a.m. to fish. At dawn, her mother, after cooking for the family with help from the children, started weaving mats as wind breaks. Younger kids went off to school. Between rain squalls, Apaula did my laundry. This was getting a bit too domestic. Others might think I was living the Gauguin dream, but the reality of unmet expectations was dampening my enthusiasm. Time to move on after many thanks and profound apologies for any cultural snafus.
Whittoons 