Ashley met a guy in Laos who said he boated from Katha to Bhamo, and then hitched from to Myitkyina. So here we were, ready to give it a shot. Did this random guy mention that the road would be restricted to foreigners due to the regular spats of military violence? No. Did this random guy mention that the Burmese wouldn’t understand what a hitchhiker thumb meant, because it simply didn’t exist? Of course not.

 

 

Day 14

The Burmese have this two-motion hand flick that means “no.” I guess the first concerns came after we got about ten of those in a row.

Standing in front of some family-owned shops in the outskirts of Bhamo slowly drew more attention. Angry men wearing longyis can be intimidating. We couldn’t get to Bhamo by land, we had to fly. That much we understood.

“We’re headed to the airport, thanks bye!”

Finally a small yet tough-looking man got us in his vehicle, and only in retrospect did we appreciate just what a vehicle it was.

 

 

The next bunch gathered around us, informing Ash and I that we were in fact standing in a village restricted to foreigners. They proceeded to whip out a cell phone and tell me onward journeying was simply not possible. In 2.3 languages: fluent Burmese, crappy Mandarin, and even crappier English.

We walked at a brisk pace until I waved down an SUV full of kids, figured out they were of Chinese ancestry, and jumped in their trunk all within a span of 20 seconds.

Catching our breath, I pointed out to Ash that we were sitting next to a picnic basket,  a case of large beers, and a pretty paper box holding what could only be cake.

Yep, this was happening. The kids, and therefore us too, were off to celebrate a birthday in nature. The driver pulled up to a scenic river and we piled out.

Our adrenaline levels had somewhat normalized. Ash and I found ourselves sitting under a bridge, with fluffy cake being shoved into one hand, and Myanmar drafts into thrown into the other.

 

 

Our last driver was possibly a thug. A motorbike was strapped to the roof of his sedan, creating the type of visual that I’ve learned to simply not question.

My afternoon essentially became one giant game of chicken against anything coming the from the other way. Except maybe the cows, who actually don’t give a flying fudge. Even when cars in front had paused to give alms, our guy just blasted the horn and almost ran over the women collecting.The one time I accidentally glanced at the speedometer, it read 110 kph.

Six military checkpoints of soldiers holding guns and the occasional grenade later, Ash and I arrived in Myitkyina each in one piece, if not a tad frazzled.

We treated ourselves to some sugar cane juice, checked into New Light Hotel, $9, and found a random park. As the sun went down I was appreciating everyone out there who can truly embrace “let’s just try.” Traveling alone ruins traveling with others, because it opens opportunities to plans defined by uncertainty. Rather than second guessing a highly uncomfortable, unauthorized situation, I prefer to be stubborn and remind myself that I’m just a hobo and truthfully, I have all day.

Also shout out to Ash who just might be my brother from another mother because for as different backgrounds as we come from, we both wanted nothing more than fruit for dinner.

 

Day 15

The morning drizzle and surprisingly adequate wifi gave us a slow start, but at least we were out of the red zone.

I tried betel and it ended up being spicy in a cinnamon way, and I was more prematurely spitting than chewing. My saliva never quite made it to that blood-red color filling the streets. I call this stuff oral cancer in a leaf.

 

 

Some ice cream and a very confused family of four later, we still hadn’t gotten out of Myitkyina. The next vehicle that stopped was a cheap bus that took us to Namati. There, we had a proper bowl of mohinga for lunch, noodle soup made from a fish broth.

 

 

The fact that you can walk up to a gas station and people kindly point you to the bathroom is just another reason I adore this country. While Ash did his business, I tried to talk to four teenage girls, who were pointing and gasping at the backpack strap welts on my shoulders. Then they got to watch me clasp my hands together and jump up and down only to get rejected by a giant truck, and as Ash put it, “disappear in a cloud of black smoke.”

I’m a stellar role model for girls around the world—what else can I say?

 

Need the other side of the story? Read Ash’s blog post here.