Hi Gino:
Below is something I sent out to a small group. I see it was
forwarded up the the
GS list, and thought maybe your guys on the dual sport list might be
interested, even
though it is NKLR stuff.
In the Golden Triangle area of Asia there are thousands of
miles of off-road
riding leading to villages of Hill tribes, resettlement camps for
refugees from Burma
and logging roads. I've been on a 250-cc Yamaha TTR Raid, which was
much more fun than
trying to wrestle my behemouth BMW (or my KLR) through the jungles.
Over one four day
period I was averaging about 6 miles per hour, and that was before it
rained and made
the red clay into jello/snot.
Dr. Gregory, laughing abd riding in the jungles of the Golden Triangle
Donged, Bonged, and Gonged Burma
Road Notes January 2002
Knock on the Dragon's door. Some travelers visit the Dragon in
this part of the
world. They think the Dragon can bring them closer to Reality. It is
a world of monks,
opiates and ancient traditions. In the Golden Triangle all can be
found. Lying on
their side, in a backroom den, clouded gray with smoke, their heads
resting on a pillow
made of stone, the backpacker can wisp the Dragon, feel the breath of
Death, and wish
the Devil away, Reality back.
This is no land for the poseur traveler with Camel Trophy knock-
off clothing. It
is one of the hard places on earth, a place where thousands die at
the hand of the
government, and use of plentiful deviates from Reality can land the
traveler in a dark
place with no key. No one is leading organized motorcycle tours of
Burma. Most
tourists fly over, or around Burma, claiming they wish not to spend
their tourist
dollars in a country controlled by Generals. In reality, there are
scared, and
rightfully so.
Buddhist monks eye you, the same with the cops and military
guys. Children wave as
you ride by. They see your freedom. Try Highway 999, a flip of
Route 666, if you can
read the Burmese on the faded sign. Stop at a crumbling stupa,
meditate for ten
minutes, then jump back on the road, hammer some more hills before
the authorities
catch you, confiscate your motorcycle, and hopefully throw you and
your bike out of the
country. Here is where Laos, Thailand and Burma meet. The biggest
road from north to
south is the Mekong River. Not good riding on a motorcycle, but the
way people from the
north slip to freedom in the south.
On the paved roadways, they drive on the left, in Thailand, the
right across the
border, in Burma. It can be easy to become confused, like trying to
understand the
Buddha: right can be left, right can be wrong. Make a mistake and
your family can
listen to words over your grave, but not in Burma. Here, your bones
are smoked, a
Burmese BBQ. What is left will be sent home in a small box, if a box
is sent. There is
no reason for the government to do anything; you should not have been
here in the first
place.
A gong is a flat bell. The largest gong in the world is in
Thailand, just over
the border. Lift the hammer, wang the gong. When you leave you can
say you have
bonged the gong. Bong is not a bong. It is the dull, resonant,
sound of a large bell.
Some say a bong is a hookah, and "don't drink the water." I saw some
bongs at
Woodstock, all devoid of the Dragon stuff. No gonging, just bad
water. In Burma, the
bong is a bamboo pipe. Lay your head on a stone pillow, suck the
bong, get donged.
A month and some icy days ago I was leaning on my posthole
digger, holing up and
down fence postholes. It was the job of Job, but when repairing
fence, holes must be
dug. Sweat was dripping in my eyes, my back was tired, and both
gloves had holes.
Blisters made me stop. It was cold, a dark fall day in the Big Horn
Mountains of
Montana.
For the last months I had been decompressing. After finishing
my ride around the
world in May, I had fended off the "end of adventure" depression of
going from solo
global road warrior to working stiff. To do so I had moved around
the United States,
often under the auspices of work. My efforts to avoid Prozac included
an extended canoe
trip, a few days of the Burning Man, some road trips and immersion in
spinning words
for sale to keep MasterCard from forcing me to take a job in an
airless cubicle lit by
florescent.
Now I was faced with a gray Montana winter. Twelve months
earlier I had been
dodging errant TATA trucks and buses on the roads of India, trying to
avoid becoming
Hindu road kill. In the coming months my toughest challenges would
be to not slip a
disc while shoveling snow or becoming too friendly with Yukon Jack.
Above me were geese. I could hear them as they flew south,
goose yaking back and
forth. Geese mate for life, until one dies. As I looked up, I saw a
solo goose,
flying apart from the rest of the V formation. Male or female, I
could not tell, but I
felt it was honking at me, saying "Fly to a warm spot on the globe
when flakes of snow
start to float." The solo goose and I were at one for a few moments.
The medical guys broke my bones some days ago. It was an old
break from years ago
that needed to be re-broken because I had not let it heal correctly.
As I went under, I
smiled, knowing they could bong my bones, dong my stones, but days
later I would be
wanging a gong. I had taken the advice of that single goose, booked a
flight, and was
headed for Burma to recover. There I would rest and regenerate,
listening to gongs
being bonged and donged.
I would pass on visiting the Dragon. I had knocked on the
Dragon's door before,
and found it home. I heard no chime, just the clanging of a heavy
metal door after I
was admitted to the black hole that is the Reality of the dark side.
Instead, I would
recover lying in fields of red flowers, under a warm sun and sleep at
night on top of
sheets with an open window.
The solo goose in Big Horn Mountain airspace, as it flapped
south, had honked from
the distance, "You will fly again, without being donged by a bong in
the gong."
Gregory, on the road again
www.horizonsunlimited.com/gregfrazier
www.horizonsunlimited.com/bigdog/
__________________________________________________
Do You Yahoo!?
Send FREE video emails in Yahoo! Mail!
http://promo.yahoo.com/videomail/