Dan looked up at me with a thousand yard stare, knees bloodied, booze and betel nut on his breath. 

“What happened?” I asked. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

The fact that I got Dan to speak was a miracle. The most I was able to get out him in the last hour was barely-coherent Burmese karaoke songs. After drinking a dangerous amount of homemade liquor from a bucket, the 3 of us- me, an aspiring YouTuber; Dan, a depraved alcoholic; and his friend Mayonnaise, then crammed onto his 50cc motorcycle, with Dan at the helm, shit-faced drunk. 

The impending motorcycle accidents took place in Myanmar, but the desire to leave the comfort of home started stirring in me when I was trapped in my parent’s spare bedroom between March and July of 2020. Unable to leave home, I turned to YouTube to escape reality. I would watch young men that looked just like me- young, white, probably college educated (but definitely not using it)- go to faraway lands: North Korea, Siberia, Pakistan, and have a shockingly good time. This challenged my view of the world in a way that any traditional education never could, and raised more questions than answered. It inspired me to get off the couch, and start filming my own adventures. 

My own plans to live in Ecuador completely spoiled, I devised the only kind of adventure possible at the time: a road trip across America. And maybe I would film it- if I worked up the courage, and got over the cringe-factor of talking to a camera. 

After 5 months camping and hiking, couch surfing with hippies, hitchhiking with Mormons, kicking it with Antifa, and attending a Trump rally (just for fun), finally worked up the courage to buy a camera, and start. 

After 2 years and 0 traction on YouTube (the only subscribers I had were my mom, and a few friends that pitied me enough to watch), it was time to do something drastic to make a name for myself. I would ride my motorcycle across Eurasia- the largest land mass on Earth. Start in Ireland, end in Japan, I would surely come out on the other side with a thriving career. No more parental shame, no more poverty, and no more dead end jobs- I would emerge a successful YouTuber. And this is why I was drinking Burmese bathtub liquor in the jungle at 10AM on a Tuesday.  

This all started when Dan told me he would take me to Snake Island, one of the few tourist destinations in this far-flung beach town in Myanmar. There had been only a handful of tourists since COVID, or more importantly, the 2021 coup d’état. Myanmar’s top general forcibly took control of the government, arrested the president, and institute a military dictatorship that still persists to this day. So, in other words, this was Dan’s chance to convince a White American Male that Myanmar was safe for tourism. And being hopelessly in the throws of alcoholism, he wanted to guide me in the most local way possible: blackout drunk on a motorcycle. Dan was a super sweet guy, always making sure I was happy, and never making sure I was safe. I had a feeling we would get along. 

I got on the motorbike that day not knowing what he had in store: all I knew was that we were going to an island infested with venomous snakes- cause when you’re hurting for views on YouTube, there’s one tried and true rule that always works: do something dangerous, and people will notice you.

On Tuesday morning, Dan picked me up for our date with destiny- and by destiny, I mean road rash. As a burgeoning YouTuber, I would do anything for a good video. I liken my job to that of a whore- sucking up good ideas wherever they come from, for the low low price of my self respect. After 3 years and virtually no success, this trip to Myanmar was my last chance to make a good video before I ran out of money. Since I was travelling from Ireland to Japan using only land borders (although I had to fly in and out of Myanmar because of their ongoing civil war), next up was Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam, so I figured Myanmar was the most exciting out of all those. Myanmar was The One. If this didn’t work out, it was back to scrubbing toilets and hitch hiking. 

I tried filming an introduction for the video, where I might say something like “What’s up guys, today we’re going to a snake-infested island in a war-torn country- wish me luck!” It should have taken all of 5 seconds, but every time I tried to get the words out, Dan interrupted me: 

“What’s up g-”

“Did you say something?” 

“No, Dan. Just give me a minute.”

He pulled the bike over. 

“No, like, let me talk to the camera.” 

“Ok, no problem.” He sat silently, staring blankly at the horizon, waiting to be activated like a soviet sleeper agent.

He turned the bike off. 

“Drive, drive!” 

I thought he was fucking with me, but then I remembered— Dan is an elementary school-educated Burmese alcoholic, and it’s 10AM. He speaks 2nd grade English, and he’s had at least 3 or 4 drinks. I should cut him some slack, and let him drunk drive us in peace. The intro ended up being “I have no idea where we’re going today; I’m just along for the ride.” Oh, how right I was. I had just started filming for the day, and it was already a disaster. 

After about 30 seconds on the bike, Dan decided it was time for a drink. He had worked too hard to be even remotely sober. We pulled over in a dirt parking lot outside of a barn. There were probably 8 or 9 scooters parked outside, and people were sitting in plastic chairs out front. Turns out it was a bar: dirt floors, drunk locals, and 50 gallon barrels of hulk-green moonshine. You know, a bar. This was the local watering hole, and judging by all the scooters piled up outside, the place to be at 10AM on a Tuesday. 

“Two, please.” 

The bartender scooped 2 mugs into the vat of glowing uranium, Dan slid him 30 cents, and we plopped down on the plastic chairs outside. Dan got a mixed reception upon arriving at his local “bar.” He was boisterous and loud- trying to high five everyone, with only about 50% of the patrons returning the favor. This was my first red flag. Surely he was feeling on top of the world! The town drunk convinced a white guy to hang out with him— a true novelty in this part of the country. He knew that all of his sins would be forgiven now that he was hanging out with someone who vaguely resembled Jesus (but dirtier, and somehow poorer). All was forgiven with Dirtbag Jesus. Blessed you are, my child. Bathe in the Hulk green moonshine and wash your sins away. 

“What’s that?” I asked. 

“Pineapple allo,” said Dan. (I’m guessing he was trying to say “alcohol,” but the mixture of his poor English and 5 or 6 drinks before this, all he could come up with was “allo.”) 

I took one sip of the Hulk Juice and understood why Dan could barely speak. 

As the drinks kept flowing, the locals warmed up to us, and over the course of 30 minutes I ate, drank, and smoked everything that was passed to me. At 6’2” and white as a ghost with a disgusting mullet, it was obvious I wasn’t from there, but I tried my best to fit in. By the time Dan convinced the locals of his value based on his proximity to me, we were onto the next place: a billiards bar. And again, I’m using the word “bar” very charitably here. It was a pool table under a bamboo roof. 

We pulled up to this even shittier shack, pool table warped from sun and rain, the haggard bamboo roof barely protecting it. I asked Dan: “I thought we were going to Snake Island?” 

“We go to the next place.” 

Well, this certainly is the next place, indeed, Dan. I guess he needed to get in the mood to show me around. 

It seemed like Dan had actual friends here, because they came up to me and greeted me with a handshake and an introduction: “Mayonnaise Anga Lee Lee.” (my name is Anga Lee Lee) Mayonnaise seemed like an alright dude- we exchanged smiles, I bought us a round of drinks, and we clinked our glasses together. For two people living in completely different worlds, I thought we were getting along great. 

With more betel nut and bathtub liquor in our systems, we started belting karaoke, using the pool cues as air guitars. Dan and Mayonnaise joyously sang the greatest hits from The Voice: Myanmar Edition, imitating all the moves of their favorite singers. The exuberance and joy in Dan’s face was that of a small child on their birthday. To this day, I’ve seen few happier people in my entire life. The gurus in Bali and the monks in Nepal have obviously never heard of Hulk Juice.  

We all three hopped on Dan’s moped, feet dangling off the back, just drunk enough to have the courage to approach Snake Island. 

But not before another drink. Dan’s geolocation abilities for finding booze dens in the jungle could rival the navigation skills of Jacques Cousteau. Dan instinctively knew where each bar was on the route, and stopped at each and every one of them. Before each pit stop, he would say “I’m tired, we should stop,” as if to preemptively deflect any criticism I might have of his glaringly obvious alcohol problem. By this time, it was almost 11am – his wife and child at home, patiently awaiting his return, while he drank his bodyweight in bathtub liquor. And I- the enabler, the desperate whore seeking attention- was really starting to enjoy myself. YouTubers are just the worst. 

Since Dan and his sidekick were taking time out of their busy schedule to show me around, I decided the next round was on me. 

“How much is this one?” 

“15 cents.” 

“I’ll take 3,” the white homeless online beggar said.

We mixed our whiskies with water from a pitcher and, entrusting my gut health with a man so drunk he could barely speak, I slurped a concoction of 15 cent whisky and Burmese jungle water. I blacked out a little bit, but I vaguely remember Dan singing Burmese thrash metal word for word. 

After 9 drinks, Dan became mute. Like, Helen Keller mute. He was talking in short utterances, usually not words, to communicate. His syllables were slurring together as if he couldn’t hear them coming out of his own mouth. He had a thousand yard stare in his eyes as he lurched over to the motorbike, keys in hand, flip flops shuffling in the dirt- he had a mission to complete: to impress the first white guy he’s seen in 5 years. Mayonnaise grabbed the keys from him, and Dan vacantly said “I’m sorry.” (for the remainder of the story, Dan will say nothing but “I’m sorry,” and “I don’t know”)    

“Are you too drunk to drive?”

“I’m sorry.” 

“Will he drive? He should drive.” 

“I don’t know.” 

I know what you’re probably thinking: “Why would you let these guys drive you around the jungle when they’re blackout drunk?”

And to that I say: I was also blackout drunk. 

After I paid the bill for 6 whiskies, 2 bags of chips, 2 cigarettes and a coke (which led to a grand total of $1), we all three stumbled onto the back of the motorbike, missing foot-peg and all, to finally (maybe) head to Snake Island. 

We hit a patch of paved road, reached our top speed of 15mph, wind flowing thru my helmet-less hair, when Dan started shouting, “Are you happyyyy?! I am so happy!” Over and over, as if he had forgotten he had just said it. He stretched out his arms like a child imitating an airplane in flight. No helmet, no brain cells, not a care in the world, and 9 drinks deep. Dan was truly alive. 

And please don’t get it twisted: I was the dumbest of them all. At least Dan and Mayonnaise had a reason to be boozing this early in the morning: it’s what they did every day. Their hand was guided by a chronic physical addiction to alcohol. Me, on the other hand… I was exploiting their problem for a YouTube video. 

While Dan was experiencing true bliss on the back of a motorbike, I was realizing how close to death I was. Gripping the back of the seat with all my might, I was running through all the worst case scenarios in my head. We run out of gas in the middle of the jungle; pro-rebel militias find us; Dan works out a deal with them and sells me into slavery for a week’s supply of Hulk Juice. Or, the more likely scenario, Dan gets worked up into a karaoke frenzy behind the wheel, spread eagles his arms, and we all three tumble off, Three Stooges style. 

“But,” I lied to myself, “we probably won’t crash.” 

Chapter 2: The Crash

Dan’s pice-of-shit bike was no match for the gentle slope of a Burmese dirt road. The 50cc engine groaned under the weight of 3 grown men, stalled out, and we toppled over.

But, through pure drunk athleticism, I jumped off the back just in time to avoid getting crushed between the hot engine and a rocky jungle road. 

We all three looked at each other, in complete shock. How could this have possibly happened? 

“I’m sorry.” Dan exclaimed, one of two remaining phrases left in his vocabulary.

“No, it’s okay bro…should we walk?”

At this point, logic and survival instincts finally kicked in, and I decided to walk up the hill. During the short walk, Dan started belting Burmese karaoke, rather triumphantly, as if he hadn’t just fallen off the back of a motorcycle.  

Once he reached the top of the hill on the motorbike, Mayonnaise shouted something in Burmese, sped off, and left us to wander aimlessly in the jungle. Dan turned to hug me without saying a word, and I knew we were fucked. But, can I be candid with you? I was more upset about the fact that my YouTube video was going to be a hot pile of garbage. No one wants to watch this- what even is this? I could temporarily see through the haze of bathtub liquor, and knew I was fucked.  

Since Dan was inaudible at this point, I asked him a series of rhetorical questions.

“Where is your friend?”

“Where is Snake Island?”

“Are we close?” 

I cycled through these same questions on repeat for the next 10 minutes to no avail. I was hammered drunk, wandering around the Burmese jungle, with a mute tour guide. The South East Asian sun was pounding my fair Irish skin, bootleg alcohol coursing through my veins, mind racing on all the possible ways I could perish in the jungle of a war-torn country. 

“Where are we?” 

“Where, I don’t know,” Dan sighed. 

“Where did he go?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Can you call him?” 

“He don’t have the phone.” 

After about 15 minutes of the same back and forth, and contracting a low-grade form of skin cancer, Mayonnaise finally showed up, explained himself in Burmese, then we hopped on the back of the bike (the seat was coming off now) like nothing had happened. Which, to be fair, I can’t imagine my tour guides were developing any long-term memories. (And, neither was I. If I hadn’t filmed this day, there’s no way I would have remembered it.) We approached another gentle slope, the 50cc engine once again groaned underneath us, and I decided to hop off the back in protest and walk the rest of the way, all 2 kilometers. I’d rather subject myself to a slow cancerous death than a quick one due to head trauma.  

Mayonnaise, being the gentlemen that he is, decided to walk with me, while Dan sped off, never to be seen again… 

No just kidding, but he did disappear for 3 hours. He was hiding out at the nearest bar he could find, waiting for us to finish up at Snake Island, like an alcoholic Dad who took the kids to Disney World.  

Snake Island, the place we risked life, limb, and liver to get to, was dramatically underwhelming compared to what we had just been through. We were greeted by a gaggle of friendly Burmese children who showed us venomous snakes hidden under the rocks of this small island. It sounds much cooler than it actually was. In reality, it was just an excuse for kids to get free tips from tourists who were dumb enough to make the trek out there. 

After exchanging a few half-hearted “wows,” and giving the kids a few bucks, my buzz started to wear off, and all I wanted was to retreat to my hotel room and not speak to anyone for 3 days. I just filmed what might be the worst YouTube video of all time. Nothing went to plan, and I was abandoned in the jungle several times. I tried to salvage it and come to some sort of conclusion at the end, but the best I could come up with was:

“I don’t know what the future holds here in Myanmar, but I’ll see y’all in the next one…peace.” 

Riveting stuff. 

Shitty hungover-at-2pm-YouTube-outro aside, we still had to get out of the jungle, and my ride was pulling up, fresh from the bar, ready to captain this ship. I reluctantly jumped on the back one last time. 

Dan hit a straight patch of paved road, revved the accelerator, and my hat flew off my head. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Dan shouted from the driver’s seat of the bike. In an earnest attempt to retrieve it, he drunkenly initiated a low speed U-turn on a 50cc bike with 3 grown men on it, and crashed. You might not be surprised, but Dan was shocked. I’m sure he had successfully completed this maneuver a thousand times before, with even more alcohol in his bloodstream, but he didn’t account for an additional 200 pound man on the back of his bike. He looked up at me from the pavement with the cold blank stare of only someone truly blacked out, as if he didn’t fully grasp what was happening. It was heartbreaking, and, with some hindsight, hilarious. 

Mayonnaise valiantly captained the ship back to my hotel, where he then shamelessly asked for some more money. After paying for everything all day, being abandoned in the jungle, and surviving 2 motorcycle accidents at his and Dan’s hands, I politely refused. 

I flopped down in my beach bungalow after a truly disastrous day, and drifted off into a drunk slumber. A few hours later, I awoke to a loud thud, and 2 Burmese men arguing. Dan and Mayonnaise had crashed their motorbike into the building. True poetry.