Author: Christopher Preston

Back in Nyaungshwe there’s time to find the bank to change money.  Hotel reception tells me there’s one just down the road but when I get there, it’s closed.  All banks close at three pm – a legacy from the British I suppose.  I have better luck changing my US dollars back at the Cherry Queen Hotel.  They are apologetic about not giving the same rate as the bank and it all has to be approved by the Finance Department which is upstairs. Phone calls are made to verify the amount then one of the girls has to go up the stairs to collect the cash. The Post Office is in the opposite direction where I easily by stamps for postcards.  Yes, I have one or two friends who still do these.

Richard still owes a couple of our group massages.  Ray, who now has an infected foot, is in no mood for this, but Mike is up for it. Garry and I decide to join the expedition and follow Richard C into town via a dog’s hind leg route.  He points out land-marks on the way and I’m thinking that this may well prove useful later.  The Massage is once again excellent – one by women this time.  Mike and I share a room and I hear him giggling away to himself.  The masseuse keeps asking him if he’s OK – he’s just enjoying himself.  Rather than walk all the way back to the hotel, Garry and I stop for a beer and wait for the others to join us for dinner. It’s Ray’s choice – he’s done his research on ‘gay friendly’ places in Myanmar and day-time coffee has confirmed this place.  The obviously gay friendly staff aren’t on this evening, but that’s OK, they are still friendly.  Some of the others are going on to a bar, but I’m ready to go home and set off confident that I know the way back. A turn to the right seems to be leading me into the outskirts and I end up in a dead end bus terminal, dark and deserted. Retracing my steps I run into Nev and Richard N – who fortunately know that it’s a left turn that’s needed to get back to the Cherry Queen.

The following morning we’re back on the road to Mandalay. Last year this journey took twelve hours and was allegedly scenic for part of the way.  Four of our party have elected to fly on a leisurely midday flight.  It’s an early start for those of us loyal to Priscilla but the deserters still have to get up and pack so that their luggage can go on the bus.

Our intrepid navigators Oo and Suu have a plan to take the quick route and not to stop for lunch. Our journey to Mandalay takes only six hours and we arrive olnly half an hour later that the flyers – much to their surprise.  This gives me and Peter time for yet another massage – to remove the travel weariness and meet up for drinks before a fantastic Burmese meal from Mama’s Guest house, served on the roof.

Our final destination is Pyin Oo Lwin, the Hill station where the British carried out their colonial administration in the hot season.  It’s a sprawling mass of a place with remnants of early 19^th C colonial architecture struggling to be recognised among later additions and alterations. We visit a waterfall which Richard hasn’t seen before.  It’s full of local tourists and the young men have taken off their shirts for a swim.  We buy hot freshly cooked snacks from a stall and explore.  These falls cascade over arranged rocks made from concrete, they are pretty but artificial.

Next we call in at Oo’s favourite temple it’s claimed to have the largest marble Buddha in the world.  The Chinese had ordered it and were trying to transport it back to China. The task seemed impossible and it was decided that the Buddha did not want to travel to China, so here it stayed.

There’s time to recover before what Richard says will be a surprise at 4pm.  It’s a ride in horse-drawn carriages.

Peter and I go for the pink one and off we all go to look at the colonial architecture, which now seems out of place in this country.  We pass a mosque then stop at a Hindu temple, followed by the Catholic and Anglican churches.

It is strange to be in these familiar buildings albeit with a local flavour.  Our dinner tonight overlooks a lake or more properly, a dam.  Garry orders a whole bottle of Gin and a crate load of tonic plus ice, so we are obliged to help him out with this.

We walk the short distance back to the Hotel in the dark.  It’s threatening rain and continues to do so the next day when we visit the National Kandawgyi Gardens. Richard C is intending to change money in town and gives me what he thinks might be enough to cover our entrance fee.

It’s nowhere near enough, but I can just manage it leaving me with 500kt (50c). I immediately set of to walk around the lake as indicated on the map. The layout looks promising with manicured lawns and brightly coloured bedding plants.  The weather is inclement and we have only two hours before the bus collects us.

I’m attracted to the bamboo groves. I’ve always admired its versatility and tenacity.  It has so many uses from scaffolding to kitchen ware.  Some of the stands here are massive.  There’s an aviary and I’m apprehensive as I especially hate seeing birds in cages. They were meant to fly.  These ones are in a netted off forest, not exactly free to fly away but better – only just. There’s a raised forest walk – very trendy in botanical gardens these days and a massive orchid section.  Unfortunately it’s not the season and I’m guessing that this would be fantastic at the right time of year.

By this time I’ve teamed up with Peter and John who seem to have a system.  We have a look at the butterfly museum. No, there aren’t any butterflies floating around, they are all dead and we’re initially disappointed but they are so magnificently mounted – arranged in patterns en mass, that we are stunned.  I am determined to walk right around the lake, even though it means going out of the park and around the road.  Richard N, who has rushed up the tower, joins me and John – Peter takes a short cut bridging the lake.

The view from the tower is through dirty glass windows, not worth the climb as the lift is not working.  Everyone else is having coffee when we get back to the main entrance and the bus is waiting for us.

There is no sign of Richard C when we get back to the hotel, which is a bit of a worry as I now don’t have enough cash for lunch.  A whole crowd of us go to a local espresso place which does cakes and French toast.  Garry treats me to lunch but back at the hotel, Richard is still not around.  He’s been all day looking for a place to change dollars, not realising that it’s Sunday.  Eventually a gold jewellery shop does it.  Fortunately he returns in time for me to pay for my last Burmese massage.  Having been told that there are no massage places here, Garry has discovered a couple of lads who make Hotel visits and I’ve grabbed one of them.

They are rumoured to be twins but when both arrive at my room, they are clearly not even brothers. Richard N has agreed to vacate our room for ninety minutes, so I leave one lad and take the other one to Garry.  I’m a bit nervous about this taking place in the hotel room but this turns out to be the deepest and best massage of the tour.  My lad says he’s nineteen – been doing this for one year and his mate who finishes a bit early, comes to chat while he finishes.  They have little English, but I gather that they only visit hotels and massage ladies and men. They get excited when I mention Aung San Suu Kyi and they have heard of Obama, although I point out that unlike Garry, I am not American. The older lad is twenty and sports the local sun-block on his cheeks. They both have mobile phones and were probably checking with each other and whoever finds them the work.

The last dinner is a set menu at the old ‘Club’ building from colonial times.  We are the only guests and have an entire dining to ourselves.  It’s a great atmosphere and we’ve had a fantastic time with Outside the Square.  Richard did warn us that Myanmar is still developing and not to expect the same standards as other nearby countries.  We’ve been pleasantly surprised by the hotels and how safe we all feel in this amazing country.

This all may change in the future, but I hope not.  Best of all, someone points out, that being an all gay group, we’ve not had to filter our conversation as we do in mixed situations.  This has surely contributed to the relaxed atmosphere throughout the tour.  I’m looking forward to Argentina with Richard C in September – watch out for it.

This morning we’re going to Inthay village which, Richard C promises, is an Indiana Jones style ride upstream. Our regular boatmen collect us and we journey though the lake village to a muddy river. Bamboo weirs have been constructed at intervals and there is just enough of a gap for one boat to accelerate up the mini rapid to the next level.

It’s not quite as narrow or as fast-flowing as Indiana Jones would prefer, but it’s still a good ride, especially as the boatman has to allow for downstream traffic and give way or steam ahead accordingly.

Canal boats in England have a speed limit to preserve the canal sides. No such speed limit here, and the result of erosion can be seen, not only in the colour of the water, but the banks, in many places have been sand-bagged up to prevent further collapse. The river is busy with trading boats carrying all kinds of goods, from cement to woven baskets. There’s lots of demand for cement here: the river banks need constant shoring up and there is a boom in building everywhere. The English

Language news-paper boasts of economic progress and the determination of the country to join the globalised world, beginning with trade talks amongst their immediate South East Asian neighbours.  I wonder if they know quite what they are letting themselves in for. It’s a difficult thing to deny a decent standard of living, though I don’t see anyone starving, just lean and healthy.

We are heading to the Shwe Inn Tain, yet another temple up a hill and there’s a 500Tk (50c) charge to take photographs. This must be the longest shopping mall yet, though as it’s the low season, most of the stalls are empty. There’s some pretty amazing stuff for sale and it attracts our attention. You have to be wary of saying ‘on the way back’ as the stall holders will remember you and if you’ve already bought from someone else, they will be upset.  There’s also dozens of abandoned stupas, overgrown and ripe for exploring.

The actual temple at the top, houses the usual statue of Bhuddha, but the stupas out the back are fantastic – so photogenic as they line up in rows for eager photographers. Then there are the forgotten stupas with trees growing out of their tops. I manage to avoid engagement with the stall-holders on the way down and find a group of overgrown stupas to shoot.  Back at the river there is a group of white tourists discussing if it’s worth paying the 50c to take photographs, ‘Yes’ I say in passing. They look surprised and I don’t wait to see what they decide.

I pause to watch boatmen unloading cement. They’ve removed their longyis so they won’t get dirty, revealing tight black briefs which are now grey with cement dust.  Now we know what the Burmese working man wears under his longyi. I’ve got my eye on a small hill on the other side of the village.  It has a cluster of ruined stupas (I like a ruin or two) on top and promises a good view. It’s long abandoned and I can overlook the village and temples further up the hill. Just at the bottom of this hill a brand new monastery has been built right next to a group of abandoned stupas.

I find the other guys and order lunch even though I’m not hungry and think that my stomach could do with a rest. When they forget my order, it’s no big deal. John has made a purchase and is very excited. He lays out a beautiful quilted picture on the next table – a good buy. Garry and Mark have to go back up the hill to complete their purchase by VISA. We wait for them in one of the boats while the other one goes ahead. Suddenly they arrive with a stall holder in tow, clutching a large plastic shopping bag containing the purchase. Unfortunately there was a misunderstanding as the other stall did VISA so they need to borrow cash from us. Between us we almost have enough, so the woman has to decide. She accepts what’s offered and the guys have a bargain. I’m almost cleaned out of cash but figure that I’ll get paid back soon enough.

Going downstream on the way back is almost like shooting the rapids if you close your eyes and imagine. We collect our luggage from the hotel and set off up the lake to Nyuangshwe.

We pass fishermen as featured on postcards, casting their nets and using a leg to drive the paddle.

There are also boatmen employed to weed the lake.  Using a long bamboo pole, they hook up the weed onto the boat, creating improbable mountains for the size of the boat.

Clearly this is and always has been a highly managed environment – not exactly an ecosystem.  It’s comparable to the so-called ‘natural’ beauty of the English countryside, which has been farmed/gardened/managed for over five hundred years. There is little doubt that left to itself Inle Lake would just silt up. The English countryside might take longer to revert to forest.

Back in Nyuangshwe we are re-united with Priscilla and Richard is trying out a new hotel with the significant name of Cherry Queen.  Now, if you are a Japanese tourist, this will resonate with your Cherry Blossom festival. If you are a gay man, the association will be entirely different … we like the name.

Morning reveals that the late-stayers, John & Nev had an adventure getting back from the bar.  Nev has a local sim card and does the sensible thing by engaging his Sat Nav app to navigate.  Unfortunately he was so busy looking at the app on his phone that he failed to notice a ditch and fell right into it.  John remembers saying, ‘You fit quite nicely in that ditch.’  He’s covered in mud, scratched and bruised and causes quite a stir at the Hotel reception.  He appears at breakfast with just about all his toes sporting sticking plaster

Not far out of Kalaw there are caves full of Buddhas.  This place is very curious as the small statues are placed in niches along the rock walls.  Many are cloaked and most lit up with fairy or LED lights.  Someone tells me that the far cave is very dirty and slippery and contains bats.

I’m keen to see them, having only witnessed one solitary bat flying over my London garden on summer nights.  The first thing I notice is the smell of ammonia, its bat shit.  There’s a cry as I enter, which may or may not be a bat warning the others.

Several shadowy shapes flutter silently away from me and I quickly dismiss irrational fears and gain confidence – they have no intention of attacking.  Because it’s a temple, I’m again walking bare-footed in shit. I have to hold on to the walls of the cave and in some places crouch to get through the passage way.  Bats continue to flee silently and where space above permits they escape back over my head. It becomes quite magical, in spite of the shitty wet floor.

Outside I find a trench of stagnant water surrounding a Buddha and think he won’t mind if I wash my feet. Back near the entrance there’s a tap to give them another rinse. John decides to explore this cave just as we are about to leave. I warn him about the shit and danger of slipping – we don’t need any more accidents. I’m just about to go looking for him, when he’s spotted emerging from behind a row of Buddhas, safe and sound.

As we near Nyaungshwe we stop at Peter’s request at the famously photographed Shwe Yan Pyay Monastery.  It’s unusual for its oval windows and looks entirely deserted.  We go in and peeing through a doorway behind the Buddha statue see a few boy monks in a very untidy dormitory with no beds, so they must sleep on the polished wooden floors.

Across the courtyard is a revelation – an arched complex houses tributes to all the people who have historically supported the monastery. The effect is stunning.  This artistic financial acknowledgement I‘d noticed back in the temple with printed lists on the walls – the most recent are written on a white-board – so up-to-date.

For families, it is an honour to have a son in a monastery as this is a good way for them to get an education and it’s an ambition of every family to have at least one son to find his vocation here.

Oo tells me that he spent four years as a monk.

‘You like?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ he nods and smiles.

It’s clear that Buddhism is central to the national psyche and has sustained them through years of trouble. I think it will also be important in their future.  The other way to be educated is to join the military.  All through our travels we pass elementary schools with kids in white shirts and green longyis in the school play grounds or walking to and from their homes. Education is a noisy affair and the sounds of reciting can be heard from the road.

Priscilla drops us in Nyaungshwe and takes Ray for more medical attention.

We can explore the market – relatively free from hawkers, but I choose to try a local barber.  Peter advises that I wait and check out what the guy currently being done looks like when finished.  He looks fine and goes on to have a shave.  The bib looks a bit grubby but I think I can cope with that.  I get a quote, it’s 5000Kt around $6 NZ so even if that is tourist rates, its OK. There are several other locals sitting outside on the seats and I think there might be a queue, but no, they are just sitting and passing the time of day, so I’m next. The first thing the barber does is get out a freshly laundered bib, which is a bit of a relief. I manage to convey what I want with sign language and off he goes.  It reminds me of the methodology used by the barber in my home town as a kid – the short-back-and-sides method.  He asks if I want a shave (I need one) and I agree.  I’ve actually never been shaved by anyone else before.  He makes a great show of putting in a brand new blade into his cut-throat razor and I try not to think of Sweeny Todd.  He’s very gentle, but he’s used to sparse Burmese beards which are mostly confined to a few hairs on the chin and upper lip.  He has to work a bit harder for me.  Peter returns and I pass muster.

Priscilla, the bus, drives us through Nyaungshwe to the river where we say goodbye and clamber into two boats – luggage in front – for a one hour journey down the lake.  It’s quite shallow and is in danger of being choked up with water Hyacinth, which floats around in clumps.  The boat has a short propeller shaft, presumably so they can be reached easily and de-fouled. The water is, especially in the busy channels, muddy from being churned up.  We pass signs proclaiming ‘conservation of the biosphere’ – this might indicate an understanding of the connectivity to the rest of the planet, but I think it’s about retaining the lake as a place to live, fish and sustain the tourist trade.

Left to its own devices the floating weed would silt up the lake leaving a river of sorts. Already agriculture has reclaimed strips of solid ground where corn is grown.

Our Hotel, on sits to the side of the lake, is charming and I’m sharing with Peter for a few days.  He’s fun and full of anecdotes and giggles. Once again it’s cool enough to do without the Air Con and mosquito nets are provided. Richard C has arranged for most of us to have rooms facing the lake.

It’s great at 5.30am standing on the balcony, but rush hour begins early here and the noise of the boats, small and large carrying produce, commuters and tourists becomes ever present and loud.  We get used to it along with the variable wifi all over the country.  It’s mostly too weak to hook up to on a lap-top and I spend hours trying to up-load the blog. Mobile phones cope much better and it’s worth noting that Facebook, Grindr and my Guardian Apps work OK on low connectivity. Power-cuts don’t help either and these are frequent.  I point out here that they are common at home on Waiheke Island so it’s not just a third world problem.

Kalaw is fairly high up so temperatures take a welcome dip.  This means we can turn off the air con and leave a window open. The full extent of Ray’s injuries have surfaced.  He’s got badly bruised ribs and has to sleep sitting up. Fortunately there is a pharmacy in the town with a good supply of pain-killers.

I take up the option of a four hour hike up to a mountain village with veteran hikers  Nev and John – who did the Outside the Square’s Milford track – plus Mike and of course our leader Richard C.  Our guide is a small, compact and very fit young man called Tenzing.  We all get very excited on hearing his name and ask him if he’s Nepalese.  He doesn’t know. He thinks he’s Burmese.  The British brought Gurkas and Sherpas here to build the railway but never returned them.  It was more cost effective not to use local labour, which might at any time decide to go home. We are convinced that

Tenzing looks Nepalese although none of us have a clear idea of what that might look like.  I ask him if he’s heard of Mount Everest. He has. I explain that we come from New Zealand, Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing were the first to climb Everest and that they are heroes in our country. His eyes light up – he’s pleased.

We drive for twenty minutes in a taxi to a rough road which has obviously taken vehicles of some sort, but we only see motor scooters – the workhorses of South East Asia – passing occasionally.

We’re walking through market gardens on the edge of the mountain forests. Fields of Dragon fruit (a cactus), coffee trees growing under the forest canopy, taro, random bananas, corn and greens on the flatter areas all grow splendidly.  Oranges are one of the main crops, covering the steep hillsides.  I walk with Mike for some of the way.  He’s a keen gardener and works in a garden centre in Auckland, so he knows a lot about plants.  We’re able to share observations and identify some species.  One discovery is that teak trees have huge leaves and we have been looking at new plantings all along the mountain roads we travel on.

John, who knows a lot about NZ forest giants can’t believe that teak would have large leaves, but it’s confirmed when we actually see a huge tree with its distinctive trunk. I develop a theory that the large leaves have evolved to beat the creepers which choke the forest. Large leaves cover the smaller leaved creepers, depriving them of light. John agrees with my theory.  We’ve seen logging trucks on the road and carefully labelled logs stacked along the way, but very few mature specimens. It looks as if some of the denuded rain-forest is regenerating and young teak trees are being planted everywhere.

The English language paper reports that illegally harvested teak logs have been seized.  Police and the forestry department found three tonnes of logs worth $506 US – they are still looking for the culprit.  Of course regeneration is a problem for the farmers here who have to constantly weed their crops and reclaim farm-land. Tenzing says that these hill farmers are better off than most Burmese because they work harder.  This might be partly true as new grander houses are being built here.  There is still no strategy for rubbish collection in the countryside (parallels with rural NZ here) as time and again I see plastic near rivers; when the Ayeyerwady River floods, much of this will end up in the Indian Ocean.  In these hills, as everywhere else, rubbish is tipped at specific locations, often in a gully at the start of a stream.

On close inspection, it’s entirely packaging: empty plastic sachets once containing laundry powder, body lotions or snacks.  Everything these days is packaged – for our convenience, but eighty or even thirty years ago everything on these tips would have been biodegradable.  Is this progress?  In the west, this rubbish might not be visible, but it’s still around, in land fill.

What price is Myanmar paying to so eagerly join the global market? There’s also evidence of ‘roundup’ use in places – suggesting that the Monsanto giant has already planted its influence. Provided you don’t look down the track banks, the scenery is lush and verdant and the walk, good exercise for my legs.

In the village we stop for a prearranged cup of green tea from flasks and palm sugar snacks.  The house is dark and rustic, belonging to an elderly man – all the other villagers are out working in the fields.  Tenzing reveals the origin of his fitness. disappointingly this is not tramping in the mountains but attending the Gym.

The afternoon is to catch up on writing and sorting out photographs before I forget what happened.  The others go into town as its market day and reputed to be vast. It’s still light when we walk into the centre for dinner, dressed as has become our custom in longyis.

There’s a bar the others have sussed out in the afternoon where pool is being played and we stop to have a pre-dinner beer. We pass one of the few mosques I’ve seen so far.  There’s quite a controversial standoff between Buddhists and Muslims in some part of the country and foreigners are still restricted from travelling to these areas.  Once again the English Language paper comes to my aid, reporting that the UN has sent a Human Rights Reporter to talk to Aung San Suu Kyi about the situation for Muslims of Bangladeshi origin in Rakhine State.

After dinner at a Burmese restaurant, some of us go to what claims to be the smallest bar in the world.  It’s a horseshoe shape and six of us join conversations.  Two American girls (one German born) are looking at us from the other side.

I own up. ‘Yes we’re all gay.  By just walking in, we’ve just turned this bar gay.’ It turns out that the girls are lesbians so the place is at least LG.  The Polish couple talking to Peter are probably not gay and there are two locals, one of them very drunk.  He’s talking very loudly to the girls but there’s a gap in the conversation, so I jump in.

‘What should we call the people of Myanmar.’

‘Bama,’ is the short reply.  He then launches into a lecture about how the country used to be called Bama before the British.

‘We know about that,’ I say, but he expands his thesis that the British liked to put ‘ese’ on the end of every country: Chinese, Siamese etc.  I don’t mention that there are quite a few countries which escaped this treatment, like Cambodia, India, Nigeria etc.

‘So do we refer to the people as just Bama or Baman people or Baman?’

‘Just Bama.’

He’s too drunk to go on and I hear the barman say, ‘Actually we’re just Burmese.’

Further research suggests that Bama is the old name for the Bagan area.  By now I’ve finished my whiskey – not at all sure that it can be called Scotch but it’s good and the trouble is that I always want one more.  I decide to be sensible and some of us go back to the hotel.  Fortunately Richard C has brought a torch and there’s always the trusty mobile phone to light my way.

We’re on our way to the hills, passing through more prosperous looking farm land.

Everywhere there are palm trees bordering the fields and clustered around the houses.  These are the Sugar Palms, not to be confused with the Palm trees grown for cheap palm oil which encroach on vast areas of rain forest in places like Indonesia and Malaysia.  The male and female fruit are tapped for the sweet syrup they contain.

We stop to look around a Palm sugar ‘factory’ where an elderly man climbs up one of the trees to collect clay pots which hang under the fruit.  We are shown the process of reducing this liquid to a sticky syrup and eventually crystals.

Large woks sit in a row on a clay oven and the liquid is moved from the cooler end to the hot end.

There is also a fermentation process, which produces a spirit from crude stills.

At the end (shop) are some delicious snacks to be purchased.  Palm sugar lumps with plum, grated coconut or tamarind.  We stock up for our journey, finding that palm sugar is not sickly sweet like cane sugar – ideal.

On the journey to Kalaw, we pass Mount Poppa, home of The Nats.  These are ancient deities who pre-date Buddha.

The Bagan ruler who brought Buddhism from South India, cleverly found a place for them in the new religious hierarchy.  The Nats, number 37, and although only four are special to the Mount Popa region, all can be worshiped, usually by the offering of fruit or money.

They originate from people who suffered particularly violent deaths- usually at the hand of some despotic ruler.  Mount Poppa is a volcanic plug, formed when a volcanic core cools very fast and is much harder than the surrounding ash.  Erosion revealed the mountain, so there’s a climb of 777 steps to the Monastery perched on top. Richard C has warned us about the monkeys – we must leave any food on the bus to avoid invasion.  They are abundant, being fed by the faithful and tourists who purchase newspaper cones of small nuts from the sellers.  When the cones are thrown, there’s a monkey fight and the successful ones scamper to a safe place to tear open the paper, discarding it after eating the contents.

The monkeys can also be observed opening plastic water bottles to drink and one nursing mother grabs a can of sugary fizzy drink, removes the straw (that’s too sophisticated) and drinks the dregs.  Sticky drops fall on the baby, who promptly moves from underneath Mum to her back.  The consequence of all this is rubbish, which, with an abundance of monkey shit, has to be cleaned off the steps so that we can climb bare-footed. Volunteer cleaners station themselves all the way up with brooms and mops. Their buckets contain black water, so I can’t help thinking that the monkey shit is just getting moved around and our feet are covered in it.

Each cleaner asks politely for a ‘donation for the cleaning’.  It’s advisable, for the sake of your conscience to have lots of small notes about you.  I gave my last 200kt (less than 20cents) to the first cleaner at the bottom and had to shake my head and apologise to the rest. I’m thinking that the solution to the monkey shit might be to stop feeding them, then; they would go away and live in the forest.  On reflection this would mean that the nut sellers would loose their living and so would the ‘volunteer’ cleaners.  In terms of ecological economics, it’s best to put up with the shit and being a farm boy, I’m used to it. Along with the usual families and a few western tourists risking the monsoon threat, there’s a school party visiting today, so there’s lots of teenage drama, especially from the girls who are protesting about the climb.

There are displays of The Nats at the bottom and the top – they are astonishing. Their representation by 21^st C manikins and dressed in clothing of mixed vintage means I now have to invent a new category – Buddha Kitch – wondrous.

There’s a great view from the top but the main attraction is us.  The school kids are fascinated; they try out a few words of English and cuddle up to us for selfies on their mobile phones.

Nev and Peter manage to get surrounded.  Nev’s boys are all style conscious like many young men here – vain about their looks – a streak of bleached red hair and trendy camouflage trousers.  These boys in their school uniforms, are not quite at that stage, but one of them is wearing a red scarf with confidence and doesn’t seem to know that red is an unlucky colour to wear up on this mountain.

Garry has had to change his top, so we try to tease the boy about it.  Not sure if he got it though.

I

seem to attract the girls who boldly ask to be photographed with me, one at a giggling time.   There’s no opportunity to wash feet before putting on my sandals and getting on the bus. Hopefully, nothing nasty has stuck.

Its day seven and I can see by the map of Bagan that there are potentially hundreds more temples and stupas to see.  We start off with a whitewashed temple which houses murals and then we stop in the middle of three options.

It’s very hot and Richard points to Tayoke pyay.  That’s where we are going.  So I set off ahead but no one follows. It’s small and elegant, worth the walk.  When I get back to the bus, everyone has gone to another temple.

I’m too hot to walk over and cool down inside Priscilla. Just to break things up, we’re visiting Minnathu Village. It looks very basic, houses made from bamboo screens.  We have a girl who guides us and the new electricity supply is pointed out.

Street lights are dotted around and we are shown a large television and other electrical goods in one of the houses.  Last year, Richard tells us, the village had only just got electricity and they kept turning things on and off in wonderment.  It all seems incongruous amongst these shanty type dwellings and primitive shelters for animals.  The tethered bull is aggressive but the gelded steers are docile.

We are shown a single cotton plant with the raw material for weaving protruding from a pod.  This house has a crude loom and our guide sits down and does a few rows.  So many rural Burmese live in houses like this – walls of plaited bamboo, roofs thatched with leaves of the Sugar Palm tree and cooking on wood fires.

It does appear that the people still live here though in five years, this might be a model village with the people busing in for the day.

Next up is Dhamma-ya-za-ka with its golden spire is unusual for being pentagonal – most Bagan pagodas are square.

Heading south we visit a lacquer factory in New Bagan and observe the process, starting with the shaping of bamboo strips into the required shape. Sanding the bamboo then applying lacquer is a time consuming process. Each coat of it has to dry before proceeding.  Some cups are made on a base of horse hair woven between bamboo spines; this gives them great flexibility.  Between each layer of lacquer the items are rubbed down by very bored looking boys and finally painted with intricate patterns by girls.

They all sit cross legged on the floor or raised platforms.  We are assured that they are all over eighteen and get around $4US a day with the painters getting $6US.  Astonishingly, this is enough for the purchase of a mobile phone.  The young people of Myanmar are thus connected to the rest of the world … in theory … provided they can get wifi.

You guessed, it’s shopping time and there’s some beautiful things which tempt me sorely, but I don’t need any more stuff – maybe a set of chopsticks? They are unadorned black and I can’t find two of the same length.  Others are buying and the Americans are contributing generously to this economy.  Mark buys a fabulous lacquered chest with red legs.  I don’t ask how much he paid as furniture takes months and even years to make.  He’s getting it shipped home and plans to use it as a filing cabinet.  Nice, I think. Garry mutters a few words about keeping files in the cellar, but don’t quote me.  ‘What are you like?’ is the ‘northern’ expression I keep saying to them and they roar laughing.

We return to our café for lunch.  It’s roasting and we rush to find a table next to the giant fan.  Bursting with food, we stop to visit Georgie’s family shop where we sit down to green tea and a range of nibbles.    We meet his heavily pregnant wife, his young son who is very shy and his Mother-in-law, the owner of Priscilla the bus. Georgie will not be with us for the next part of our tour as he is needed with to be around for the birth.  Photos are taken and we force ourselves to eat something, particularly the mango. We notice very old photographs on the wall of Aung San – hero of early Burma (1920), during and following the British.  He is the father of Aung San Suu Kyi.  The frames, high up on the wall, look as if they have been gathering dust for decades and have escaped notice.

Thatbyinyu inside the area of Old Bagan, is the largest of the temples. Built by King Alaungsithu (1113-1163) to atone for his sins, it was never quite finished before he died. Its whitewashed walls, stained with age lend it a sinister atmosphere.

By the time we get to Manuha temple, it is raining hard and we scurry with umbrellas into a long building to marvel at the size of a reclining Buddha. Having left sandals and umbrellas at the other end of the building, it’s a dash back to retrieve them.

It’s still raining by the time we reach our sunset Pagoda – Shwe San Daw.  It’s a clamber up the steps with camera slung over my head, clutching umbrella in one hand, and a hand-rail in the other, this feels like an adventure.  I’m wearing my longyi today, so have to tuck that in to avoid treading on the hem.  Rain and sunshine pour down, but the light is amazing.

Peter thinks this view is better than the modern tower (some of the guys went there early in the morning) as everything is much closer.  We’ve become photo buddies, looking out for the best shots and angles.  Peter’s results on his ipad are breathtaking and I get to use it to take a few of him.   We are both raving about the rain washed light shining on the pagodas to the East.

It’s too early to see the sunset, so we indulge looking the other way, while everyone else huddles under umbrellas looking west.

The sun strikes the golden stupas one by one on its journey behind the hills across the Ayeyerwady River.

After dark, with hints of rain still in the air, we visit a functioning temple lit up as if it was Christmas.

There is water lying everywhere – just as well I’m bare-footed, though Ray is not so lucky and ends up having a nasty fall.  I don’t find out about this until the next day when his bruised ribs come to the fore. Onwards to our restaurant which tonight is Burmese and delicious with great service, so no obvious drama at the end of the day. Ray is being stoic and cheerful as ever.