Reggie Thomson’s Diary

I woke up at four, perhaps out of custom, for I don’t think anyone was going for a ferry. At first, I dithered, but then I decided I should get up and go for a sunrise photo from Mandalay Hill. I crept past the sleeping hotel staff. However, when I got to the front door, I discovered it was padlocked. I didn’t wish to disturb the staff, several of whom were sleeping on hard mats or the seats. So, I crept back upstairs, and gave myself some more sleep. It was a pity. When I got up, the sun was shining. I’m sure it would have been a great sunrise.

Thinking the railway station might be interesting, I went that way. I walked along the tracks, because everyone else seemed to be doing so. One of the guards chatted briefly. Going over the railway bridge, a lady held out her hand for money. Then she pulled out her other, leprous hand, to prove she was eligible for free gifts. I see from the map that there is a leprosy hospital in Mandalay. It is not my policy to take photos of poverty or plight. The camera is for taking pictures of beauty.

A small mosque caught my eye, with a bright blue sky contrasting the pink colours. I also walked past another large building that wasn’t marked on my LonelyPlanet guidebook map. I took a few snaps of it, then asked some people what it was. Apparently, it is the “Southern Association,” and is for religious purposes, but I didn’t inquire further.

It was quite a long way to the Shwe In Bin monastery, and in fact, I overshot it. I noticed lots of monks emerging from a gate, and assumed that was it. Perhaps I should have waited by the gate to catch the monks in action. I only took one photo there, but lots of people were coming and going, so it might have been possible to catch a good image. So was the sun, though.

Inside, there were monks everywhere, washing with water from a large tank, or just sitting around. I only took a snap of the clock tower. One monk came to talk. He told me that this is Masuyen monastery, and it has 2,700 monks. I looked around quickly, but was keen to get to the Shwe In Bin monastery before the clouds made photography difficult. Perhaps I should have tried some photos of monastic life. I wonder how they are all supported - I think they go out to collect goods and food from the surrounding people. It is a tax on the nation. I wondered why some children become monks rather than going to school.

The Shwe In Bin monastery is small in comparison to its neighbour, and the main hall is of wooden construction. I took some photos of the building, then went inside. It is rather dark, and the images of Buddha are not very impressive. Still, it was cool inside, with the wind blowing through the doors. I put in a small donation, though I could see people had dropped in dollar notes.

Two ladies outside wanted to sell me puppets or embroidery. I went across to their stall just opposite the monastery, because I saw that they also sold drinks. A monk joined us and we chatted for some time. They wanted to know a little about me - where I was from, and whether I was married or had a girlfriend. I asked about the powder on the faces. It is considered beautiful here in Myanmar. When they asked if I knew anyone from Myanmar, I said that Aung San Suu Kyi is well known in the west, especially since she is married to someone from Oxford. “She is a leader of our country, but…” and the conversation withered. I bought another drink before leaving.

I stocked up on Milo when passing the Supermarket, and treated myself to a bar of Cadbury’s chocolate. They only have toilet rolls in packs of ten there, so when a gentleman approached me in the street, asking where I was going, I told him: “I’m looking for a shop where I can buy a single roll of toilet paper.” He was able to tell me straight away. He invited me to his shop, too, but I’m not interested in souvenirs.

I updated the photos onto the homepage before going to the restaurant for some Siamese noodles. On the way there, someone asked if I wanted to change money. I may need to, so went with him, but since I will only require about 10$, and don’t know what government charges I may have to pay, I decided against changing any there, even though the rate of 345 was the best so far.

I sat behind the keyboard all afternoon, then went for some sweet and sour chicken. Just as I was finishing, Mr. Win came by. He sat down and ordered a gin on my bill! I could see that the staff were a little perplexed. Fortunately, it was near closing time, so he could only have one drink. He seemed a little drunk. We chatted a bit. He told me there had been two policemen on motorcycles outside the restaurant last night. As we left, he met some more travellers looking for a restaurant that was open after nine. I wonder if they ended up treating him. I did a little more typing before retiring.

Another set of neighbours departed at 4.30 this morning. I set off after breakfast, saying that I was going to Mingun. “Oh,” said the lady on the reception, “The boat has already departed.” It seems the normal ferry leaves at 9 a.m. It would also cost 3$ to visit the bell and the city. Since I would like to see some of the river, I thought I would be able to catch another boat later on. This is a busy city, and I assumed there would be other ferries going.

On the way, a cyclist started chatting. He is a teacher of English in the monastery nearby. He also told me that the ferry had left at nine, but that I could possible hire a boat for 3000 Kyats. I continued to walk to the jetty. There I learnt that I had missed the boat. A trishaw cyclist wanted to take me to the Buffalo park, but I can easily walk. I came back into town, and was surprised to meet the teacher again, standing at a road corner. I showed some of my photos to a group of people who gathered round.

Mr. Win invited me for a cup of tea at a nearby restaurant. He wanted to practise his English with me. Since I am on a low budget, it is difficult to afford the official foreigner rates for entry into cultural or scenic spots. Instead, I feel I can give some time, freely, to people learning English. Conversation seemed to bounce quickly from topic to topic. We arranged to meet again at 7 o’clock that evening, to meet his students. I wanted it later, so that I would have time to see the Mahamuni Pagoda in the evening, after the government tax collectors (from foreigners) had left. He told me that the money does go to repair the buildings, but I remained skeptical. His conversation is peppered with colloquialisms and proverbs. It was rather overdoing it. As I left, I picked up the bill for his tea as well, though it was only 60 Kyats. It would be nicer if money matters were decided by agreement in advance, or if he were to begin to pay his share, leaving me with the choice of picking up the total bill or simply paying my share.

Back at the hotel, I typed my diary, and caught up on some sleep. When I set off, it had begun to rain. The Mann restaurant gave me the rice in a large bowl, putting only two spoonfuls on the plate. Since I didn’t know if I would be charged double for taking extra from the bowl, I didn’t dip in.

On the way to Mahamuni, I stopped at another temple not marked on the LonelyPlanet map. Inside was a large reclining Buddha. I peered in, not wishing to get stopped and asked to “donate” a large sum of money. I took a photo from the window outside.

It was another half-hour before I got to the Mahamuni Pagoda at ten to six. I went round to the East entrance, because Mr. Win had told me that the payment desk was on the West entrance. (At least, I think it was that way round.) There wasn’t much light for photos. Again, beggars came up asking for money. I have been collecting my fives (just over a cent) to hand out.

An official came up to me. “Have you paid the entrance fee?” “One moment,” I replied. “I have to take photos while there is light.” He instructed me to follow him, but I picked up my water and went outside. “Where are you going?” “I have to take photos. I can’t take photos when it is dark.”

The rain had made it slippery outside. I went round to another entrance. The sun was just breaking through a cloud. I took lots more photos. A young boy carrying a baby asked for money. When I had taken a few photos, I gave him some Kyats. I felt angry that the entrance fee was 4$ while inside children were begging for pennies to live by.

When the sunlight had almost gone, I went inside to view the Buddha. I went into the front section - ladies not permitted. I took a few photos, but didn’t position myself very well. Here was gold in abundance, while the children beg for food outside. The donation boxes had plenty of money in them. I put in a few pennies.

I was just about to leav e, when the same official came up. “Follow me!” he ordered. I began to, but then became angry. “You have children begging in the temple and you want my money. No! I will not go with you.” I went out the way I had come in. He didn’t follow. Of course, I have technically “stolen” the entrance fee. It seemed like a “Robin Hood” situation, though I gave less than the 1400 Kyats to the poor. So, I am a thief by refusing to pay the Myanmar Government.

It was 6.30 and had taken me an hour to walk here. I calculated I would be able to get to the university in half an hour or so if I ran. It made me very sweaty. By the time I finally arrived at the same corner, it was five past seven. Mr. Win said that he had waited since 6.30 and that most of the students had already left. Only the Reverend Monk came with us to a pub (I suppose). We chatted, again in a scattered fashion. The monk asked a few basic questions. I had been expecting a class of students. I wasn’t sure what the purpose of this meeting was. I drank a fizzy orange, but Mr. Win had something stronger. I could sense his conversation becoming less coherent. The monk didn’t drink, and left at eight to go back to his recitations. Mr. Win tells me he wants to “blossom” Buddhism in America and England.

Another gentleman on another table wanted to talk, but when he actually came, he was a little tongue-tied. I think he soon returned to his table in embarrassment. Mr. Win told me that he would like to talk frankly but that there were “eyes and ears” everywhere.

I paid for his drinks again - not a lot, but more than I’d given to the people begging. On the way home, he mentioned, “I don’t know what to do about the problems of my country.” I suspect he drinks to avoid them.

Back in my hotel, I had a problem with my computer. I had wanted to change the settings so that when I click on a .jpg file, it would instantly run the Paint Shop Pro Light program, rather than the PhotoImpact program. However, when I looked at my homepage, the .jpg images didn’t show. It took me a lot of time and some frustration to get it all working again. On top of this, I began to worry about what the official at the Mahamuni Pagoda might do. Maybe I would be arrested, or stopped by the police at the airport.

The boat to Bagan leaves at about 5.30 in the morning, so there are often guests getting up at about 4.30. It somewhat disturbs one’s sleep. I couldn’t get back to sleep again for about an hour, so made myself a cup of Milo. The sugar did the trick, and I slept in until 8.30.

After breakfast, I started at the typing. It is always slow going. Since I didn’t know the times of the church services, I didn’t go. The Anglican service was at 8 a.m. I think the others were probably at a similar early time.

The sweet and sour vegetables with rice and soup filled me up for lunch. I then walked to the supermarket to buy some Dettol Antiseptic soap, and treated myself to a Cadbury’s chocolate bar for just 150 Kyats. I couldn’t find anything to remove the mould that is growing over the inside of my raincoat.

I did some more typing, and when I grew tired of that, started the washing. There is a bucket in the toilet that is normally used for collecting the water dripping from an air-conditioner. I placed the thermos flask from my room under it while I was washing, but I noticed someone put another bucket there instead. The clothes dry very quickly in the heat and under the fan. For some reason, the fan seems to go slower than before, but then in the evening, it speeded up again. I think the voltage isn’t stable. Often the electricity cuts out for several cycles. Downstairs was a sign saying the times that electricity was available, and apparently, that was only a few months ago. Either the electricity supply has improved since then, or the hotel has its own generator.

I asked around several more bicycle hire shops before choosing the one directly across from the hotel. At only 200 Kyats for the day, it was the cheapest. The saddle is a little low, and it doesn’t have any gears. I cycled out of town. The Baptist Church didn’t have any sign on it saying what time church services were. The top of the surrounding walls was covered in broken glass. It didn’t seem very inviting to me. When I went back to my bicycle, I couldn’t seem to unlock it. A gentleman crossed the road to come to my assistance - there was a small knob to press.

A little further on, I came across a second Baptist Church, this time beside a YMCA. It was more accessible, but again didn’t publish its worship time. Near the Mahamuni Pagoda, I turned off the main road, intending to buy some bananas in a street market. The dirt track lead to some interesting buildings, that turned out to be Myinwun monastery. I took some snaps of the old buildings, trying to catch the monks or people as the crossed in front of it, but with little success.

One monk started up a conversation. It turns out that he is learning Japanese, intending going to Osaka next February or March. I told him about some interesting places to visit, and that he should travel by hitchhike. He was interested in the photos, and we exchanged addresses. He took me inside, to the main hall where lectures are held.

I peered into the Mahamuni Pagoda, but only took some snaps from the outside. A guard told me I had to go round to the other entrance, but didn’t seem to mind that I just peeped in. A lady asked for money by the gate. I gave her just 10 Kyats, but ignored the gentleman on the ground. Giving is arbitrary.

Clouds were beginning to gather, and I had a long way to go. I cycled through the area of town where the sculptors chisel out Buddhas from blocks of marble. A motorcycle drew alongside. The driver turned out to be an English teacher, in a small private school nearby. I answered a few questions as I was cycling along.

An interesting building caught my attention. I walked in, and read the sign - Bagaya Museum. The entrance fee for foreigners was 2$, but I didn’t wish to go inside, since I didn’t have time. I started taking some photos from the outside. A lady came up to me, saying that I had to pay. “It’s OK. I don’t wish to go inside. I only want to go round the outside.” I don’t know what was in the museum, and it isn’t listed in my guidebook, so I didn’t wish to waste the sunlight by going into somewhere dark. “No photos,” she ordered, though she informed me that I didn’t have to take my shoes off. I continued to take a photo or two, and she just disappeared. However, as I was taking snaps round the side, another gentleman appeared, again saying I wasn’t allowed to take photos. I pressed the button, then said that I would leave. Actually, I see from my guidebook that it is listed as a monastery.

As I was cycling through town, I happened to look up at the sun and the clouds. I like to check what the prospects will be like from time to time. I was amazed to see a perfectly circular rainbow round the sun. There was a very thin layer of cloud just below the sun. So, my speculation about rainbows being less common in the tropics is wrong. I had imagined that they would only be visible in the early mornings or late evenings, when the sun is low in the sky. Once again, though, just as in Japan, nobody seemed to notice this amazing phenomenon. There I was, cycling along, holding up one hand to blot out the sun so that I could see the rainbow, and everyone was just staring at me!

I backtracked to go down a tiny side road that seemed to lead somewhere interesting. It came out by a river, with many small huts and several small pagodas, but didn’t look too photogenic. I cycled on, approaching the main Ayeyarwaddy river. Some boats caught my attention, so I jumped off to take the snap. Nearer the river, there were lots of shacks. I wondered what these peop le do to earn enough to live off. A few chickens pecked at the ground, and there were some ox-carts lying around. The houses were made of woven bamboo with thatched roofs.

A little further on I came to the famous bridge over the Ayeyarwaddy river. It is the only bridge over the river, built by the English before the war. It has a single track railroad in the middle, and one way roads either side. I took a photo, but as I was doing so, a soldier came up to say it wasn’t allowed. At first, it was fun to pedal hard, but since the joints were a little bumpy, and my camera and raincoat were in danger of bouncing out of the basket, I slowed down. At the far end I had to pay a 20 Kyat toll.

Directions to the Kaunghmudaw Pagoda were a little vague - go straight, then turn right. Not so many people spoke English in this remote part of the countryside. I had no idea how soon I should turn, so just had to keep asking after every road. I overshot the road I should have taken, I think. To get back, a trishaw driver (cyclist?) told me to go to the “main road.” It didn’t appear to be much different from all the other bumpy roads. At a crossroads, I cycled into a garage to find the next way. Further along, I stopped for a drink of orange - a local brand of a fizzy drink that I top up with water. It gives me a little energy. The lady told me I had only two more kilometres to go.

I stopped to photograph a few other pagodas on the way. In front of one, an older gentleman was burning some rubbish, but the flames didn’t really enhance the image.

Finally, I spotted the famous “boob.” The Kaunghmudaw Pagoda is said to have been modeled after a buxomous queen! With the sun struggling to shine through broken clouds, I parked my bike the moment I saw it, and walked through the scrub towards it. The small bushes had large thorns, and I noticed the cacti. I associate this vegetation with barren places, even deserts.

I walked round the back, then decided to go in the back gate. As usual, there was a tacky, tin-roof corridor, leading to the main “paya” (if that is the correct word - it may mean “pagoda.”) There were lots of ladies around the temple area, selling firewood, it seemed. I walked most of the way round, but the sunlight wasn’t excellent, and it is difficult to take a photo of something large from close up.

Halfway round, I suddenly thought that there might be a “foreigner charge” for entering the pagoda. I nearly turned back to go out the same way, but decided just to walk all the way round, putting a small donation in one of the boxes. The statues of Buddha didn’t really interest me.

Just as I was about to leave, some people came up to me. I couldn’t understand what they were saying in Burmese (is there a word “Myanmarese?”) They pointed in the other direction. I merely indicated I had come in the back entrance and would leave by it. I wonder if they were trying to get me to a tourist counter, but don’t know, and didn’t wish to know.

Round the other side, I took the photos of the cacti. There were some smaller pagodas that appeared to be offshoots around the main one. I tried to take a photo with the thought: “How small can I make the object of the photo, where it clearly remains the main focus point?”

I circled the entire pagoda, then went back to my bicycle. By now, it was after half-two. It had taken almost four hours to get here, and I had to return the bike by six p.m. It would be a struggle to get there on time. I drank the rest of my water, and set off. I must have sailed past the shop where I had a drink on the way. At the junction with the garage, I went into a restaurant, but no one spoke English. I couldn’t ask for fried rice. Instead, I just bought a soft drink and another bottle of water - at a much higher rate than in Mandalay or the other shop.

There were several restaurants nearer the bridge. The first one had sweet and sour chicken for 300 Kyats, but it was too expensive for me. Next door, I had a large plate of fried rice with chicken for only 150 Kyats. As usual, it was served with a small bowl of soup.

When I cycled back over the bridge, I was only charged 10 Kyats. I think I paid double the first time. I had to ask the way to U Bein’s bridge. I thought it would take too long, and nearly turned back, but a gentleman told me it was only another five or ten minutes or so. It was 4.30 p.m. when I got to the famous wooden bridge. I spent about ten minutes taking photos, but didn’t walk the 1.2 km to the other side to see the pagoda. I tried to include more people in my photos, but should have removed the distracting fishermen. In the end, I deleted the angler’s rod digitally.

I sped on, stopping only to take a snap of a interesting pagoda, and some blue-dyed threads, possibly silk. As I approached town, I slowed down, realising I had enough time. The bicycle was returned just after 5.30. I was very tired. The lady on the reception desk speaks to me in French. I sorted out my photos and put them on the computer. The sunset looked great, and I nearly rushed off to take some more snaps, but decided against it.

I ate the usual sweet and sour vegetables in Mann restaurant just round the corner. It is a Chinese restaurant, but they may be Catholics, judging from the pictures of Jesus on the walls. I then bought two bottles of water, and drank lots of Milo. I was too tired to type, so just sat on my bed, contemplating Clean World Day. I wonder if it will get off the ground.

Breakfast consisted of two small bananas, a glass of orange, a cup of sweet coffee, and toast with butter and jam. Add a couple of Milos to the list. After a shower, I walked east to the market. It is in several huge buildings, with lots of stalls. There were piles of sarongs - but no trousers. The shops seem well-stocked: lots of electrical goods as well as local produce. If this is poverty, it doesn’t seem so hopeless.

One gent started talking. He owns a shop selling crafts for no profit, and was also interested to know if I wanted to sell anything. I declined, and he didn’t pressure me to visit his shop. The outside market area is thick with stalls. I could buy used, broken glasses, if I wanted to.

I was able to find the shop I had visited yesterday. They took my waist measurement - I’m down to 30 inches. Funny that Myanmar hasn’t broken with its colonial past in this respect. I like to leave a little room for meals, so tried on a pair of 32-inch trousers for 2100 Kyats. The legs are too long, but it is a simple and cheap matter to have them turned up. They gave me an address of a suitable tailor shop. I hope they last all the way to England.

The tailors were able to have the job done in several hours, though looking at the weather, I figured I would probably go to Mandalay Hill in the afternoon to take photos. Just opposite the tailor shop is a small supermarket. It has Milo in a box for 620 Kyats - a little more expensive than in Thailand. I stopped at the restaurant on the way home for some delicious sweet and sour vegetable with rice - only 190 Kyats.

When I got back to my room, I realised I didn’t have my key. Perhaps it had fallen out when I changed my trousers, or I had left it in the new trousers. The lady on the reception gave me a spare key, but told me I would have to pay extra. I was very worried how much it might come to. I fell asleep in my room, and didn’t wake up until after three. It would be best to pick up my trousers first, even though the sun was shining. The keys weren’t in the pockets. I put on the trousers, and told the tailor shop that they were welcome to keep my old, torn ones. I figured they could probably salvage the zip or some material.

In the clothes shop, we looked in the changing room, but there was no sign of the keys. It troubled me all afternoon. I tried to tell myself not to worry, and to think about the photographs, but it bothered me. I walked along the side of the Mandalay palace. It is almost 2.5km per side, surrounded by a wide moat and a turreted wall. The railway line actually crosses into the palace, though I’m not sure if it is used. I went over the bridge on the south entrance, but a soldier told me that foreigners aren’t allowed to use this gate. When asked why, he told me this was the VIP entrance. That seemed a bit strange, with the locals cycling past me.

There is an MTT office (Myanmar Travel and Tours) at one corner of the Palace grounds. They had a map for 50 Kyats, but it was no better than the LonelyPlanet guide. They told me that it would cost 18$ to take the express boat to Bagan from Mandalay. That’s way beyond my budget. There is a bus for only 600 Kyats or so, but they tried to persuade me not to take it - it will be very crowded. Actually, I hope to go by hitchhike again. They told me the price of some of the nearby attractions, so I wrote them down on my map.

A royal barge at the corner of the Palace moat looked a little run-down, and was merely a souvenir shop. They tried to sell me puppets or statues. It is hard, since I buy nothing except what I need for the journey.

A large sign on the palace wall read “Tatmadaw and the people cooperate, and crush all those harming the union. I peered in the one entrance where foreigners are allowed in, though it was after 5 p.m. I gather from my book that the palace inside was restored by slave labour, and is a poor replica of the one that was burnt down in the war. Even local people refuse to go in. I will save mys elf the five-dollar entrance fee. A sign outside warned foreigners that they are only permitted to go to the central palace area, and anyone found in other parts of the palace would be punished by the law. Again, I wonder what has to be hidden.

I continued along the east wall, getting to a cluster of pagodas at the bottom of Mandalay Hill. In one pagoda, Sandamuni Paya, there didn’t seem to be anyone on the door to collect the 5$ foreigners only entrance tax. I walked in, followed by a little boy who seemed to be practising his “hellos.” After I had taken a photo, I looked his direction. He was pointing to his bare feet. I got the message - I had forgotten to remove my shoes at the door. I looked at some of the inscribed marble texts, all in Burmese. This isn’t the famous “world’s largest book” (Kuthodaw Paya) - it is nearby, but I didn’t wish to go past any people in case they demanded lots of money.

A trishaw driver followed me persistently to the next pagoda, just across the road. It was after six, so the people collecting the 2$ entrance fee had already left. I could go in for free. I walked down the covered aisle. A lady showed me her collection of tapestries. I’m not interested in buying tapestries. Next came the statues - again, I’m only interested in taking photos. “I really want to sell something!” she said. That’s difficult if someone really doesn’t want to spend money and collect weight.

The marble Buddha didn’t look particularly special, except that it is quite huge and carved out of a single rock. Like many other images I have seen, it had small flashing lights around it, which did little to enhance its looks. I didn’t think it would have been worth paying 2$ to see this.

The trishaw rider had waited patiently for me. I walked across the road, chatting to him. He told me that the entrance to the Kuthodaw Paya was the other side, but I like to check all directions for photos. The gate was locked. I stopped at a small shop and bought some fizzy orange. It is only 40 Kyats or so. Some student monks chatted for a while. They are studying at the nearby Shwenandaw Kyaung monastery.

It was dark when I emerged. The trishaw driver was still waiting. I walked all the way round the palace - a further five kilometers. The full moon lit up the turrets on the palace walls, but the results were too dark. I ate the Siamese noodles again, then returned home.

Another gentleman came upstairs with me, bringing the spare key. He was going to take it away with him, but then I wouldn’t be able to leave the room with my belongings in it. I persuaded him that I needed it. He wasn’t sure how much a replacement key and room number would cost.

In the toilet, another of the staff was looking in the rubbish bin. “Oh! Here is your key!” he said. I had thrown away some rubbish just before I went out in the morning, and must have dropped the key in with it. I was very relieved.

I did a little bit of catching up on the computer in the evening.

It wasn’t such a good place to lie down. By five o’clock, people started walking by. I realised that there was a bus stop just nearby. An odd guy came to observe me getting up and packing my bags. He just squatted nearby and stared. Then he took off his sarong and wandered round in his undies.

When suitably attired and powdered, I hoisted my rucksack over my shoulder, and set off in the direction of Mandalay. Ladies were sweeping the road outside their shops or houses, creating a cloud of dust. I had gone only a few hundred yards, when a motorcyclist pulled over. He offered to take me into town, but first had to deliver something. We went back the way I had come, so I had to check where he was going. He went to his uncle’s house, along bump dirt tracks. There, he handed over a certificate. I started to repair my trousers. They have a large hole in the right leg around the knee. It was only a small hole a day ago, but now is over two inches long. I’m not sure it is worth repairing, but perhaps the trousers will last until I get to India. The repair of one of the tears looks ugly, but never mind.

The driver then suggested I go to meet his family. It was still early in the morning, so I agreed. His house was in another village, down a bumpy road by a small stream. It was quite a large house, with another house in the same compound, and an outside toilet. I met his wife and daughter, and his mother, brother and sister, and perhaps several others. They gave me some coffee, and a piece of very dry toast. I chatted a little and showed my photos on the camera. He asked where I was going to be put up in Mandalay. I hadn’t decided, because it depends on the price. I wondered if he was thinking of offering to put me up, but it is too far out of town for me, and I need a place where I can be alone to get on with the computer work.

I patched up the other tear in my right knee. The gentleman asked if I wanted to wash. I could have waited until I got to the hotel in Mandalay, but it seemed more sensible to take one here. I was lead round the corner of the house to an outside tub. He brought me a sarong to wear, so I slipped out of my clothes and into the sarong, washing myself the way the “natives” do.

I had to go to the toilet in a bit of a rush. It’s just a hole in the ground. Nearby was a water trough, but no bowl to wash my hands in. A young girl was sent from the neighbour’s house, carrying the bowl.

I gave the gentleman a photo and a card. He wanted to give me a photo of his family, but I suggested instead that I take a photo on my camera. It was cloudy outside, so I used fill-in flash. The results seem OK. I also took a photo of the gent with his certificate, but this was much more difficult. It had started to rain, so I couldn’t go outside. The flash tended to reflect off the certificate, rendering it unreadable. He has just completed a month’s training course in Electrical Engineering.

We chatted a little more while it was still raining outside. Then I said my goodbyes, put on my raincoat and leggings, and set off.

We drove past a large pagoda, and the driver asked if I wanted to go inside. It looked interesting, so I said yes. I left my shoes by the motorbike, but was advised to carry my rucksack with me. It was a little cloudy, but I took several snaps of the outside of the building. It was only completed three years ago. We walked in the main entrance. Two men on the door wanted 200 Kyats. I asked what it was for, and was told it was for taking photos. “Then,” I said, “I won’t take photos.” “What about the photos outside?” I insisted that I wouldn’t pay unless I have been informed of a fee in advance.

It was a nine-sided building, with a statue of Buddha in the centre surrounded by pillars and other statues. The donation boxes were crammed with money. I had to wonder why a poor country should spend its meagre resources on religion. People are the opium of religions. I decided it was mildl y interesting, though not truly beautiful, and went back to the front to pay for my photography license. I took my time, interested in the see-through donation boxes, and the people praying. The gentleman was most patient.

We rode on into town. He turned off the main road, and over the railway. It seemed a long way, so I asked him to stop so I could check the route. I thought it would be better if I walked by the railway, but he said he would take me into town. He did, dropping me by 35th street. From there, I walked into town. I stopped at one or two hotels, but the prices were prohibitive - around the 20 or 12 dollars per night region.

One guy started talking with me and following me. He came with me to the Sabai Phyu Guest House, listed in the LonelyPlanet for 6$ per night. However, they said they had rooms for 3$. I was shown up to the top floor, to a room with its own bathroom. “This is 3$?” I asked. “No. This is 4$.” We went down to the smaller 3$ room. It seemed OK, but I wanted to check another hotel.

The guy walked round to the Royal Guesthouse with me. The lady spoke in French and English. She showed me a double room for 3$, saying I would have to move the next day. I didn’t want that hassle. Upstairs was a small single room, also for 3$. “Hmm. It’s smaller than the room in the other hotel,” I commented. “OK. I give it to you for 5$ for two nights.” I took the room. She didn’t give me the key, so I had to take all my belongings downstairs again to sign in. The room has a socket by the door, convenient for my computer and water heater.

I unpacked my bags, leaving everything in the plastic carrier bags on the floor. The string was hung round the bed to make a washing line, and I used a bucket in the washroom next door to do my washing. I also washed my trousers, but the repairs are useless. A new hole opened up in between the two repairs. I will have to buy some new ones.

Across the road is a bicycle rental shop (among other things). A bike would cost 200 Kyats per day. Some more bicycle people in the street chatted. Their rates were 300 per day. I was wearing my shorts at the time, and worried that the mosquitoes were biting me. Apparently, I ought to eat more chilly, since they don’t like the smell and taste of it.

I was surprised to see a small catholic church just round the corner from where I am staying. Indeed, Mandalay has a good smattering of religious buildings - Hindu temples and mosques also abound. I found a small clothes shop with trousers for only 2100 Kyats, but didn’t buy them at the time. I was just looking to get an approximate price. That’s about 6$. It seems a reasonable price, given that almost everyone wears the sarong.

It is always difficult to find a good restaurant in a new place. One restaurant had music that was too loud, so I couldn’t here the waiters talking. I went elsewhere. In another, they had a menu in English and Burmese. I ordered a Siamese noodle dish. The plum juice drink for 90 Kyats was excellent - roll over Coca-Cola. With some “snow pearl ice-cream,” the total came to just 340 Kyats - exactly a dollar. I’ll come back here again.

The ladies in the “supermarket” followed me round as I looked to see what was available. There is a small selection of shampoos. I missed my road, but it took me past another restaurant, and in a tiny shop, I found I could buy 2 litres of water for 50 Kyats. That’s half the normal rate in Yangon.

Back in my room, I drank lots of Milo. I was too tired to type my diary, so thought about the song, and Clean World Day. I think I will have to start a homepage for it.

The driver stopped for some breakfast around 5 a.m. He suggested I come, too, but I was very sleepy. I realised, though, that this would be a good chance to change out of my wet underwear, and put lots of Dettol Antiseptic talcum powder on. I think it was a good move, making me feel much more comfortable. I have no idea where we were at that stage.

As we went through the towns, I saw a long line of boy monks, all with their bowls. Bicycles and ox-carts slowed our progress, despite the prolific peeping. The ox-carts, I gathered, weren’t supposed to be on the road, as there was a space for them on either side. We pulled over at 7 a.m. for the driver to take a nap. I washed my teeth, and tried to sleep a little. Lots of people walked by. I began to wonder if the driver really was going to Mandalay, or whether he was just doing so for my sake - in Indonesian terms, a “special.” I thought about putting my sign out and continuing with the hitch, but didn’t.

We trundled on through rice paddies and sugar cane fields. I got the impression that this country was very rich agriculturally. It’s a pity it is one of the ten poorest nations in the world. I was sure that it was government mismanagement alone - since I saw little evidence of extreme over-population.

We stopped for lunch. The driver offered me some beer, and several plates had been put on the table. However, I couldn’t get an answer to the question, “How much?” I decided to go across the road to another restaurant. “How much is rice and chicken?” I asked. Rice was 100 and one piece of chicken another hundred. “Two hundred,” I confirmed. There was a long delay, and I was worried my truck would leave without me. They cut up some tomatoes and onions to go with my meal. The rice was very good, though the chicken was quite tough. When I came to pay, I handed over 200 Kyats. “Three hundred,” the man said. “You ate two pieces of chicken.” Funny, there were three pieces in the bowl. I was a little annoyed that he had given me a 300 Kyat meal when I had asked for a 200 Kyat meal, and simply eaten what I had been given. I only gave him 200 Kyats.

The countryside grew more barren. It seemed to have few trees and large areas of scrub. I wondered if this was the ecological disaster zone of representing human pride and folly in building thousands of impressive brick pagodas.

The tolls occurred about once an hour or so, and cost about 200 Kyats. Sometimes there were police or army “tolls” just before the official ones. Then there were people collecting money, usually ladies outside a pagoda. I assumed this was for the temple funds. The driver usually dropped a note on the ground for them.

A group of school children flagged us down. They jumped into the back, and were taken into the next village. It made me worried again, that the driver was going all this way just for me. Later on, he took some people carrying a large bundle of leaves - like rushes - several villages on. In one larger town, maybe Meikthilar, in the evening, he followed a truck down a very narrow lane. It was the wrong way. A gent jumped into my seat while I shifted across to the middle, and directed the driver back onto the main road. A little further on, he asked directions.

By now, I was quite worried. Given that the person in the restaurant had assumed that I knew to leave one piece of chicken if I only wanted to pay 200 Kyats, and the bus driver had taken me on without asking for money at first, but assuming he could do so, I felt that maybe the driver would demand a hefty sum for taking me all the way to Mandalay. If I didn’t pay up, perhaps he would take me to the police. I started to scheme up a plan. I would charge for the English conversation - perhaps an hour or two at 25$ per hour. That would cover any large expenses.

I tried to find out a roundabout way - by asking what he takes to Yangon. He didn’t say. He did mention, though , that he goes to Yangon about twice a week. He doesn’t have any family, and I couldn’t confirm if he lived in Mandalay. I was still worried.

There was a loud hissing sound. The driver slowed down, and we jumped out. The outside tyre had burst. Maybe this was my chance. The driver didn’t have a spanner. I asked him to sign my visitor’s book, and gave him a present of all four postcards. Then I jumped out, and stood in the road with my sign. However, he asked me to jump in again, and we drove very slowly. When we next came to a halt, I decided I would be better off hitching. I jumped out, and this time started walking. The driver didn’t rush after me for money.

Shortly afterwards, a truck stopped. The first one caught up with us. I was able to travel with the next lorry. They weren’t going all the way to Mandalay, and stopped at a restaurant. I ordered some beef with rice. It was tasty and cheap. The driver and his son then took me on to a junction by some more restaurants. I didn’t have long to wait before another truck offered me a lift. Again, they weren’t going all the way into Mandalay, and dropped me where they turned off, telling me that it was only 12 miles into town.

I was too tired to continue hitching. There was a wooden stall by the roadside, partially covered. It wasn’t raining, and I figured this would do for my bed for the night. Trucks went past from time to time, and I wondered if it would be too noisy, but I didn’t have the energy to go looking for a better location. It was near a pagoda, but these things seem to be everywhere.

I made use of the morning to get some more typing done. Then I packed up to leave. The MTT office (Myanmar Travel and Tours) is right by Sule Pagoda. An express bus leaves at 5p.m. and costs 8$ to Mandalay. The normal bus would be 5$, I learned later.

It was already raining. I put my raincoat on beside the bus stop. A taxi driver offered to change money at 340. “That’s the same rate as everyone else. Why should I choose you?” I asked. He upped it to 341, but when I said I would ask round, he replied that his offer might no longer hold. I didn’t go back.

I couldn’t find the supermarket to buy the cheap water. At a corner restaurant, I ate some chicken with rice. Clumsily, I dropped my fork. The waiters came to take it away, brush the rice onto the floor, and replace my fork.

As I set off for the road to Mandalay, one of the moneychangers from yesterday approached. He said he was a catholic, and showed me his bible. I went ahead with 40$ at a rate of 340. At first, he wanted to give me it in 200 Kyats notes, but that would have been a great wad. Couldn’t they do it in 500 Kyats notes? The assistant disappeared, returning with a pack of 500s. We counted them out carefully, and I stuffed the lot into my wallet.

I first went up the road towards Shwedagon, thinking I could get another photo or two on the way past, if the sun was kind. It was quite a long way, and probably wouldn’t have had much traffic going towards Bago. A minibus stopped to ask if he could be of assistance. He was taking a lady to the Savoy hotel, so I realised he was a taxi or hotel bus. I continued to walk. I got a brief view of Shwedagon from the “People’s Park.” I had to walk a long way up the Pyay road. It would have been better to take the bus for 10 Kyats to the highway bus station and hitch from there. That would have saved me the two-and-a-half hour walk.

A couple stopped for me. They were on a drive, and could take me part way to Bago. The driver was a surgeon, and was hoping to go to England or Scotland to further his studies in a few years time. He asked why I hitched, rather than take the bus. I have hitched almost all the way from Japan, and I don’t wish to stop. Hitching is a “green” way to travel. When I hitch, I meet interesting people. If I take the bus, then I will just tell stories about people who stop to talk to me - most of whom turn out to be salespersons. On the other hand, I meet kind folk when I hitch, and tell stories about the generosity of a country.

We went through some heavy rain. They said they would stop at around 5.30 p.m. It was in the middle of a tiny village. All the shops sold clay pots. I wrote my signs for Pyu and Mandalay. I stood a little bit out of the village. A lorry stopped for me. I sat in the centre. They didn’t speak much English, and took me just into the town of Bago. I gave them one of my postcards. Since four postcards are almost a dollar, this may make the journey more expensive than the bus. They asked me to sign the back, which I was glad to do.

Many people came to talk to me as I walked through Bago. One guy just wanted to practise his English as he wheeled his bicycle. That’s fine by me, provided he doesn’t need my full attention - I have to keep my sign out, and look round at the cars or trucks coming by. I explained I was travelling by hitchhike. He didn’t understand the meaning of the word. “No bus. No taxi. No train. No money.” He asked me to spell the word, so that he could look it up in his dictionary afterwards.

Trishaws and taxis all wanted my money, but in spite of the rain, I was happy to walk. Another gent on a bicycle told me about his hotel, which I wasn’t interested in. He even offered to let me shower there for free. It was all getting too much. I decided to run, to get away from the crowds. It is almost impossible to hitch while several people gather round to talk.

My raincoat has lost its ability to breathe - the water doesn’t come through, but the sweat is retained and soaks into my shirt. More people told me where to get buses, and were puzzled or frustrated when I didn’t follow their advice. I continued through town, the light fading rapidly. In the dark, it is best to be noticed. My trousers are a light buff colour, but my shirts are dark - red or green. I stood under one light, but soon the pile of trishaws blocked the road. I went on several lights - they only light up every other one. Crowds gathered to point me the other direction. It was hopeless. Telling people “No bus” didn’t get the message through. There is only one way to Mandalay, and it is by BUS. It isn’t possible any other way. If I stood at one light, and people approached, I would pick up my bag and walk or even run, to the next light. If they followed, I would run back again. I could see that people were trying to flag down the buses. I had to keep moving. One person even pretended (I think) to be a policeman, asking me to sit on the back of his bicycle. I took a bit of a risk in assuming I could just ignore him.

Finally, after several hours, two guys gave me a lift to a toll point. Here, everyone going towards Mandalay would have to stop to pay the duties. The people collecting the tolls seemed to be able to help, though I wasn’t quite sure if that meant they would ask the bus to take me. I turned down all the buses, even if they were going my way. One gent suggested I go for a cup of tea. I left my bag by the tollgate, taking out my passport and money, and we walked to a nearby restaurant. The fried egg with fried rice was just that - no vegetables and very little taste. Still, it filled me up. I was surprised that it came to 300 Kyats, including a bottle of water. It seemed expensive to me, although it is less than a dollar.

Back at the tollgate, I waited the other side, preferring to stand up and attract the attention of the drivers. Finally, the people on the weighbridge waved me over. The bus could take me all the way to Mandalay. Although it was a bus, it was packed with goods, and seemed to be a family moving house. I sat behind the driver. Another gent came up and started talking as we moved off. He mentioned something about the government stealing from them. I didn’t understand. I was worried he meant that it mightn’t be safe on the roads - highway robbers or the like. I was a little suspicious when he mentioned the word “money,” but still didn’t understand what he was trying to say. The bus was heavily overloaded, and travelling very slowly, perhaps only 20kph. With 400 miles to go, it will be a long journey, I thought.

The gentleman put a block of wood across the gangway, allowing me to stretch out to sleep. Around midnight, we stopped at a roadside cafe for something to drink. I didn’t really want anything, but they seemed to be offering a cup of tea. Instead, I got a small glass of hot water, and a packet of instant Nescafe. Now the driver wanted money for the journey. I explained that I was hitchhiking. I don’t travel by bus. I travel for free - no money. “If you want money, I will have to leave.” I was coming to the conclusion that would be better anyway, since we were travelling so slowly. Everything overtook us. I asked how much the coffee was. At 40 Kyats, it was expensive (I can get a whole bottle of water for less.) I handed over 200 Kyats, and received only 100 back. The driver indicated that it was to pay for all the drinks. That was enough. I retrieved my rucksack (I always carry my camera with me, even when I hop out for the toilet.) I felt that the gentlemen were like their government, taking without first agreeing.

I stood in the rain, holding out my sign. As the bus went past, the driver sneered, “No money.” Of course, I mean I travel for no money - not that I have no money. Still, I was glad to be out of the bus. Three lorries stopped. The driver in the third asked how long I was going to take to get to Mandalay. It seemed they were about to stop to sleep, so they went on.

It wasn’ t too long before another driver approached. He asked if I was going to Mandalay, and offered to take me there. I confir med that he was going to Mandalay, and that he lived there. We chatted a little. He was alone in his dump truck, and had come from Yangon. I noticed that he drove carefully, and was often the one to stop when something came the other way. The road is barely wide enough for two trucks, and since they have to avoid the potholes, they travel mostly in the middle of the road, weaving around.

One drives on the right in Myanmar. Apparently, this was because the government wanted to change everything after the British left. However, the surrounding countries of Thailand, Malaysia and probably India all drive on the left, and many of the cars, trucks and buses come from Japan. I was in a Nissan Diesel truck, and noticed that the dipped headlights hadn’t been adjusted for right-hand driving. Thus the traffic coming the other way was often blinded by our dipped lights, and the driver couldn’t see where he was going, so either flashed his headlights frequently, or slowed down a lot - all because the lights weren’t adjusted!

An hour or two later, we stopped for some drinks. As usual, I took my camera with me, but left my bag in the lorry. I had just crossed the road, when I noticed that the lorry had started moving. I bolted between a lorry and a bus, and jumped back onto the passenger door. Fortunately, it was open. The driver was surprised to see me. He was just about to put the lorry further off the road. I explained I was worried, because I had left my passport in my bag. We went across to the restaurant together. I had a fizzy orange drink, for 40 Kyats, made in Mandalay. I offered to pay for the drinks, and, together with a single stick of nicotine, it all came to 240 Kyats.

The coffee from earlier on kept me awake until about 3.30 in the morning. The driver pointed out the prostitutes standing by the roadside, and would stop from time to time for “piss-piss.”

I set off mid-morning, taking a snap of the apartment windows from the top floor. Outside the hotel, people immediately started talking. One man offered to change money at 350 Kyats to the dollar. It’s a pity I didn’t accept his offer, as I didn’t find him again, and had to change at a lower rate. Another man said he wanted to come with me and be my guide for a mere 3$ per day. I tried to explain that I wouldn’t be able to afford to sleep in hotels, since my budget is only 5$, but he didn’t understand. He thought I was offering to pay 5$ per day. One person said I could earn 25$ per hour teaching English. An older man wanted to show me around, or read Rudyard Kipling’s “Road to Mandalay” poem. He walked with me to the Indian Embassy, and gave me a photocopy of his namecard.

The embassy officials were very helpful. I filled in a form, with one lady giving assistance. I had to go next door to make a photocopy of the visa page in my passport. Again, everyone there was friendly. I made two copies, to keep one in my wallet. It cost 25$ to send a telex to London, so I paid in FEC and got FEC change. It will cost a further 30$ for the visa stamp. It is very expensive. It means that my daily budget will be only about 3$ for accommodation, and 2$ for food and other expenses.

I wandered round the Strand Road area of town. The port had an area nearby that was off-limits to foreigners. I wonder what the Myanmar government is trying to hide. What doesn’t it want me to see? I can see the very bumpy pavements and roads, the run-down buildings, people selling from tiny stalls on the streets.

I found a supermarket which stocked All Bran at 1140 Kyats, and water for just 30 Kyats. There I picked up a small, handkerchief-sized towel. It will help to wipe the sweat off my brow and chest, and will fit into my pocket easier than the hand-sized towels of the past. Coca-Cola seems much more expensive than in Thailand - 180 Kyats for a can. It made me wonder whether the official tourist exchange rate (340 Kyats/$) was 50% less than the actual rate. Nearby, a restaurant charged only 90 Kyats for a meal. The waiter was very polite.

There were several bookshops in a row. In the first one, they only had a small-scale map in Burmese for 75 Kyats. The second one had a very large map, in three sections, but it would have cost 900 Kyats. I decided on the cheaper map. On the way back to the hotel, I went past the Biman Bangladesh airline office, so was able to get my onward flight reconfirmed. Now, apart from the visa stamp, I’m all set for the rest of the journey in Myanmar.

Having dumped my purchases back in my room, I set off with the camera to take some snaps. The Sule Pagoda is right outside my hotel. I went in, leaving my shoes with the lady on the desk. It isn’t a particularly impressive pagoda. As I left, one lady was scolding a little child, who was crying. She beat him with a stick. If this was Thailand, I figure the boy would be in for quite a fortune - at least a days wage for each whack.

I strolled around the centre of town, then decided to walk up to the Shwedagon Paya. On the way, one gentleman started up a conversation, but basically, he wanted to change money at the low rate of 330. I continued on my way, stopping to buy some bananas at 10 Kyats each. There were also some taps with mugs below them. I took a sip of water. I assume these are for the monks. In other places, there are large earthenware pots, covered with a plate, and a mug on top.

I arrived at the Shwedagon pagoda at nearly four, but it was a little cloudy. The entrance fee for foreigners is 5$, so I want to be sure I spend the money on a good day, when I can take lots of photos. Yet more people wanted to be my guide, but I won’t go inside today.

There are covered walkways on each of the four sides of the pagoda, and several lifts. The walkways have intricate roofs. Inside, there are stalls either side of the steps or escalators, selling Buddha statues, postcards, fans o r other religious ornaments. I removed my shoes from the bottom of the steps, and then took some photos of the details of the roof and the statues either side of the walkways. I peered over the wall into the temple, but didn’t go inside.

On the other side of the road is the Maha Wizaya Pagoda. I walked over the pedestrian bridge to get to it. Several people have small weighing machines - in case I want to know how heavy I am. Maybe I will use them when I have my rucksack with me. It would be useful to know how much I am carrying these days. A little thirsty, I asked the price of some water. At 50 Kyats for a litre, it seemed too much, compared to the supermarket price of 30.

I walked round the outside of the Maha Wizaya, worried that there would be a similar high entrance fee. The sun occasionally broke through the clouds, so I took my time and waited. I noticed there was nobody at the side entrance, so just walked in and took some more snaps. People seem to lie in the shade. Suddenly, one man jumped up and started shouting at another, who got up and walked away. I had no idea what was happening. The dogs were just as bad. Two would start an argument, and all the others would rush over to howl as well.

It was very hot. I went across the road to get some water. It was 50 Kyats for normal or 60 for cold. I took the normal. It comes in a one-litre bottle with a pull-off tab, and wrapped in a plastic cover. Even so, I noticed some dirt around the inside of the cap. This water was bottled by a division of the military. I shall have to be careful not to buy this Pearl brand in future. Bananas cost 10 or 15 Kyats. I chose several 10 Kyats ones, because I couldn’t see much difference in size.

I sat in the Maha Wizaya Pagoda, waiting for the sun to break through again. When it did, I only had a minute or so for the photo I was after.

Then I walked all the way round the Shwedagon pagoda. I told myself that I have to see it from every angle to get ideas for when I come to take photos and pay the fee. A gentleman came up, wanting to practice his English. Since it was slightly cloudy, I didn’t mind. I waffled about the difference between “sick” and “ill.” I don’t know for sure, but I think that American English confuses the two words, while in British English, “sick” usually means “throwing up,” whereas “ill” can be any situation when one isn’t well. He also asked some strange questions, such as the meaning of “Where did you come?” or “Where did you return?”

I started walking again, since I wished to see round. He followed me. “Why don’t you go inside?” “It’s very expensive,” I replied. “But in your country you have to pay the same amount or more to visit places.” “True,” I thought, “but it’s not the equivalent of five restaurant meals.”

I peered in one entrance. Another gentleman came up, wanting me to pay the five-dollar fee. I said that I wanted only to take some photos, and that since the light wasn’t very good today, it would be better if I came another day to spend longer. They accepted my story, and let me take a few snaps from near the entrance. I think it is worth the 5$ fee, so I will have to come again on a sunny day.

By six thirty, it was getting dark. I returned to one spot I had seen earlier, to take some snaps. I also went in one entrance nearby, and walked round the side - but the view wasn’t very good. A little further on, another gent started talking. “You can go in, if you want,” he prompted. I felt I shouldn’t unless I paid. However, I decided just to peer in again. There was no one by the office where they collect the foreigner’s fee.

At first, I just went a little way round, taking snaps. I tried to include some of the worshippers, bowing to the statues of Buddha, and lighting the candles or incense sticks. There were people sitting in the lotus position meditating. That gave me time to set up my camera, look for good angles, and take plenty of snaps. The m onks, too, sat chatting on some steps. I also wanted a photo of a little boy, but his parents noticed me, and made him turn round. I spent som e time inside, but didn’t go all the way round, in case I met the gentlemen at the other side. There are many more images to see.

On the way out, I met a monk who has spent some time in Thailand. He chatted for a while as we walked down the road. I briefly looked into another pagoda. The policeman at the bottom of the road gave me directions back to the Sule Pagoda. In town, I found a restaurant that served fried rice with chicken for just 200 Kyats.

Back at the hotel, an Israeli couple was chatting to a Myanmar gentleman in the hotel lobby. I joined in. The man used to live in Australia for twenty-five years, and has now returned. He is also a guest in the hotel. He wouldn’t say what he was doing here. He told us that the FEC money we spend goes to the government, while the average monthly income in Myanmar is a mere 5$ - 1700 Kyats (I think that figure is too low, but I can’t find any other figures - or maybe that was the weekly income). The ruler of the country is a pilferer, once convicted (I think) for stealing. The Israelis wanted to know why the people don’t revolt. “We have, but what can you do against guns?” He spoke quietly. “There are ears everywhere. It is difficult to speak openly.”

We talked about the pagodas. When you put your hands together in a prayer, you make a pagoda. The pagodas are mostly made of brick - an ecological disaster, since bricks have to be baked - by burning wood. There was no answer to the question of why there were so many pagodas in Myanmar.

I showed some of my photos on the camera. The Israelis were interested in the camera, so I brought down the computer and the file of prints that I have. I had a can of orange to keep me going. By midnight, it was time for bed.

We landed with a slight bump. Usually, the seatbelts have been undone before the plane has stopped, and people jump up straightaway. Even though we were at a standstill, no one seemed to move for a minute or so. Most people were staying on the plane, going on to Dhaka.

There was a bus waiting for us at the bottom of the steps, taking us to the immigration room, where my passport was duly stamped. Then I had to change the obligatory 300US$ into FEC (foreign exchange coupons) at 1:1. I tried the visa trick, but now they have a visa office at the airport. I noticed a sign saying that they accept yen in cash, and since I only have 21000yen, I figured this would be a way to ensure I didn’t have to change the full whack.

I asked the lady: “Can I change yen?” She said it was possible, and I would need to change 33,000 yen. I told her that I only had 21,000 yen. “Then you will need to change another 112 US$.” I explained that I don’t need that much money and only wanted to change 21,000 yen. I was told to wait. Others went through, complying with the regulations, and being handed an envelope with the 300FEC. I was shown a piece of paper that stated that all visitors must change the 300US$.

They took my passport - I presume to prevent me from walking through to customs. A gentleman explained again, but I insisted that I would only change 21,000 yen. That would give me 188FEC (actually, not a bad rate - 111 yen to the dollar. I think the normal rate is about 120, unless it has changed considerably in the past few days.) “You can’t get into our country if you don’t change 300$,” the gentleman insisted. “Well then, I will just have to spend three weeks right here,” I replied.

Most of the passengers had gone through. Another English couple were insisting on changing only 100 US$ - a single traveller’s check. I wonder if they succeeded. The gentleman conceded, and let me change the yen. I had to sign, and give a reason for changing less than the total amount. He told me to write: “No more money to change.” I wrote: “No more yen to change.” It is true, but not what the gentleman had asked me to write.

So, I now have 188FEC. The customs gave me a new form - the old one was obsolete. It only asked me to sign to say that I didn’t have more than 2000US$ on me. They also recorded the fact that I have a camera and a computer with me. I checked that I would be able to take them out of the country when I leave.

Safely through customs and immigration, I walked into Myanmar proper. All the girls on the desks waved papers or maps at me, trying to get me to take a taxi into town. I asked one lady if she could give me a map, but she would only do so if I took her taxi. I went on to the tourist information centre. They gave me the free map.

Outside, all the taxi drivers were hassling me. It would only cost one dollar (for Myanmar, read FEC) to get into town. I said I would walk. They wouldn’t tell me which direction it was, and said it was 22km - too far to walk. I wandered off, following the way that most cars or taxis took. On person followed me. He initially tried to be friendly, but I could see he was after business. He was offering accommodation at only 3$ per night, with a free taxi to the hotel. I talked a little, but he soon gave up. A car had stopped a little further ahead, but I figured it was for him. He went off in it.

There were huts in the woods either side of the road. A Japanese man caught up with me. He had been sitting next to me on the plane and had written “meditation” as his primary reason for visiting Myanmar. I was surprised that he didn’t seem to remember me - given my memorable face! Maybe he was thinking about something else. He already has some Kyats - he changed it at 340 Kyats to the dollar with a taxi driver at the airport. This is his third visit to Myanmar, since he likes the type of meditation one can get here. He tells me that the bus is only 10 Kyats into town centre. He is in a great rush - no, he is just walking super fast. I k eep up with him, holding out my sign in case someone will stop for me.

He turned off to take the bus, while I continued walking into town. There was an amazing sunset. I wish I could have been at some beautiful place to capture it. It grew dark, but still the taxis pulled over for me. Sometimes, I just walked past them. Then I tried the second trick - of stopping, and waiting for them to realise that I wasn’t catching up with them, but that started to waste time. I would walk past them in the middle of the road, continuing to keep my sign out. It was a wide, six-lane road.

A white car drew in just beside a police box. The driver started asking me questions. I think he must have been a policeman or the like. The uniformed police wanted to know where I am going. When I told them “City Centre,” they said it would take several hours, and that I ought to go by taxi. “I never take taxis,” I replied. They checked my passport, and held me up for ten minutes or so. Finally, they let me go, instructing me to walk on the pavement. I could see lots of other people walking on the road, so ignored the order.

I continued to hitch, still hassled by the frequent taxis. Across the road was a small shop. I decided to check out the availability of certain goods. Water can be bought in bottles, Coca-Cola is available in cans or bottles, but as I was checking out other products, the power suddenly went down. I continued to walk into town. Power was soon restored.

In another shop, I picked up a can of orange made in Myanmar for just 85 Kyats, and asked the price of an apple. It came to 185 Kyats, but when I offered to pay by FEC, they told me they couldn’t accept it. I put the items back on the shelves, and was about to walk out, when they told me to wait. They put the orange and the apple in a bag, and gave it to me as a present. I was very touched. I bowed, and said thank you. Later I thought I should have given them one of my postcards, and asked them to sign my book, since they are contributors to my travels.

Two cars pulled over. The one nearest me was a taxi, and I was about to just stop and wait until it had realised that I wasn’t interested in it, when I noticed that the second car wasn’t a taxi. The gentleman was offering to take me into town. He had lived in Germany for twenty-five years. He told me some of the good places to go to in Myanmar. Myanmar people haven’t Westernised their clothes, as the surrounding nations have. Everyone still wears the sarong. He pointed out some of the places that we went past, and took me to the YMCA, which he said was cheap.

The rooms in the YMCA were 10$ or 8$, way beyond my budget. I walked along the rough pavements in the direction of Sule pagoda. Just opposite the city hall, I noticed a restaurant with a menu in English. They could accept FEC at a rate of 320 Kyats to FEC. It was a little low, but I needed the money. A simple sweet and sour chicken with rice, and a bottle of water came to 600 Kyats. I paid with a 20 FEC note, to give me lots of Kyats.

Nearby, I found a hotel with rates of 4$ per room. It was up some stairs. I didn’t go up, since I saw another hotel. I decided to try it first. A rat scampered up the steps in front of me. This hotel was only 3$ per night. I was surprised to see the Japanese man there. He was surprised that I had managed to hitchhike into town. My room is very small, with little more than a bed and a fan. There is a fan in the wall to suck out the hot air. I settled in, unloading my rucksack. Later I went out to buy some water, but it was already 11.30 and most of the shops were shut.