Myanmar (Burma) 09/04/11 - 22/04/11 - Yangon to Mandalay to Bagan to Kalaw

Our 2 week fling with Burma (Myanmar) started in the same fashion as it ended; with black money gracing our strait laced palms and our principled consciousness bearing the hefty burden of a flagrantly corrupt political system. Some say however, the only problem with corruption as a system of governance is that it often works so well.

The underlying reasons of the governments success is the marketing of their plentiful resources (gas, oil, gems, minerals and newly found uranium), which has made massive increases in the countries wealth, but obviously not in the wealth of its people. Its Burma's wealth that surprisingly, makes it now one of the richest nations in the whole of Asia.

Little is really known about current Myanmar but as a country of 135 different ethnic groups there is certainly a few random cultural and factual oddities. A country where the blind can send letters for free, where as a tourist you are likely to be followed by a government official at some point during your stay, where locals are required to pay a monthly fee to the government for life if they wish to travel abroad, where as a country they rank 2nd in the world only to Afghanistan in the production of Opium, where crime against foreigners is almost non existent due to the severity of punishments, where just 5% of the population are deemed middle class and where the majority of men will become monks at some point even if its just for the minimum period of 15 days.

The government unsurprisingly embrace tourism, not for the customary cultural exchanges but for the bountiful dollar it provides, especially considering up to 80% of the tourist dollar will line government palms. Whether you are a package tourist or independent traveller, at some point in your trip, you will to some degree, be funding a corrupt and repressive government. The arguments for and against visiting Myanmar to and fro in the minds of deep and moralistic thinkers. Fortunately, Micki and I are neither, as we simply wanted to see a country in Asia without the scars globalisation, commercialism and untouched by the money grabbing hands of Thailand-esque tourism.

Should you go? Without doubt, yes. What a country. Unblemished by tourism and laden with some of the most stunning sites not even the late, great George Orwell could depict.

Our trip could not have started more anecdotally.

We were met at Yangon airport by a cabbie standing beside his beat up soviet style taxi and who greeted our arrival with bug eyed enthusiasm and indifferent duteousness, by splattering the pavement before our feet with the juice from a chewed betel nut, distastefully grafting it a spectrum of dark and rusty reds.

Following a bout of bare tooth and knuckle haggling, which reduced our fare by a measly $2 we jounced like a runaway train into the toiling fervency of downtown Yangon. Having conversed in the universally accepted taxi small talk for mere minutes, our driver then changed tact, by offering to be our go-between for changing money on the black market. We agreed and within minutes we were dubiously parked in a dodgy alley doing 'the deal' in the back seat of the cab with a local vagrant and his trusty black plastic bag which, unbelievably contained innumerable stacks of local currency. Micki, unflappable and unnerved throughout held aloft our crispest dollar bills for his dutiful inspection. I on the other hand, bottom lip quivering, acted as lookout in the front. He fussily accepted just half our dollars due to the presence of feint creases in some but, nonetheless our first of two very dramatic deals in the black market was complete.

Heeding prior, yet essential travel advice, we had arrived in Burma with only the crispest and cleanest dollar bills in readiness for the sheer brazenness of the black money market. With no ATM's and where credit cards are just a peculiar shape of plastic, clean, unmarked US dollars are the official language. The black market although illegal, is the acceptable norm that, unbelievably provides tourists with twice the amount of Kyat per dollar than that offered by the government foreign exchanges.

Yangon is an eclectic mix of cultures; Indian, Chinese, Nepalese, not forgetting Burmese. All these combined with the historical facades of British colonialism, present on every street corner, makes for one serious culture lesson. Our accommodation on Merchant St was interesting to say the least, homely and moderately clean it was not, nor was it vaguely appealing to any well sighted individual with its gloomy lighting, questionable toilet and a shower that bred new strains of viruses, but for all its drawbacks it did have a proper bed and intermittent air con - a luxury I tell you! Enough said.

Being one of very few tourists in Burma makes you a gawking victim and a potential target for every thriving scam in the city. Micki developed a love-hate relationship with the men as they irritatingly loved her for her western looks and attire, whilst she hated them as they creepily pierced their eyeballs onto her chest and legs at every turn.

Stomping around Yangon in the repressive heat really tested our mettle but after bumping into the 2000 year old Sule Paya that glistened mesmerisingly at a crossroads, it really whetted our appetite for the city's star attraction; Schwedagon Paya. It may not sound familiar but its Burma's pièce de résistance and is de rigueur for every visitor to Yangon. Seeing the 323ft buddhist stupa, coated in 60 tonnes of pure gold lit up at night, encrusted with over 1100 diamonds and with a single 76 carat diamond at its peak defies visual belief - A photographers dream of monumental proportions that we happily spent 5 hours admiring one afternoon.

Between Paya gazing and walking tours we tried our hand at changing more money on the black market. We stumbled upon a tree lined boulevard shading numerous fortune tellers, so with time to spare I sought my fortune. Despite my insistence of wanting to know everything for my $2 fee, they simply failed to predict the impending act of treachery.

A young guy had swaggered insouciantly towards us. Sporting the traditional Longyi (a type of sarong) and ubiquitous Man Utd shirt he nodded to acknowledge our need for Kyat, the local currency.

With a cursory glance here and there, he miraculously pulled innumerable bundles of Kyat from behind the waist knot of his longyi. Unfettered and with a decisive assurance he hastily flicked through hundreds of 1000 kyat notes before our very eyes. Insisting it was all there (enough in exchange for our $150), he handed it over to us. Meticulously self counting, the bundles fell 60,000 kyat short so I handed it straight back. Mesmerised by the ballistic dance of his dextrous fingers we counted with him, his numbers proving flawless once again. This process of his perceived mathematical superiority over our inferiority went on for a few minutes although with each count-back his demeanour became increasingly more anxious repeatedly stating the police would be coming soon, so we should be quick.

Baffled by my own denseness but with a swelling suspicion his deception hit me like the solving of a conundrum. Displaying an immaculate sleight of hand, one revered by any illusionist, he was cunningly slipping notes, whist counting, behind the thick knot of his longyi. Sensing our rage at the unravelling of his deceit he snatched his money like a petulant child and attempted to run but ironically, his accomplice in crime, the longyi, slowed him comically to a shuffling, hip swinging gait.

Next day, we bused 15 hours north to Mandalay which in itself proved potentially hazardous and worrying as one driver did the whole stint with just a 20 minute stop. Nutter!

Mandalay is like a city of outskirts with no distinct centre but is set around the vast palace and its 26ft walls. Just north and rising 720ft out of its pancake flat surroundings was Mandalay Hill - a worthy climb giving us great views.

We hopped on bikes to Amarapura Village, about 10km south of Mandalay, getting soaked in the process, to see U Bein bridge, a 1000 teak posted bridge built in 1849 that connects two trading villages. Sounds mundane but the bridge itself is an incredible feat of engineering that also provides a stunning sunset backdrop to the sprawling countryside of Burma. Bootiful!

Having already celebrated New Year twice, once in Japan for 2011 and again in China to welcome the year of the rabbit, we had no qualms in seeing in new year for a third time in Burma. The festival known as Thingyan (water festival) sees temporary stages called Pandal erected along main thoroughfares with hundreds of hoses and water cannons, and anyone, no matter of creed or colour (except monks of course) who dare to walk or drive past are duly drenched. Sounds great in 40 degree heat but not when you know their only source of water is from water butts, drains or the palace moat. Ensue cholera!

Thingyan is their only 4 days of holiday. In Mandalay all the action happens around the 10km palace walls and I have never seen anything more crazy in my life than 100,000 Burmese partying like it was their last. The rich packed their 4x4's with bodies that hung from every side skirt, the youths dressed as punks and piled onto mopeds to lap the palace for four days of drinking, fighting, dancing and causing absolute mayhem, whilst the impoverished got annihilated on $3 bottles whiskey and slept in the gutters when they'd had enough. Forget drink driving or sacred buddhist beliefs, religion and the sketchy laws are all but forgotten with the gun toting police turning a fully blind eye to it all. Sounds cool and it was for 2 full days but, when you are on a tight travel schedule and want see the sights with a £300 camera in tow its not ideal. Trying to dodge every bucket, water gun and hose in sight proved difficult especially with Micki, unfortunately being prime target as a western female. Fear not, for as we all know Micki can more than handle her self and my god did she handle herself alright,……….those poor, poor locals!

Desperate to leave Mandalay and its Thingyan festivities we booked ourselves two hard seated tickets for a poultry $8 to the central plains of Bagan. The rail network, built by the British over 60 years previously had not seen even the merest of upgrades and therefore, our 8 hour journey on the aptly named 'ordinary class' carriages with wooden slatted seats was arse numbingly memorable, much like riding an earthquake simulator for 8 hours.

Bagan is obscenely beautiful, a stunning sight to behold. Over 4000 red bricked temples dating from 600 to 1100AD dotted across the central desert plains of Burma that give rise to a horizon, which is undeniably awe inspiring. Captivated, we spent 2 days biking the temple trails in 45 degree heat to capture the spectacle in full panorama. Easily one of the greatest things we have ever seen.

Despite succumbing to severe heat stroke in our final few days Micki bravely soldiered on and geed up enough energy to attempt our next bus journey, 12 hours east to the mountain town of Kalaw. Unfortunately and inconceivably for Micki it surpassed any of our worst to date - a journey from hell as there was little sign of any heaven.

The 1970's mini bus was in a state of ruin, likewise was our driver who seemed desperately uneasy with the normal amount of personal space we all had so he kindly wedged another 20 people inside and then flung another 25 locals on the roof with all our effects. In reality hot, sweaty, majorly uncomfortable and unbearable at times but with hindsight, absolute comedy. The bone shaking, headache inducing 12 hour ride bounced along at speeds barely topping out at 25km/h and over severely undulating terrain that you could more commonly find in a quarry or on the seabed. Needless to say, most of Burma's roads are a shambles having been built by the British in the 40's and seldom maintained. As my mum would say, a character building experience.

Kalaw is famed for its abundant trekking opportunities and after being mentally and physically beaten up by the savage torment of that journey we needed a good few days to make amends. Micki had to bail on any trekking as she was still poorly sick, but thankfully the rest and recuperation of a mountainside retreat did its job on her. I on the other hand was literally chomping at the bit to get out there. Our guesthouse owner, the locally renowned Mr Robin Singh, turned trekking guide during the day, was every bit as knowledgable in this field as he was as charming as a hotelier. Leading us 20km through mountain passes and gorgeous cascading rice terraces that once served as opium trade routes to Thailand firmly banished any doubts I may have had about the worth of that fateful journey. The trek was something else with eye candy at every turn, it was tough yet tranquil and through the wisdom of Mr Singh, encyclopaedically enlightening. Having lunched burmese style at a hilltop village consisting of just 17 families, we later stopped at a shack which housed a remarkable 95 year old medicine man, who ironically, had smoked continuously since he was 14. More worryingly though, he is the only form of medical help for over 50km and as a skeptic of western medicine he supplies only herbal/traditional medicine to villagers for a small fee. Open to his passé treatment I kindly accepted a bracelet signifying health and strength that he duly tied on my wrist whilst praying to the gods. Contrary to his adamancy in its health giving powers I was in fact, visiting a hospital in Thailand 3 weeks later with a nasty blood infection!

Of course I couldn't sign off without mentioning Burma's food so here goes. Burmese food by Asia's standards is a bit of a non entity, cooked in copious amounts of oil to deter flies, deprived of chilli and containing meat that tastes questionable at best, its hardly surprisingly its some blandest food in asia. That said, with Indian and Nepalese food in abundance we ate some of the best meals ever to have graced our greedy lips. Namely; a chicken birianyi in Yangon that kept us going back 4 times, a Nepalese curry platter in Kalaw and a chapati stand in Mandalay that granted me 6lbs of pure weight gain.

We left the stunning town of Kalaw completely content with our few days there. The 13 hour bus ride back to Yangon was uneventful other than as is notorious, leaving 3 hours late. The cash hungry government though gave us the final sting in the tail as they duly demanded $20 from us just to leave the country.

Next stop, Thailand!