A ghostly weekend

Dia De Los Muertos

My initial understanding of the Day of the Dead festival was that it was Mexico’s version of Hallowe’en.  I now realise it’s much more than that.  Like our Pagan inspired festivities during All Hallow’s Eve, Dia Los Muertos is centred on souls who have passed before us.  But while we run from door to door dressed as the latest comic villain, the Mexicans give the event a more personal touch.  Altars are constructed and displayed in homes and businesses, and are dedicated to people who have passed away.  They are usually decorated with marigolds, and filled with the favourite foods and drinks of the person being remembered, as it is believed that they will return on the night to eat and drink from it.

Cemeteries are, in my mind, places of mourning, quiet but for the deafening din of loss.  However, on the night of this Mexican celebration, they are festooned with flowers and altars, the food is eaten, and music is played in celebration of those who have died.  It’s bright, it’s colourful, and it’s noisy.  For me this seemed a strange tradition, for I am not a fan of cemeteries, I don’t like to think of our dead there in that hollowed ground.  But in Mexico it is believed that the spirits arrive and visit for one more night, an ideal that most long for after losing a loved one. From my perspective, I feel ill at ease with having to face the memories of someone who has gone, to feel their loss all over again, so I was yet to be won over on the ‘partying at the graveside’ front.

At school we had a celebration of our own and the teachers constructed a fabulous altar dedicated to the children’s song writer, Cri Cri (Francisco Gabilondo Soler), who died in 1990.  Each of the Kindergarten teachers played a part of one of Cri Cri’s animal characters and we put on a show for the students where we danced around to a selection of his songs.  I played a mouse and, with hindsight, I realise that dangling costume elements may not have been a great idea as I jumped about escaping little hands that were trying to pull off my tail.  You live and learn in the world of Kindy teaching.  After the performance everyone sat down to the food and drinks that were displayed on the altar; Mexican favourites such as tamales, pozol, and pan de muertos. Having experienced my first Dia Los Muertos celebration, and witnessed delight rather than sadness, I felt more at ease with the idea of the celebratory customs and began to feel like it was a much more positive tradition for all involved.

With my lifted spirit I took a trip to San Cristobal de las Casas for the weekend to see what the folks there had in store for their celebrations.  You may remember from my last post, I spoke very highly of this pretty town in the mountains and, as I had a visitor from England, I thought it the best option to make a good impression.  I arrived late on Friday night, after a week of prepping for Halloween and Dia Los Muertos activities in both the schools I work at (It turns out the Mexican cost of living is higher than that of Thailand, and the salary is lower.)  I fell exhausted onto my bunk bed in the hostel, not even a nightcap to be had, and woke on Saturday, rested and ready for the weekend.  After some exploring in the bustling market we had a chocolate break in a little chocolate café on the main street where we people-watched and plotted our next move.  We headed in the direction of one of the big churches, where we were met by a lady reading tarot cards.  I couldn’t resist, I handed over 100 pesos for a rather generic reading advising me I had a decision and, although I should look at all my options, I already have the tools I need to make the right choice.  So with that golden nugget in my back pocket, where my 100 pesos could have been, I trundled on up the several million (or so it felt) steps to a brightly painted church overlooking the town.  I basked in the golden afternoon sun as I heaved breath back into my lungs.  I need to get back to the gym; I admit I’ve been milking the ‘no exercise’ rule given to Chikungunya convalescents for long enough now.

The day jaunted along in the beautiful glow of the sun which made everything so much more iridescent, the shiny gold of a VW beetle contrasted with a dark wall of graffiti, and the brightly coloured shops and churches.  It all inspired so much relaxation.  The day evolved to night as we sipped another glass of wine, and while the marimba bands serenaded us as we washed down the delicious tapas, we decided we were far too settled in and cosy to go back to our room to refresh.  By now I was far too relaxed … 

While I chatted and sipped beer, my 8 year old leather handbag from a previous trip to Hong Kong was sitting beside me on a chair.  In the blink of an eye it got swept away by an inconsiderate opportunist, along with my market purchases, my Kindle Fire, my crappy old smartphone, my sunglasses, and my wallet with my driving license and the rest of my weekend’s funds.  The money I can earn again, the phone was so old it had cataracts, the sunglasses were cheap old things from Tesco Lotus, and the driving license is replaceable, although it will cost me the equivalent of 2 evenings at my second job to replace.  What knocked me most about this whole ordeal was losing my tablet.  I know what you’re thinking; first world problems, right?  I suppose you could call losing the thing that kept me connected to my family while I am living 5,000 miles away (already feeling homesick) a first world problem but, for me in that moment it was a kick in the guts and a rip in my heart.  I acknowledge now that this is rather an overreaction; however I’ve not had something stolen from me since my coat was taken from the cloakroom in first year (7^th grade), so you can imagine my disgust and lack of experience with this sort of thing.  Anyway, over the next week I decided that it was probably best to just forget it, as it’s been implied that there’s nothing anyone (one would normally turn to) can do in these situations, even if they cared enough to bother with the paperwork, so I admitted defeat and bought the cheapest Samsung tab I could find and loaded it with all sorts of security software that will allow me to shut it down and shut out a venomous klepto should I fall victim again. A word to the wise: keep all personal information off mobile devices.  Just think of what the sticky fingered feckers have access to once they hack in.

My premature departure from San Cris, and it’s continuing Dia Los Muertos festivities, on Sunday was with nauseous feelings, and I’m not talking about the wine from the previous night.  I just wanted out of there.  I was also saddened that the short time my friend had with me had been shortened further, having to comfort me while I mourned a device.  I was so frustrated that the handbag incident had threatened to ruin my view of such a wonderful place, a place that I had heard so much about in my research into living in Chiapas, and once again I felt intense anger at that being taken away from me too.  

However, positive thoughts will prevail.  I intend on going back to San Cristobal to give it a chance to redeem itself, with my head held high and my handbag superglued to my shoulder.

Images: Sinéad Millea.

¡Viva México!

ESL teaching in Tuxtla Gutierrez 

                                                         "And if we go to Mexico,
                                                            Will it be a new leaf?"

                                                                     - Mundy

I decided I was due a new adventure, and what a whirlwind it's been! A new language, a tropical disease, an earthquake, and 24 new little brains to educate. Pull up a chair; this is going to be a good one!

After four wonderful months getting reacquainted with my mother country, and all the reverse culture shocks it threw at me (wearing shoes indoors, WTF?!), I took flight again for pastures new. I relocated to Tuxtla Gutierrez, in the lush green state of Chiapas, in Mexico. Why? Why not!

I landed in the city's tiny airport and was escorted to my new home, a little apartment in a neighbourhood called 'Jardines de Tuxtla', where the streets are named after flowers. It's picturesque and friendly and I think this will be a good base for me. After my long flight, I hit the hay and dreamed of guacamole mountains.

My first day at school whizzed by in a jetlagged blur and, jetlag aside, this is pretty much how the next six weeks has been. I arrived late due to visa issues so my four week orientation got condensed into two days, which were spent furiously making classroom resources and decorations. I'll be happy if I never have to see a hot glue gun again til my dying day. But it was all worth it when the students showed up and excitedly explored their home from home.

Whilst researching my new adopted city I came across news of earthquakes that had occurred here and this sparked a bout of paranoia, what the hell am I supposed to do in the event of an earthquake??  Everywhere you go there are safety notices on ‘sismos’ explaining, with stickmen illustrations, the steps to take but, in true Sinead Nua style, I had many questions.  I hoped for an earthquake drill at school to educate me and open a forum for my many queries.  They say you should be careful what you wish for, and ‘they’ would be right.  One week into teaching a colleague came running to my classroom and announced we needed to go downstairs, and in the urgency all I heard was “earthquake”.  I leapt to my feet and guided the students out of the room, down the stairs, and across the school grounds to the safe zone, all the while cheerily chatting and reassuring the munchkins that it was only pretend.  It wasn’t.  And I didn’t even notice.  Earthquake: check, I’ve so got this (as long as it doesn’t happen while I am snoring in my flat that is…)

Mid September marks Independence Day in Mexico, when everywhere gets festooned with Christmassy looking decorations (the colours of the Mexican flag are red, white, and green), and the locals treat themselves to a day of partying on the streets.  I took the opportunity to travel to San Cristobal De Las Casas with some of my new teacher friends.  San Cris is just an hour from Tuxtla and, due to its elevation, is far cooler in temperature.  It’s a small town that has a European village feel, with great little bars and restaurants, and a terrific market selling all sorts of Mexican clobber, the shopaholic inside began doing somersaults.  I popped my mezcal cherry and spent the following day nursing a brutal hangover.  My rookie mistake was thinking it was a shot, it’s supposed to be sipped and enjoyed slowly.  Typical bleedin’ Paddy.

Since day one in Tuxtla people have warned me of two things to be cautious of, Chikungunya and stomach upsets.  Foolishly I did not take heed and found myself flattened for a whole week with symptoms of both.  I contracted Chikungunya from a wily mosquito, one of the several million that bit me over the past few weeks, and was reduced to a creaky, sorry state.  Chikungunya is similar to Dengue in that it cannot be prevented with medication or vaccination; you just have to avoid meeting that infected and thirsty mosquito and smother yourself with repellent that smells so potent it makes me worry for my safety around naked flames.  The stomach issue, called Proteus, was a surprise for me, having spent two years happily eating street food in Nakhon Sawan, one of which had a rodent visitor the size of a badger.  However, as explained by my doctor, there is bacteria present here that my system has not become accustomed to yet, so it’s important to take caution at first.  Noted, I now eat my own cooked food rather than play taco roulette at the local cantinas, well borin’.

Despite my shattered immune system, living in Tuxtla has been an easy transition so far.  The language barrier is less limiting than what I experienced in Thailand, aided by my (admittedly weak) knowledge of French, which is kind of the cousin of Spanish. The people here are as friendly and tolerant of my inexperience as the locals in Nakhon Sawan were, and I am again reminded of the importance of treating 'the other' with respect and compassion, something yet to be learned in other areas of the world, my own country included.  So, I look forward to exploring the countryside and learning more about the Mexican culture.  The Day of the Dead festival is looming, and it’s promising to be a humdinger.  I shall keep you updated!

PS, Between frantically scrambling to prepare for school and lying in a heap on my sofa I have not yet explored with my camera, but photos are promised as soon as I get my arse in gear!

The hills are alive with the smell of Ceylon!

A fortnight in Sri Lanka

Sunrise, Tangalle

For as long as I can remember I have wanted to visit Sri Lanka, I have no idea why, just one of those gut feelings.  It was even one of my choices when applying for teaching work in Asia, however Thailand won out and I enjoyed eighteen months of thrilling adventure and hilarious confusion while Sri Lanka simmered away on the back burner.  My intuition and I have become friends over the years and I have begun to trust her no questions asked, so I listened to her plea and booked a flight to Colombo for my final Asian adventure before returning home to Ireland.  I had a mission to complete, to get a tan.  I was currently ‘Orchid Cream’ according to the Dulux colour palette.

I approached a taxi company at the airport, clutching my Agoda booking for a homestay close by.  The two ladies looked puzzled as they studied their maps but couldn’t figure out where I was bound for.  Another taxi tout, who had been practically doing back flips to get my attention in an attempt to steal my business from the ladies, seemed to know which direction to send me so I jumped into his car and off I went in the direction of Colombo, as was stated on my confirmation from Agoda.  The home stay was almost 40km in the opposite direction in Negombo, so my taxi fare cost almost five times my room rate for the evening by the time I arrived.  I should have asked to sleep in the taxi at that price.  So, began my fortnight in Sri Lanka, and the feeling of hemorrhaging money which stayed with me throughout.

View over Kandy

I shook off the initial kerfuffle, and packed a beach bag for some serious relaxation.  I caught a tuk tuk down to the beach, still unclear as to the correct address of the homestay I had booked.  When I asked the tuk tuk driver what street I was on he told me to call him to get back, rather than answer the question I asked.  Business savvy – yes, frustrating - very.  Anyway, too tired to argue, I took his number and ventured towards the beach.  I met with a conversational man who asked me where I was from.  Still unaware of the tout technique I, not wanting to be impolite, answered while walking but he approached and told me he was a teacher, showed me a crudely photocopied brochure from a school which I could barely decipher, and told me his students love to hear about foreigners and asked if I would write my name and where I was from on a piece of paper.  As naive as I am, I am not a total idiot so I questioned him as he showed me this piece of paper.  It had people’s names and countries alongside figures, which I queried.  The so called teacher told me people write their names and countries down, then as he rubbed his thumb and fingers together in a ‘money’ gesture he suggested I "help the children".  This was not my first encounter with a chancer, but I still find myself flustered by trickery like this.  It wasn’t to be the last time I was approached for money, but for the meantime I found a lonely spot where I could sit and read in peace.

I enjoyed a couple of hours of reading and sunbathing before I got thirsty so I popped into a beach side café for some iced tea and caught sight of a mirror.  Eeek, lobster face!  Despite the cool breeze, the Sri Lankan sun is a force to be reckoned with.  I took my scarlet body back to my room for some after sun, not before getting lost.  I was unable to get my phone to work in order to ring Mr Business Acumen with his tuk tuk, so I had to ask another driver if he knew of the homestay and if he would rely on my terrible memory in getting me back.  A wild goose chase ensued and I arrived hot and flustered.  I have heard of people going away to lose themselves, but this is ridiculous.  Writing off my first day, I made a pot of coffee and settled in for the evening, plotting my route for the coming fortnight.  I was now ‘Volcanic Splash 3’.  

Applying wax during batik making

The next morning I headed to Kandy and had my first experience of Sri Lankan buses.  I was nervous of the long journey without air conditioning (first world problems, eh?)  Although I was relieved that, with the windows open to allow in the cool Sri Lankan breeze, I enjoyed a scenic and comfortable journey upland.  I found a great hostel with a rooftop view of the city, good coffee, and some chilled out friendly people.  I like meeting people and having a chat but at times I grow tired of the pretentious backpacker, you know the type - matted hair, excessive talk of ‘doing’ Asia, and deep convos about changing the world one hand built school at a time.  After some tea on the roof with the other guests, I had an early night and planned a full day of exploring.  After breakfast I called the tuk tuk dude who dropped me off at the hostel, as he gave me a decent price on a trip around the city and beyond.  I ticked off a few sights, but was mostly interested in the Botanical Gardens, the tea factory where the smell of ceylon sweeps it's fragrant hand across your nostrils, the batik workshops, and the spice garden where some old traditions are kept alive.  At the spice garden I met an Ayurvedic doctor who makes tonics and lotions for all sorts of ailments from the natural ingredients that grow in the garden.  It was an interesting visit, until I was handed a sheet of paper and a pencil and was told to mark off the products I liked best so we could discuss what I would buy.  Awkward.  I had no intention of buying.  I was led out of the garden with a sullenness you wouldn’t get from a teenager with a hangover.  Why didn’t he just charge me at the door for the visit?  I’d have paid for that, it was an interesting place.  By the end of the day I was weary of people constantly expecting me to fork out cash, as if it were burning a hole in my pocket.  One staff member at the Botanical Gardens held out his hand for a tip just for pointing out a chameleon in a plant.  It was exhausting, but it wasn’t until I returned home to Ireland that I began to think about the tourist industry in SL, and how people make their money.  It didn’t make sense to me at the time, and I still think an admission charge would be better at places like the tea factory, batik workshops and spice garden but in hindsight, and with some perspective, I guess it comes down to the difference in our cultures and how that affects our priorities what we expect from others.

That evening I relaxed with dinner at a rooftop restaurant, and enjoyed a 2 for 1 cocktail offer, which turned out to be a 3 for 2…oops, should have listened more carefully.  I watched, with blurred vision, as the sun set over the city of Kandy.   

The following day was one I had been looking forward to for some time; I was to catch the train from Kandy to Ella.  I had read about this train journey online and was very excited to be finally doing it.  I arrived well in time to bag a seat, but only realised on board that it started its journey in Colombo, so I was left standing.  I resembled a giraffe in a box, straining my neck just to see out of the window.  I politely asked the man sitting alongside me if he could give me a heads up when he’s alighting.  A couple of hours later he gave me his seat insisting he was getting off any minute.  His wife and I started chatting, and about five stops later she suggested we swap seats so I could sit by the window.  Then about three stops later they wished me a good trip and alighted.  I was so grateful for their kindness and astuteness, as other tourists watched seats like hawks and swooped in like vultures, regardless of who was standing the longest.  The journey was as incredible as I had read; the train snaked its way uphill through the tea plantations, opening up vistas of the landscape.  At each stop sellers with baskets of drinks and snacks weaved their way through the crowd and up along the tracks. 

Seven hours after departing from Kandy I arrived in the beautiful mountainous town of Ella and treated myself to rice and curries, which comprised of ten little bowls of curries, rice and poppadoms.  At some stage on this trip, my bottomless stomach was bound to reach its peak.  Ella held a good vibe and some of the most stunning scenery I have ever seen, had I trained and become fit for the trip I’d have considered a trek.  It’s been since added to my bucket list.  After a comfy sleep in a big double bed on a quiet street, I woke to a breakfast of more rice and curries, with a beautiful view from outside my room.  This set me up for my journey to Tangalle, I was bound for the beach.  My skin had settled back down to a shade of ‘Bongo Jazz 2’, so I had some topping up to do.

At the bus stop at the side of the dusty road, I met with a man who gave me info on when my bus was due, and a nudge when it came trundling down the road.  I think he worked for the bus company although there was no way of knowing it, maybe he was just a helpful man hanging out at his favourite spot.  I couldn’t help but feel that I was about to be asked for money for his offering of help and info, but no request came.  What a shame that actual kindness gets confused with business tactics, but unfortunately that was the way on my journey so far.  In fact, Ella was the only place I had not encountered any wily ploys to relieve me of a few hundred rupees.  I boarded the bus and bagged a seat at the front, under a TV screen showing Jurassic Park.  As the bus pelted towards the mountain edge I began to think that this may be the end.  I always said if I died young it would give me comfort to know it came with a decent story -

“What happened to poor ‘oul Sinead?” 

“Oh, she flew off the side of a mountain in a Sri Lankan bus/got mangled in a trishaw on a crossroads in Mandalay/fell off a Pagoda in Bagan..”

“Cool.”

I turned my gaze towards the TV and concentrated on the fictional scary man-eating dinosaurs instead of the very possibly real scary plunge towards death outside.  Although petrifying, the view was one of the most majestic of my journey, with the grand and characterful mountains standing like proud grandparents overlooking their legacy.  On flat ground below I felt grateful at arriving unscathed and watched out of the window at the glorious world and a cow eating a poster directly off a wall. 

At Tangalle I sought out a guesthouse, called Siesta, which I found in the travel section of the Guardian website.  Noted as the friendliest place in Tangalle, it seemed like the place I needed to rest my rucksack for a few days.  I showered off the bus journey and set off for the beach, only a few metres down the quiet little road.  I ordered a fresh coconut and watched as the barman scaled the tree to fetch it.  He came over to join me, and sat with me as I read my book.  I debated which would be the most appropriate treatment of the situation here.  I wanted to sit alone and read my book, but did not want to appear rude.  So I smiled and returned to the book and hoped he would, without feeling awkward, accept my hint and leave me be.  This wasn’t the first time a bored barman would seek me out and volunteer his company.  I began to wonder if they pitied me for being alone.  I pitied them for considering being single a stigma.  I always rejected the advice to wear a ring on my ring finger whilst travelling solo, but after a fortnight in Sri Lanka I was beginning to see the advantage of just playing along with social convention.  I would even carry around a photo album of my fake wedding if I thought it would give me peace and quiet with my book.

When I returned to my room I noticed my phone had a few missed calls from a Sri Lankan number, which was strange as I had no contacts here.  However I remembered the tuk tuk driver from Kandy who I had called for all my travel in the city.  He did mention that he would call because he liked to talk.  I pretended not to hear and admired the view of the mountains, and hoped he was not serious.  It seems he was, and he was to call several times during my stay in Tangalle.  What does he want?  An awkward conversation over a bad phone line in broken English?  Anyway, I ignored the calls and hoped he’d get bored…or hook another female tourist.

The following day I hired a bicycle and headed west to find some beaches where I could have a bob about in the water.  The waves on my side were pretty rough, great for surfers, but shite for scaredy cats who can barely swim.  I stopped at a beach side bar and was greeted by a waiter who conveniently had a recommendation for another bar further down the road and, what a coincidence, also had a tuk tuk in which I could get there. Wow, my lucky day!  I politely declined, ordered a coconut, and got on with some sunbathing.  In the afternoon, I pedalled further down the hill, blocking out the realisation that I would have to pedal back up again, and found another great little beach bar that served ginger beer.  I slurped away happily and topped up on my tan.  I was, at this stage, approaching ‘Mexican Mosaic 6’.  After dinner of fresh grilled tuna on the beach I finished my book and headed back to my room before dark.  My mission for the evening was to hunt down an Ayurvedic massage, and in doing so I also happened upon some cute candle lit bars along the beach.  My masseuse, Mali, was a sweet lady who told me she was pleased to have a female customer as she often gets approached by men who are looking for a service far beyond massage…gross.  I threw my sandy bikini top in the corner and fell into a snory snooze as Mali massaged me into an almost deep sleep.  On my way out Mali paid me some lovely compliments on my “beautiful eyes” and told me I was “a young girl”…[very nice to hear.  Oh wait, there’s more to the sentence]… “but a little bit fat”.  A come on!  I have to admit, you’ve got to love the Asian honesty.  Here, ‘fat’ is a descriptive word, just like ‘tall’, it’s not meant as an insult.  I had been experiencing it in Thailand for eighteen months.  One day a man who was pumping up my bicycle tyres told me that they were flat because I was big.  The next morning, back at the guesthouse, I was debating whether to hire a bicycle or a moped and my guesthouse host Tharu, having been told of the previous night’s faux pas, teasingly suggested, “Get a bike, you are fat”.  So I settled on a bike and cycled my little fat ass to Unakaruwa beach, as recommended by Tharu, where the wind and waves were a little gentler.  I set my sarong down and opened up my next book on a quiet hot spot of the beach, and within a paragraph I was approached by two surfers who came to chat and intermittently pop into conversation that they knew of other spots further down the beach.  What is it with these guys, why is everyone so eager to move me down the beach?!  I detected that they probably also had access to a tuk tuk.  Not today boys, I’ve heard it all before.  I politely asserted myself and continued with my day, I was beginning to get the hang of this.

I decided to head back to the other side of the beach and found some lovely places, laid out with deckchairs and candle lit tables where local fishermen set up little eateries that served up their catch of the day.  I chatted with a deliciously attractive man who has recently opened up a tiny restaurant in a wooden hut, where he sells his father’s catch of seafood with cocktails and a chilled out vibe.  I don’t even know if this place has a name, it was a tiny restaurant by night and a locked up wooden hut by day.  I was talked into trying a Sri Lankan spirit called Arrack, made from coconut.  It was served with soda and lime and converted me to a new favourite tipple.  I headed on down to another candle lit restaurant on a little restaurant crawl, and ordered fish roti, not really knowing what fish roti was.  When dry flatbreads made with fish came to my table I made sure to have plenty of Lion beer to wash them down.  

The next day I became a bona fide tourist and booked a tuk tuk trip to some nearby sights, including a blowhole, Weligama stick fishermen and the Rock Temple.  The blowhole was, well, a blowhole, so that was that.  The stick fishermen were not actually fishing but were set up along the coastline ready to pose for photos at a price.  With the introduction of boats and nets the tradition of the stick fishermen has dwindled so the practice has now become a photo opportunity for tourists rather than a technique for fishing.  My tuk tuk driver translated as I negotiated a price to take pictures.  I asked some questions while I snapped and the fishermen beckoned me towards the water, inviting me to scale the apparatus they perch on.  I declined at first but after several persuasions I gave it a go.  I climbed with very little grace onto the pole, which was made of sticks bound together with rope, and sat on top for a quick photo before climbing back down with my big arse in the fisherman’s hands.  I did warn him I was not light.  I thanked the man, who was shorter and smaller than me, how he lifted me I’ll never know.  I opened my purse to pay him and he, via my driver, reminded me of the price which had jumped since our previous chat.  It seems the lift up the pole was extra.  I politely advised him that in future he should negotiate this in advance, and that today he was getting the first figure agreed on.  I handed over my money and smiled, and he accepted, although I suspect he’s still employing the same sales tactic.  I imagine quite a lot of tourists pay out of embarrassment.  I’m afraid I had not squirrelled away enough holiday money to save face.

Next and last stop was to the Rock Temple, which contrary to belief is not Axl’s Buddhist hangout, but a temple built on a large rock which juts out over a beautiful, peaceful view.  After watching the sun set from the gigantic boulder I made my way back down to the tuk tuk, and back to my guesthouse for dinner and sleep, despite an invite to the pub from the driver, I’ll call him ‘R’, who turned out to be great company on my day trip.  I was too sleepy for beer and conversation so I took a rain check until the following evening.

After a day of sunbathing, reading, and slurping smoothies on the beach I got ready for my date with R.  We met for beers and chatted for a bit before heading along the beach to have a drink at the cute little shack restaurant I had found a few nights before.  Along the way R mapped out my life for me, how considerate.  Apparently I was to stay in touch on Skype and then return to Sri Lanka to live with him because he loved me.  But the story does not have a fairytale ending as I, being of sound mind, declined and ran back to my room (alone).  The following day was spent sunbathing and ignoring calls from my future husband.  I went to bed super early as I had another day of being a tourist ahead of me, and I was tired of all this silliness. 

I woke 4am for a pick up to take me to Udawalawe National Park, where I watched families of elephants, herds of buffalo, and crocodiles all sharing the lake to bathe peacefully.  Despite paying the largest admission fee so far on this trip, I was encouraged by my guide to tip him and the jeep driver, because he claimed that they were volunteers who lived on tips.  Bizarre, but hey, I had been up since before the crack of dawn and was too tired to take on the uncomfortable exchange that would follow had I challenged this strange story.  I arrived back at my guesthouse and fought the urge to sleep with the help of a massive pot of coffee and rented a bike for a trip to the beach.  I needed some new scenery so I took off way down the sandy path, past the lagoon, and found a cute little beach restaurant with hammocks on the sand and a nice cheap menu.  But what was even more luxurious about this place was that there were no chatty surfers, there were no tuk tuk drivers, there were no staff members holding their hands out, and there were no lotharios claiming to be in love with me.  I got to relax and read!  Over rice and curries I completed another book.  Vacations give my appetite for reading some sustenance.  During my two weeks in Sri Lanka, I had gorged on five books.  I know the die hard readers amongst you would be appalled at what I’m about to say but they were all books that had been adapted to screen, and I had already watched most of the movies.  I am only a part time reader and movies provide me with my literary fodder.  I can judge a good restaurant by it’s lighting, and a good film by its poster, but choosing the right book is a mystery to me.  If it hasn’t been recommended by a friend or presented to me in movie form I will most likely ignore it.  Anyway, as I was saying, I read a lot on vacation.  I owe my lack of loneliness to the many characters who accompany me on my travels, and I can’t wait to get back to them and hear how they’re getting on.  From Pi Patel mastering a Bengal tiger on a lifeboat to Benny Hogan and her heartaches down in Knockglen.  Cheryl Strayed was a terrific travel buddy as she told me her tale of hiking the PCT in the USA while I was bootling around Myanmar on an e-bike and Elizabeth Gilbert reminded me of the magic of Bali as I lazed dreamily in a hammock on the southern coast of Sri Lanka. 

Returning to Siesta is like coming home to my safe haven, where I am sheltered from people who want, and general questions about my personal life, e.g., “Why are you not married?  Are you travelling alone?  Are you not scared?  Where is your boyfriend?”  It really is the “friendliest place in Tangalle”, as the Guardian puts it.  On my final day I had a cookery class with Harshani, Tharu’s wife.  We hand-ground coconut and made handmade coconut milk that would go into making dishes such as dhal, chicken curry, and coconut sambol.  All this was to be accompanied by poppadoms, rice, and bean curry, and this entire feast was for little old me.  In true Sri Lankan style I slept soundly after my lunch and lazily mosied to the beach for one more evening with the sunset.  I found a place called the Panorama Rock Café, which had a nice view of the rocky, breezy coastline below.  I ordered a beer from the creepy barman who decided I wanted his company.  While he sat fiddling with his crotch and making very boring small talk, I tried to ignore him and continue with my fictional friends in my book. 

My Sri Lankan adventure came to a close with an epic journey which had me hopping between four buses.  Five hours later I arrived tired and scraggly at my hotel which I had booked due to it’s proximity to the airport, and this time I made sure it was fail safe, I was minutes from the plane station so I could sleep easy and have a stress free transfer.  Or so I'd hoped.  I met a very helpful hotel concierge who told me I was the only guest for the evening so the restaurant was closed, but he would take me to town to get some takeaway food.  He was helpful, albeit slightly overbearing, and almost ended up choosing my dinner for me.  I took it as kindness at the time but didn’t hang around too long to be talked at, the subject once again drifted towards my single status, and what a coincidence it was that he was also single.  Abort mission, get out of there, go, go!  I made my excuses and headed off to my room for some peace and quiet.  I noticed the bathroom window was slightly open and in a room with no mosquito net I decided this was not a great idea.  I put the loo seat down and mounted, with only a second before the entire seat split into four pieces and my foot plunging down into the bowl.  Right into the U bend.  Fuuuuck.  I was too tired to deal with yer man, so I slept on it, not before googling the price of toilet seats. 

Harshani hand grinds fresh coconut every day!

In the morning I had calculated a fair compensation for my destruction and a tip for the concierge.  I opted for honesty and displayed the damage.  The response was an expected frown, shake of the head, hand to the chin in deep thought, and the suggestion of a cost five times the figure I was about to offer.  A very frustrating negotiation took place at 4am, where we ended up on double my suggestion, and his tip evaporated.  Downstairs, as we waited for my tuk tuk, he talked at me about how little he earns and how he gets tips from tourists, and reminded me of how nice he was to me.  I was getting more and more irritated, but wore no expression.  My tuk tuk arrived and I loaded it up and went on my way with simple thanks, and left Mr Nice open mouthed.  Of course the tuk tuk he booked on my behalf charged me double the going rate.  I guess it’s not a proper business exchange without some extortion thrown in.  I limped off on what I presumed was a broken toe, and headed straight for departures, tired and grumpy.  

My trip to Sri Lanka was a long awaited one, but I left with a feeling of exhaustion and frustration, which really tainted my experience there.  It took me a while to work out my thoughts on these experiences and I struggled a lot when I thought about how negative I felt.  I am aware of the poverty in Asia, and I am aware that I am considered richer than some of the people I have encountered because, relatively, I am.  However, and my opinion comes from my experience from my little space on the planet, that doesn’t give a person the right to assume I have more money than I know what to do with, or assume that I am lonely and desperate now I am a thirty something singleton.  My frustration comes from the frequency at which this happened.  I spent my time in Sri Lanka, and in some other parts of Asia, feeling like a walking ATM ready to serve those I encountered.  The assumptions and expectations placed on me were exhausting.  As I said, that’s only my own opinion and I’m as entitled to that as anyone who may criticise it is to theirs.  All in all, I am very happy I took the opportunity to visit Sri Lanka.  At their very core, the people I got to know were wonderful, and the countryside boasts the most beautiful landscapes I’ve ever seen.  Pity it comes at a price, and I’m not talking about the money…

Images: Sinéad Millea.

Mingalaba!

A fortnight in Myanmar

Despite the emotional goodbyes in Nakhon Sawan I was fortunate enough to have a month of exploration ahead of me, and have some time alone to process the past eighteen months and what the plan might be for the next.  I spent the first fortnight of March in marvelous Myanmar.

I arrived at my hostel with 4 hours to spare before check in time, so I found a nearby cafe for a coffee and my first taste of delicious Myanmar food, and my first taste of an unusual custom, kissing sounds to get a waiter’s attention.  You can imagine my surprise when I walked in and heard a sound that, in my part of the world, is considered sexual harassment and worthy of a slap.  When I saw the waiter bustling towards the offending noise I realised I was not being taunted, but some dude just wanted a coffee. A couple of hours in I was already bored of cyber space and itching to sleep, I returned to hostel to fall asleep in the reception area and hoped the staff would feel pity, it worked and I was asleep by noon. I woke, refreshed and ready to check out Yangon. I settled in at a table on a street side restaurant, enticed by the foamy beers being distributed to the tables around me. The staff avoided me, and it didn't take long to understand why. It seemed nobody spoke English, which is fair enough; I don't speak Myanmar so I had to expect some language barriers. All I wanted was something from their grill and some beer; I could have pointed if they'd given me half a chance. While they argued with each other about who would serve me I removed myself from the situation and found a small place across the road, where I could bring my own beer and enjoy a plate of Shan Noodles which was recommended to me by the waitress.

Next day I met an old colleague, who now lives in Yangon, for a trip on the circle train which travels in a loop around the city and for a couple of hundred kyat you can board a train that gives an up close insight into Yangon daily life, with market traders carrying trays on their heads, boarding to sell some refreshing watermelon to passengers. On board it dawned on me that I had not booked a room for that evening so, in a Tasmanian Devil style whirl, I doubled back to sort accommodation. My brain fell asleep you see, it was all the end of term, end of contract, got to get my life packed up, move out, and go backpacking moving and shaking that did it. As soon as I reached Yangon my brain considered itself to be on holiday. Once a bed was secured for the night we picked up where we left off with our lazy, people-watching train ride. We stopped for a lunch break and had an amazing buffet at Feel Myanmar, before a bit more exploring and a bbq dinner on 19th Street, which is famed for the BBQ restaurants that line each side of the road. To top off the evening, we took a taxi ride through heavy traffic commuting Yangon style (cars zigzagging around a roundabout in a 'first one to barge through gets right of way' system) to the Vista rooftop bar for cocktails with a view of Shwe Dagon Pagoda. You know how I feel about cocktails and panoramic views, put them together and you have a perfect evening.

After a good night's sleep and a hot shower I was on my way to Inle Lake. Meeting my friend and having a good old catch up was the highlight of my visit to Yangon, but I didn't find it the kind of place I would consider a vacation spot, too busy with transport issues. Although the circle train was enjoyable, as a means of commuting it would grow old very quickly, and taking taxis consistently involves a haggle over the fare. With this point in mind I found Yangon to be a bit overbearing, but I guess I'm more of a rural holidaymaker, as I was to learn on my next stop.

My overnight bus to Inle Lake was packed and my seat was faulty, so some very tangled sleeping positions aided only 4 hours of slumber. I was so grateful that my guesthouse could check me in on arrival at 6am. I slept hard til noon.

I woke famished so I went next door to a little roadside cafe and ordered avocado salad, and was so excited at the sight of an entire plate of guacamole, which I devoured with crispy deep fried tofu slices. Feeling energised, I hired a bike and cycled to Red Mountain winery, stopping along the way for photographs, and to take in the gorgeous landscape. After a wander amongst the vines, I enjoyed a tasting selection of four wines, plus two additional glasses of Inle Rose, which was my favourite. I met an interesting lady and we chatted about life, the Universe, and everything. I think the wine loosened our tongues so the conversation went in a personal direction, where she discussed her desire to settle down and have a family. She told me she was worried about leaving security behind in favour of more long term travel as, if she were to meet someone and settle down, she'd need savings to fund her future family. I understood her insecurities, and when she asked me about my motivation to leave it all behind, my answer was, "whatever is meant for me is not back home right now, and I'll waste my life if I sit around and wait for that part of my life to progress". The only things you can't control the timing of are love and death. I don't see the point in waiting around for either. Ya gotta do whatcha gotta do, and they'll find you eventually.

We supped up and cycled back after sunset, racing against the darkness. I bid farewell, and good luck, to my new friend and arrived in the village just as wisps of red light sunk into the horizon. Dinner of mutton curry was accompanied by many tiny dishes, most of which I could live my life without knowing of their existence (e.g. teeny tiny fried fish that tasted like an entire bottle of fish sauce downed for a dare), but the pickled mango was a welcome addition, so I tucked in and washed it all down with a bottle of Mandalay Strong Beer, 'strong' is an understatement. All I was fit for was bed, so I pedalled back to my digs and slept soundly.

Next morning I had no agenda so I took my trusty steed and cycled in the direction of the lake. After about an hour of trundling along a tiny dirt track that hugged the edges of the paddy fields, where farmers worked under the hot sun, I noticed I was completely lost. When I found myself again I realised I was on the wrong side of my map pedalling in the opposite direction. Time for a coffee break. Three hours later I emerged and set off again for a bicycle bimble, only to find (again) that I am the world champion of shite navigation. I consoled myself with an hour long massage, in a village bamboo house, where I was given delicious fried tofu and green tea. That evening I ventured out to see a marionette show, comprising of eight dances by each of the stringed artists who were controlled by just one man, a happy gentleman who, to my untrained eye, seemed very talented at his skill. 

The following morning I was collected by my boatman for a day trip on Inle Lake. We chugged our way through many watery villages where people live and run businesses in wooden buildings on stilts, it was a fascinating sight, talk about 'how the other half live'! My day was long and involved lots of interaction with market sellers, I bought a few gifts but by the end of the trip I was weary of the market stall hard sell. However, a highlight was my visit to In Shein Pagodas. At first I struggled to find them so my boat driver, who was hoping for a snooze break, walked me all the way there, an uphill journey in the midday heat. The road unfolded to reveal several pagodas, ancient and new, as far as my eyes could see. It was worth the mini trek there, and I was grateful to my boat dude for his perseverance. The return trip was lifted by a beautiful view of the fishermen on the lake. Unfortunately this was the precise moment that my camera battery decided it had had enough, so I packed it away and decided to sit back and just watch, I was mesmerised by their technique. One fisherman stopped in his tracks as I watched him, staring at me with a rather confused expression. I guess not many tourists just watch them, without shoving a camera in their faces. He stared at me as I stared at him, so I waved hello, which he reciprocated slowly, still wearing his perplexed expression. I got neither a photograph nor an insight into his fishing technique, but all one has to do is punch 'Inle Lake' into any image search engine and countless iconic images pop up in seconds. I may not have my own but I believe I shared an odd moment with my fisherman, and that's priceless, huh?  I later found out that the fishermen ask for money from tourists who take their picture, so this may explain his confusion.

The following day I decided to catch the day bus to Bagan as my experiences of night buses have not been favourable. As I watched a TV show I had loaded onto my tablet, I noticed several more passengers boarding than what the bus could seat. Then a stack of plastic stools were distributed and the extra passengers sat precariously on these for the nine hour journey. They were local people who paid a fraction of the price that tourists paid for actual seats, but it seemed like an arduous and dangerous journey for them.

I arrived in Bagan in time to check in and book myself on a boat trip for the next day.  Hired bicycle seems to be my transport of choice so why change a tradition?  I hired a bike and took off down the dusty road in the direction of Shwezigon Pagoda, just in time to watch the sun set over the golden dome.  A lady stopped me and told me I could park my bike at no charge, she basically took the bike off me and suggested I leave my shoes there too (shoes are forbidden in Buddhist places of worship).  I kind of didn’t have a choice in the matter so I thought I’d do as she said as I wanted to catch the sunset, but I may have to prepare for whatever she was plotting.  Of course, there was a catch, and when I returned to collect my bike and shoes, I found my flip flops neatly placed right in front of this woman’s stall where she was selling all kinds of tourist crap.  I politely and assertively declined, picked up my shoes and bike, and cycled off.  She didn’t like it, nor did I like being played.  She wasn’t the first wily market seller I encountered and she certainly wasn’t going to be the last, sadly.

On the next day I had a boat trip planned that was to take me to a temple in a cave, a beach, a local village and back to the river for sunset. The ‘beach’ was pretty comical, the boat pulled up at a sandy area on the river with a beautiful view of passing ferries emitting thick black smoke.  Plastic chairs were set in a line along the sand for sunbathing, and we had the opportunity to have a swim, or in actual fact, to get dragged by the strong current.  On the plus side I made acquaintances of some other passengers on the boat who milled about for my stay in Bagan, so it was nice to see a familiar face at beer o clock.  The highlight of the boat trip was the stop off at the local village.  Before docking the boat, the boys handed out some photos and information about the village.  They had devised a game where visitors and villagers could interact.  Visitors get a photo of a villager and the task is to find that person and present them with their picture.  The interactivity of the game ensured a welcome arrival and some introductions to the local people, even invites into people’s homes where those who could speak some English conversed with us.  I made some friends of cheeky little kids and their grandmother who offered me some palm sugar sweets, so I sat with the kids and we eroded our teeth as the littlest of the siblings entertained us with her cute dance moves, aka jumping like a loon.  The evening was topped off with a sunset view from a corn field overlooking the river.

Before arriving in Bagan I had read and heard about the hot air balloon rides, but factored them out thinking they would be heavily booked and expensive.  I had since spoken to some people who had only booked last minute, so I decided to make an enquiry and they had a space for me.  I withdrew the one week travel budget that it cost, closed my eyes and handed over my fat bundle of notes. On the morning of my flight I braced myself for petrification, but felt no sign of it, not whilst watching the balloons inflate, not whilst climbing into the wicker basket, and not whilst soaring through the sky in what can only be described as a giant picnic basket. It seems I'm all grown up, the Sinead Nua who scaled the wall at Bristol's Undercover Rock climbing centre wouldn't recognise me today.

I grinned maniacally during a glorious flight offering breathtaking views of just some of the 4,000 pagodas below, the only words I could utter were, "I'm in a basket in the sky!" My fellow passengers could be forgiven for thinking I was a little bit special. It was an incredible experience and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.  During a chat with my Pilot, Bill, my appetite for more balloon flights grew as he shared the top five places to fly, Bagan being one of these, and his own personal top choice, the Alps.  What a picture that would be!

Feeling elated and slightly more confident that the pagodas were easy to find I set out that afternoon on an electronic bike, kind of like a bicycle with a motor, but way less cool looking, and it was pink, ugh, here we go again…  I got lost a record number of times but, in doing so, I managed to make more sense of the map, and by sundown I thought I had it in the bag. I watched the sunset from the top of a pagoda with steps so steep that I had to scramble up, clawing at each ancient brick for dear life.  I don’t know the name of this Pagoda as, contrary to previous belief, I did not have it in the bag.  It was nowhere near the bag.

The next morning I woke with insatiable itching all over my legs. It seemed the local mosquito community had been alerted that I was in town. You know when a new restaurant opens, and you go and you have a nice meal, and you tell all your friends so they go, and the restaurant gets busier and busier? Well, I'm that restaurant and my thighs have five stars on the mosquito version of Tripadvisor.

Once I'd stopped scratching I roused myself for the sunrise view, having heard so much about it's beauty I had to see it for myself. I hired another e-bike, this one less resembling Barbie's pushbike, and went to a tall pagoda with deep steep steps. Like most of them, the name escapes me. I would drive around consulting my map, find a pagoda I had marked as recommended for viewing from, only to discover over a breakfast debrief with my new friends that I was way off. Anyway, I clambered my way up whateveritscalled and perched on the edge, just in time to see the glowing red sun rise over the pagodas that were dwarfed by this one. A special treat followed, a group of hot air balloons drifted past adding some magic to the already spectacular skyline.

I drove, bathed in the morning light, back to my guesthouse for breakfast, before heading out again for another stab at finding some good views. This time I had a clear idea of three pagodas that I wanted to see, and today there was to be no messing. I had my map, I had my internal navigation set, I was a woman with a mission.

I got lost. I got so lost I could no longer even tell where I was on the map. Sod the map, I followed my nose, and it brought me to a pagoda so tall and steep that it incited my fear of heights. I scaled to the top like King Kong on steroids, and braced myself for my first view from the top. It was terrifying. I pasted myself to the conical wall behind me standing at an obtuse angle to the ground. I tread delicately around, stopping to snap some pictures, probably mostly of the sky due to the bizarre angle in which I was standing. A painter who was selling his artwork, sand paintings, from the top approached me cautiously, sensing I was about to petrify and become a rather odd addition to this ancient structure. We shared a nice conversation and I felt a little more at ease, enough to notice his t-shirt which had the slogan, "Keep Ireland Green" and a picture of two frogs getting jiggy. It gave me a giggle, I relaxed a little, and I treated myself to a painting before preparing myself for the descent. A wave of fear whisked through me and grabbed my body. Once again I stiffened with terror. My body retreated back so I could feel the solid brick steps hugging my back. I imagined I look something like a Warner Brothers cartoon character, with my body taking on the shape of the steep steps beneath me. I froze solid and attempted an internal pep talk, when my painter friend came to my rescue. He escorted my down the steps, grabbing my arm tightly and raised slightly, sort of how a bouncer would chuck a bad drunk out of a bar. Anyone looking on from the ground would have thought I had been drunkenly slurring rebel songs at the top. I wonder if the truth is actually more embarrassing.  I swiftly jumped on my e-bike and made my way along the sandy path, leaving a trail of dust and mortification behind me. Sticking to paved roads in Bagan gives you an option of about four routes, but going off track onto the dust roads gives you an adventure, albeit a hot, dusty, and confused one, if you're anything like me. I arrived at five sided Dhammayazika Pagoda, probably the most southerly pagoda (although you’d be a fool if you believed anything I said), and stopped for some lunch.

Having been awake since 5am, it was time for a snooze so I took to my bed for 40 winks, and returned to the pagodas to find the one recommended for sunset. Yes that's right map, you have one more chance! Luck was smiling on me on my final day, luck, and a man selling paintings. Another painting angel, ready to help a lady in need. The pagoda I was seeking is a very popular one amongst tourists who want to avoid tourists, so it was obvious to him where I intended to go when he found me looking at my map in confusion. It is not as picturesque as the others, but with it's flat rooftop, it boasts one of the prettiest views in Bagan. My favourite remains Budeli, the steep monster that can almost reduce a grown woman to tears, but for obvious reasons that experience was a one off.

After a light dinner and a massage I was bound for snoozeville. I woke at 4am to an unwelcome urge to reject my dinner, 9 hours after eating it. I slept on and tentatively ate a breakfast at 8am before boarding a bus to Mandalay. So far so good, I even managed lunch. I had a feeling things weren't so good towards the end of the journey, but still felt no nausea. I arrived at my guesthouse, feeling like death's little sister, and promptly excreted the contents of my stomach, from whatever orifice that it chose. I was not the picture of beauty that day, so I stayed indoors and made use of the fast wifi connection, plotting my next trip that was coming up in just a few days, two weeks in Sri Lanka. At least there was some reason to be happy amidst the carnage that was happening to my poor body.

The following day I woke feeling human again. I ate a big breakfast, I ate like there was no tomorrow. If the waitress had stood still long enough I'd have eaten her. One of my new travel buddies was on the other side of town, so we organised to meet up and take on Mandalay on foot. We completely underestimated the vastness of the city, and the inaccuracy of our maps. We ended up walking the backroads where the locals lived. As we meandered through the dusty streets where people washed, ate, bought, and sold we were greeted by children shouting hello and shaking our hands. We stopped for a break from the midday heat and ordered Shan Noodles from a street side restaurant filled with men. Generally women don’t eat out, although Western women are welcome as it’s understood we have different customs. There was a widescreen TV on the wall showing some macho blockbuster movie, so all eyes were glued to that. As one of the only two female customers in the place I was grateful of that TV. I didn't fancy being stared at while slurping noodles and fumbling with chopsticks! After a rest and a bite to eat we set off again to find a sunset point on the river that was marked on our maps. It looked fairly straightforward, literally straight down 26th street. It wasn't. But, in getting lost we saw so much more of Mandalay than we would have if we’d stuck to taxis. We finally found the river, and a beacon of angelic light shone from the sky, hello glorious sun! A beautiful red glow spilled over the river and doused the boats that bobbed on the water. The sunset point turned out to be a bar with a deck overlooking the river. I ordered a well deserved beer and watched the sun sink down to through the cloudy sky. After sunset we jumped in a taxi and headed over to The Moustache Brothers, a once controversial comedy act comprising of three brothers (one has since passed away), two of whom were imprisoned in the late 90s for the political content in their comedy. They're not backward about coming forward when it comes to the subject of politics of their country. The act, which was performed by the youngest of the three in the ground floor of their home, contained some political jokes, stories of their heyday and the unfortunate fate of the eldest two siblings, and traditional dance performances, which to me seemed out of context but, in saying that, I still enjoyed them. For me, the stories of the trio's past escapades were the winning part of the show. Political comedy is lost on me, and I'd heard reviews claiming the show has been tamed and altered for their tourist audiences, which I can't comment on here, not without an educated view of Myanmar politics, but simply just to meet a zany interesting character I'd recommend paying them a visit.

The following day, over breakfast at my guesthouse, I had a squizz at my map and

realised how close I was to a popular breakfast spot, as recommended by travelfish.org. This travel website is so detailed in it's descriptions of South East Asia that I can follow their recommended itineraries word for word and end up in places I’d have picked out for myself. Their restaurant taste is identical to mine, so if they recommend an eatery, I go, simples. I suggest this site to anyone travelling in SEA, but don't take room rates as gospel, accommodation prices can go up in a heartbeat. So the restaurant of the day was Min Mahar, a bustling eating house on 26th Street, famed for it's local breakfasts. It opens at 6am and it's advised to arrive before 9am or most of the dishes sell out by then. I got there at around 9.30 and had about three dishes on the large menu to choose from. I sat and read from my Kindle, taking breaks to just watch the world go by, while groups of men (here we are again) read the paper or conversed. As the only foreigner in the place, I got a lot of attention from the curious staff who took to standing behind me to see what I was reading. The service is quick, possibly because there's no time wasted on walking to the kitchen to place the orders, they're just shouted from your table. I loved the frenetic energy of this place, what a great way to wake up to a new day.

 I took a wander down 26th street and happened upon a smiley, yet persistent, trishaw driver who gave me a pretty good deal on seeing the city's main sights. Everywhere you turn here you're faced with a motorcycle or trishaw driver, or even a school teacher (true story), trying to flog you a spin somewhere. When I told them I was just walking their faces dropped, nobody just walks. Yet another reason to believe that foreigners are mental. For 5000 kyats ($5), my smiley man, who introduced himself as Mawmaw, pedalled me through the city taking in temples, the stone masons area where statues are made, a teak carving workshop where I watched puppets come into being, a gold leaf workshop where three hardworking young fellas pelted the gold leaf flat with mallets, the process takes hours. It was hypnotic to watch the repetitive motion and listen to the rhythmic pounding. I found myself in a trance until a bus load of tourists showed up, shoving their DSLRs into every available space of the room, that's when I made my exit. My final stop was a Myanmar restaurant recommended by Mawmaw. Despite not being hungry after my double breakfast, I ordered beef curry and fried maize. Of course, in usual Myanmar fashion, my lunch was accompanied by soup and chopped vegetables with dips. My table for one was abundant with food, and my half full belly couldn't give it all a home.

After a rest, my trishaw chauffeur returned for a second trip to Mandalay Hill, where I could get an elevated view of the sun setting over the entire city. On my map Mandalay Hill deceptively looks like a hop, skip, and a jump away but, in fact, it's an hour long cycle, oh poor Mawmaw! I did warn him that foreigners are heavier than the people of Myanmar. On arrival he took a well deserved break while I had some exercise. I was told there are 1200 steps to the summit, and I felt every one of them. My tactic was to put my head down, switch off my thoughts, and climb. With statues and market sellers along the way there's a lot of visual stimulation, and each level is different in style. I was fooled several times in thinking I had made it to the top, only to walk around a Buddha statue to find even more steps. It seemed endless and as the tips of my hair brushed the back of my neck with tears of sweat I became increasingly aware of how unfit I am. Despite my original tactic, my thoughts swam to "how much farther?!" My reward at the top, known as Sutaungpyei (literally wish-fulfilling) Pagoda, was a panoramic view of Mandalay that stretched as far as the horizon. I watched the sunset as birds flitted across, silhouetted in the red glow. Mandalay Hill is one of the two places recommended in guide books for sunset, the other being U Bein Bridge, so the pagoda was mobbed with tourists and a few monks who dutifully posed for some snapshots. I predicted a mass exodus as soon as the sun disappeared behind the distant hills, so I exited quickly to avoid the mob. I met a man claiming to be a school teacher; he invited me to meet his students so they could practise learning English. I declined as I had planned to take a motorcycle taxi out of the city to explore the sights there. The conversation moved onto tourism, in which the teacher quizzed me on hotel and transport prices I've paid so far in this country and how they compare to Thailand. He informed me that he wanted to be a tour guide and expand across South East Asia. It took some on the spot mathematics to engage in his conversation. Then, naturally, he asked if I had transport back to my guesthouse (I knew it, I KNEW he was looking to do some sort of business!!) I told him I had someone waiting for me at the bottom and within the blink of an eye he took off, wishing me "goodbyehaveanicetrip", before disappearing down the stairs. I was left bewildered, my head still spinning from all the currency conversions he demanded. What was THAT all about?! Was he a teacher, a tour guide, or a taxi driver? Whatever his deal is, his distraction took my mind off the long descent and I was on the road before I knew it. Mawmaw pedalled me back to my guesthouse, where I thanked my lucky stars to have survived the day. There are a handful of traffic lights in the entire city so, at junctions, the etiquette is to keep driving and beeping to indicate you have no intention of stopping. That's all well and good if you're in a truck, but on my trishaw there was no horn, just a brave cyclist and a resigned foreigner. Whilst crossing busy junctions I'd look to my side to see a truck speeding along towards me and think, "This is it, this is how I die, goodbye world". But I didn't die, isn't that marvellous?! A bloody miracle is what it is.

In the early hours of the next morning I woke with throat and ear pain, as well as sinus congestion. I visited a pharmacy before breakfast and sorted myself out for a remedy for what I thought may be sinus infection, quite possibly owing to the thick polluted air in the city, or perhaps just good old fashioned bad timing. I decided to cancel my plan for the day, instead stocking up on water and snacks, firing up my kindle to watch a movie, and pop some pills. I wanted to be fit as a fiddle for my next adventure. My hermit status lasted til 4 o clock, when I just about went bananas in my little single room, so I caught a motorcycle taxi to a Western restaurant, called V Cafe, where I might get some comfort food and check out their rooftop bar for one last Myanmar sunset. I ordered the Jumbo Burger' which was your run of the mill cheap and tasteless 'pub' burger, and the 'serving' of chips turned out to be more of a garnish. I popped upstairs to the rooftop, which they open at 6pm, to a view of the roads below and the deafening noise of traffic. A little disappointed that the view was only eastwards so I couldn’t watch the sun set, I paid up and made my way back to my hotel to repack and have an early night. Not the most climactic end to such an incredible trip to Myanmar, but one who has travelled by hot air balloon cannot complain!

My taxi to the airport was shared by a chatty Canadian man, who talked AT me for an hour about the politics in Myanmar, religion, and terrorism, all without question super topics to discuss with a stranger. I zoned out and started playing a movie in my head, the one where the lady in a taxi rips off her own arm and beats a know-it-all tourist with it, have you seen it? My bubble was burst when he posed a question to me. Crap. I used a trick I learned in Thailand and smiled without speaking, hoping his question was rhetorical. It wasn't. Crap. I wiggled my way out by giving a generic and diplomatic answer, to which he continued gabbing on, vomiting his opinions and assumptions all over me. I thought conversation was a two way street! I sank back in my seat and returned to my in-head entertainment. I arrived in Bangkok in the late afternoon and, as soon as I checked into my bed for the night, I dropped my bag in search of something Irish, it was Paddy's Day! The first I’ve ever had without a silly hat on my head and a pint of the black stuff in my hand. The closest I could find was an Italian restaurant (at least it's the same continent!), called Wine Connection, and ordered a delicious pizza with artichoke and two glasses of yummy French Syrah Grenache, followed by a decadent chocolate mousse, all items on St Patrick's approved list of celebratory foods I'm sure. This St. Paddy's celebration was going to have to be a short one, as I had a 4am wake up call the following morning. I was bound for Sri Lanka, definitely worth missing out on a Shamrock Shake!

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Photos: Sinead Millea.