A-Mandalay-zing

It was only a short taxi ride to Chiang Mai airport. I was first in line when check-in opened, said goodbye to my bag, and quickly passed through security. I tried to get rid of my remaining baht by buying snacks, but decided that I couldn’t be bothered to carry around twenty bags of almonds. Soon it was time to board. The plane was tiny, and wasn’t even half full. I counted nineteen passengers, including myself, which meant I had a lot of room to splay out for the hour-long flight.

After some bland plane ‘food’ we began to descend. The scorched browns and golds of irregular fields came closer and closer. I only counted a handful of cars on the thin ribbon of highway.

We landed in Mandalay, I got my bag, and was assisted in the toilet with washing my hands. An attendant turned on the tap for me, squeezed a bit of soap onto my palm, then turned off the tap and handed me some tissue paper. It was bizarre, but a friendly way to be welcomed to Myanmar. I succeeded in changing my remaining baht, and just as I was leaving the counter, was grabbed by a share taxi driver and bundled in to a van with some other tourists. Once the van was full we set off for the centre.

I was the first to be dropped off. I checked in to a grubby hotel, then went for a walk around the moat and  crenellated walls of the palace.

The moat is massive, and it was over an hour before I reached the north side, and the foot of Mandalay Hill. Flanked by two chinthe, I began my slow, barefooted ascent. I passed through a series of open corridors and temples, some of which were inhabited by families, watching tv, doing the dishes, or fixing their hair. I think that’s what they call open-plan living. After an age I reached the top, and was rewarded with a hazy view of the flat city; no monuments or skyscrapers to be seen. There was barely an apartment block, but it was very serene nonetheless.

I hobbled down the 1729 steps, was reunited with my shoes, and then walked around the other side of the moat, where locals were using the outdoor gym, or strolling arm and arm in longyis (long patterned wraps, worn by men and women), with golden Thanaka smeared over their faces as protection from the sun. Some people looked quite vampiric, their faces sallow with the cosmetic, and their lips stained red by the betel they were chewing, but lots of people grinned at me and said “Hello!”

For dinner I had some chappattis outside a mosque, then returned to my hotel just as it was getting dark. Street lights don’t seem to be too common here, so I think I’ll do my best to get back before night falls, or risk the perils of the open drains.

I went up to breakfast the following morning and was immediately invited to join Julie, a German lady, and Galina, an Israeli girl on the next table. I soaked up their tips and anecdotes for Myanmar, then arranged with Galina to hire bikes for the day.

We cycled through a chaotic market, effusing unusual sights and smells. We soon found ourselves in the Gold-Leaf District, and watched young men, glistening with pearls of sweat, pound the sheets of gold until they became thin and malleable.

We then cycled along the river, looking for a Jade Market (which happened to be closed). Instead we met a tribe of children, who insisted on being photographed. They were beautiful, so it wasn’t much of a sacrifice. One man even brought his baby out to join in the fun.

We eventually managed to extricate ourselves, and headed for Shwe Inbin, a grand temple built out of dark, musty teak, and falling into cobwebby disrepair. We then visited the bustling Maha Myat Muni, home to the oldest Buddha image in Myanmar. We gaped in awe at the gigantic 1950s paintings on the wall, detailing how the statue was hauled back to Mandalay after it had been seized by King Bodawpaya. We squeezed through the locals to catch a glimpse of a steady line of men rubbing gold leaf onto the Buddha. Women were prohibited from partaking in this ritual, so instead sat in front of the effigy praying.

We then had lunch and cycled thirteen kilometres down to Amarapura, and the largest teak bridge in the world. I tried to ignore the wide gaps between the slats, creating a strobe effect on the dank water below. The bridge was full of locals, sweeping along in their longyis (or robes if they were a monk), looking down at the men fishing in the water below.

We cycled back, had a rest, then attempted to go to the cinema. No English films were showing, so we walked back in the darkness – a situation compounded by a powercut and a miniature storm, which kicked up flurries of dust before cleansing the air with fat droplets of rain. We made it back safely and said goodnight.

My first impression of Myanmar has been one of wonder. It feels refreshingly different, foreign, unfamiliar, and that’s something I’ve been craving for a long time. People smile here, and want to interact, and even in two days I’ve seen things that are absurd (to me) and made me smile, like a turkey roaming around a kitsch outdoor photo booth, and a cat nestled in a sea of garlic. Everything is new, and that’s exciting.

One night in Bangkok and the world is our oyster.

We spent more than one night in the capital, but that’s not how the song goes. We got up at 08:00, which was pretty impressive considering our journeys the day before; Mariana slept for one hour in the previous thirty-eight. The sun was already beating down, and it felt utterly ludicrous to know that the hat, scarf and gloves that have been saving me from frostbite for the past two weeks are now redundant. We followed the line of the river, passing countless wats with their cool white walls and flaming gold roofs, and squeezed through a market selling small metal amulets and buddhas, inching between elderly monks who peered over their glasses at the intricate craftsmanship. We then joined the hoards of tourist groups visiting the Grand Palace, but were put off by the price. Instead, we walked around the back of the grounds to Wat Pho, which houses a forty-six metre reclining Buddha, and is the oldest wat in the country.

We then made our way up to Wat Mahahat, to do a bit of casual meditation. If any of you have ever tried to sit perfectly still for a prolonged amount of time, you’ll know that it’s one of the most painful things imaginable. We started the session with some mindful walking, before sitting in half-lotus until we lost the feeling in our legs. We repeated these exercises with the monk leading the session for three hours, and somewhere in the depths of my discomfort, I found a brief stillness.

We quickly eradicated the effects of our serene self-awareness by delving into the chaos of Chinatown. After a few misguided attempts we found the neon lights and the steaming street stalls. We grabbed some food, then took a tuk-tuk back to the hostel, exhausted after our exertions.

The following morning we checked out and caught the local bus to the bus station. It took ages, partly because we had to wait for three trains to pass at a hugely impractical crossing. We arrived, and fifteen minutes later we were sat in a minivan on the way to Ayutthaya. We arrived just over an hour later, and walked in the sweltering heat to the hotel. We had to book a private room because there were no dorms available, but this wasn’t a problem now that I’m no longer a solo traveller. Our room wasn’t ready, so we hired some bikes and went to see the temples. They were similar to those at Angkor Wat, but refreshingly there weren’t many tourists; the sites were steeped in an atmosphere that was more calm, serene and reflective. We saw the famous Buddha head which is mysteriously trapped in a tree trunk, and wandered past the various chedis and walls which have fallen into disrepair.

We got some lunch at a random shed, and then cycled down to the river and chartered a boat. We circled around the whole island, past huge lizards that leered at us as they gnawed on fresh fish. We passed beautiful houses and more wats, and were surprised to find that we were one of the only boats on the water – perhaps that’s why the locals were so happy to see us, young and old alike waving as they saw the boat approach. We disembarked and then cycled over to the ‘floating market’, which is really just a load of tourist shops set on a wooden walkway around a lake. It was a little disappointing, but maybe we’ll get a chance to see the one in Bangkok. By this point it was getting dark. We returned our bikes, had some dinner, before planning our next move.

We’ve been ridiculously busy since we arrived in Thailand. Mariana and I are very similar in that we want to do everything, but I think we might be forced to slow down a bit before too long. It’s great to have someone to make decisions with, to laugh at bizzare things with (we cycled past a shop today which dealt solely in statues of cockerels), and to share experiences with. We’re having lot of fun.

A long journey and a Lilliputian perspective.

It’s a pain in the bum to get from Lijiang to Chengdu. There are a number of routes you can take. The quickest option is to fly, but I’m too much of a cheapskate to do that. A less expensive alternative is to take a twenty-two hour bus. This wouldn’t have been a problem, but the only option was a seat, and while I do enjoy the odd day-long bus journey, I need to be able to sleep. I went for a third option; taking two trains. It takes about a day and a half, but it costs less than three-hundred yuan, so I was sold.

I left the hostel at 06:30 this morning, and bowing under the weight of my backpack, shuffled off to find a taxi. There weren’t many around, but I managed to secure one and get to the station. I then spent the next seven hours sitting on my first train. I listened to a playlist that my fourteen-year-old self would have really appreciated (nothing like a nostalgic throwback), and watched the mountains sail past. The only source of interest was a man dressed in a station guard uniform, performing a JML-type sales role, trying to flog some absorbant towels. He managed to sustain his spiel for about half an hour, which was impressive, but the amount of effort he put in wasn’t reflected in his number of sales. At 15:30 I alighted at Guang Tong North station – a random platform in the middle of nowhere; even Google Maps doesn’t recognise it as a location. The receptionist at the hostel had told me that this was the route he always takes, and it made more sense to get off here than to go all the way to Kunming and double back. I now had five hours to use (nope, still never kill) before my next train. I watched the second half of Les Misérables and slurped some oily instant noodles.

That’s one of my biggest issues with all-day travel: it’s not easy to eat healthily. My diet predominantly consists of Oreos and peanuts, although I did throw in an apple for good measure. A lot of Chinese people seem to favour mystery meat in a strange liquid, that comes in vaccum-sealed plastic, but I haven’t quite summoned up the bravery to make that gastronomic endeavour. I’ll stick to the biscuits.

My second train arrived on time (I needn’t have been so generous with my layover), and I found my middle bunk and settled for the night. I prefer the middle because there’s more space than on the top bunk, but you don’t have randomers using it as a bench – a consequence of the bottom bunk. I always sleep well on trains, and this was no exception. I woke up about ten hours later, just as a grey light was beginning to reveal the morose mountains and languid lakes out the window. Geometric grey towers began to rise outside the window in various states of completion. The grey clouds melted into the grey roofs and the grey faces of people staring emptily as the train pulled into the station. I grabbed the metro and found the hostel easily, had a much needed shower, then went off in search of People’s Park. I love parks in China. I firmly believe that the Chinese people know how to spend their leisure time. I joined in with a salsa class, sipped tea in a cafe, and examined the ‘classified’ adverts that well-meaning parents had posted along the iron railings and on makeshift poles, detailing the accomplishments of their offspring in the hopes of finding them a spouse.

Once I’d navigated the park, I took a circuitous route back to the hostel, past countless shops selling precious stones, postcards, and pandaphernalia. I met a group as I was sitting in the common area, and we went out to try the local Mapo Tofu. The restaurant closed around us, and we got kicked out at about 22:00. We had a few beers back at the hostel, then got a glimpse of Chengdu’s nightlife, witnessing a desultory ‘fight’ in a bar, and experiencing a monochrome ‘club’ before getting a taxi back.

I was up early the next morning, and along with Mark and Chris, caught a bus to Leshan. The grey drizzle didn’t dampen our spirits. We hopped into a share taxi at the bus station and were driven to the Buddha Park. After some strained conversation with the ticket lady we managed to gain entry. The park is massive. We walked through various caves and wondered at countless sculptures, painstakingly carved into the rock. Green lichen had begun to sprout across the carvings; a green woolly jumper to protect them from the bitter wind. We soon found ourselves making a steady ascent, climbing endless stairs that eventually plateaued at the top of a cliff.

We could see the top of a very large head, which had grass poking up between its spirals. We got closer, and it got bigger. It was the Grand Buddha; the biggest in the world at seventy-one metres high. We followed a snailing stream of people down the cliff face, marvelling at the gigantic features of the figure. It was well worth a visit. We returned to Chengdu, grabbed some dinner, and waited for the heat to return to our limbs.

More mud, and a bit of beach.

Another sleepless sleeper bus brought me to Nha Trang, just as the sun was rising over the South China Sea. A pinky glow stretched across the waves as they gushed into the shore with a soothing regularity, forming a stark contrast with the driver’s erratic changes of direction. I met a couple of Scottish girls who were booked into the same hostel, so we walked together. We dumped our bags, shovelled down some breakfast, and then made some enquiries about a mud bath.

We caught a ‘bus’ that was more closely related to a golf buggy, and bombed along the road, waving to children on the motorbikes that were overtaking us. After about twenty minutes we arrived at I Resort, a new spa complex dripping in luxury and Russians. Ali, Laura and I put our things in a locker, and then walked through to the baths. A wooden tub was filled with warm mud; we cautiously slid into the goop. Unlike Sapa mud, this didn’t harbour an interesting odour. The greeny brown slime felt silky against our skin, and we soon relaxed into sensation.

After about half an hour, the mud was getting cool, so we clambered out and rinsed off, before getting pounded by the waterfalls and sprayed by the ‘hydrotherapy cave’. We then secured our loungers in the sun, and crashed, to make up for our journey the previous night. A few hours dissolved, and we decided it was time to head back to the beach. The shuttle dropped us across the road from the sand, and a nice man herded us over the triple carriageway with a condescending smile. We found a spot and watched the sun disappear behind the high rise hotels that guard the front.

Later that evening, we explored the tat of the night market, which was identical to the tat at the other markets that I’ve visited. As we turned the corner we came across a performance showing the different masks and face-paints of traditional Vietnamese theatre. Four characters leaped around the square, their gorgeous costumes and impossible shoes making their acrobatics even more impressive. We then grabbed a bowl of pho and headed back for an early night.

This morning the sun was burning again. We hired bikes and headed north on a terrifying road, punctuated by chaotic roundabouts, to the Po Nagar Cham Towers. The beautiful red brick structures were unlike anything I’ve seen so far; ornate yet practical as they shielded worshippers in their cool, cavernous shrines. As we rested in the shade from the piercing heat, we admired the magnificent view of the harbour, the distance making the traffic seem to flow organically across the bridges.

We got back on our bikes and successfully cycled to the Long Son Pagoda. The pagoda itself was fairly standard, but behind it loomed a gigantic white Buddha, looking out across the city. We stood in awe of its sheer size, and read the plaques dedicated to Thich Quang Duc, and six other monks who self-immolated in 1963. A ‘monk’ then emerged from the shade, told me to bow (which I did) and took me round to see the gravestones set behind the Buddha. He then asked for a fee, but as I doubted his legitimacy (his head wasn’t shaved, and he was wearing a shirt and jeans) I deferred my gift, deciding to wait until I could be sure my money would be received where it was needed.

At this point Ali and Laura headed back to the beach, while I visited the Long Thanh Gallery. Mr Thanh welcomed me in, and offered me a cigarette, which I politely declined. I then surveyed the stunning black and white images that he had captured. The stories of laughing children, working mothers, and gossiping old women, poured out from his work. I was particularly taken by the agile movement of a young boy hopping across the backs of water buffalo as they followed a stream, and the portrait of one woman whose eyes burned out from her papery skin, exuding wisdom, fortitude, and weariness. I hope one day I’ll have enough money to justify buying these photos and having them shipped. I then went to the Do Dien Khanh Gallery, which had similar subjects, but less of the artistry of Mr. Thanh. The light lacked mysticism, and the faces were harder to read, but there was still an impressive collection on display. I then returned my bike and went to the beach, however my inclination to relaxation was thwarted by the spitting rain. I chilled out at the hostel before heading to the cinema with some French-Canadians to watch the new Hunger Games, gilded with Vietnamese subtitles.

I was warned before I arrived that Nha Trang was seedy and full of Russians. The latter was true, but I’ve had a great couple of days. I’ve had a lot of new experiences, which have rejuvenated my enthusiasm and reminded me that I have a lot left to see. Its also been nice to chill out – something that I often forget to do. Two days was enough, but I’m so glad that I had the chance to form my own opinion. That’s an important lesson in itself.

Two days in Datong, and a pitstop in Pingyao.

I woke up in a cloud of a bed, all the more comfortable because of the length of my journey the previous day. I said hi to the sole other occupant of the dorm, (Cécile), and we arranged to go to see the Yúngāng Caves with another girl, Hazel. The city opened up before me from my vantage point on the twenty-second floor, evidence of the coal industry billowing above the cacophony of car horns.

We boarded two buses, and an hour later we had exchanged the industrial city for pastoral serenity. The countryside shone in the crisp morning light, the temple conspicuously quiet, allowing us to appreciate the grandeur and spiritual significance of the Buddha statues inside. We then crossed a bridge over a rippled moat to the caves. Each grotto contained Buddhas and Bodhisattvas carved from yellowing stone, in varying states of preservation and disrepair. Row upon row of idols and replicas stared at us with unseeing eyes, emanating an expression of perfect and unshakeable peace, which infiltrated our own sensibility. The vast scale of some of the Buddhas was truly awe-inspiring, and we couldn’t help but marvel at the skill and patience of the monks who carved them. And wonder why they had nothing better to do.

Today I was back on my own, the other girls having made their way to Beijing. I visited the Huáyán Temple located in the heart of the historical walled city. The peace of the complex was akin to that of my old College, the faint sounds of traffic and life seeming impossibly distant within the walls. I climbed the steep steps to the top of the pagoda that overlooks the temple, successfully battling my fear of heights, and was rewarded with another breathtaking view of the city. I looked out over disused shacks, strictly confined by the regimented high-rises growing steadily from their foundations. I then made my way to the Nine Dragon Screen – the oldest glazed wall in China, dating from 1392. ‘Restorative’ efforts were visible in the bleeding paintwork that discoloured the gold and purple of the dragons’ scaly armour, but nonetheless the wall was impressive. I then wandered back to the hostel in preparation for my sleeper-train.

Unlike my previous experience, the journey went without a hitch, and I arrived in Pingyao at 06:22 after what was a surprisingly restful night, the gentle rocking motion of the train lulling me into slumber. Due to a slight planning mishap, I had four hours until my next train; plenty of time to check out the old walled city. Dawn was just beginning to seep across the sky as I entered the North Gate, wandering past dumpling vendors and vegetable stalls that were assiduously preparing for business. It felt like old China, the faded facades of the buildings and the dusty roads transporting me to a distant era. I went down to the Lower East Gate, before doubling back to the faded resplendence of the City Tower, and heading south. I crossed under the wall, and was met with a square filled with people, playing jiànzi, practising Tai Chi, and dancing. I sat and watched their morning routines, so familiar to them, so alien to me. The atmosphere was one of collaborative preparation for the day ahead, and it was fantastic to witness the support and comfort offered by this daily ritual. I then made my way back into the old town, exiting through the Lower West Gate (so I’d covered all the bases) before boarding my second train, due to arrive in Xi’an in ten hours time.

Ridin’ Solo.

Alex and I parted ways in Osaka. She was bound for Munich, I was bound for Nara. Sitting on the train, my face plastered with woe, a kind lady assured me I was going the right way, and comfortingly told to me about her life. The journey wasn’t long, and I found the hostel surprisingly easily (I’ve been living off Alex’s navigation for the past two weeks, hence the surprise). As I shuffled into the dorm, two Chinese girls introduced themselves to me; Ma and Misaki. There isn’t much to do in Nara, everyone just goes to see the deer and the big Buddha, so we arranged to go together. I went to bed grieving for my travel buddy, but grateful for my new acquaintances.

This morning we headed over to Nara Park, home of 1,200 deer. As we walked through the park, the bolder (and fatter) deer came up to us, nuzzling Ma’s pockets, fully aware of the deer biscuits that were temporarily residing therein. She soon had a herd chasing her and eating her dress, so Misaki and I decided against feeding them ourselves. Some of them were cute, others were a bit scraggly, but it was fun to watch people try and manipulate them for a photo. Some of them succeeded.

After heading back through the park, me and my new friends split up, but I thanked them profusely for the company they’d given me. I headed to the Tōdai-ji, to see the big Buddha. Walking up the long path towards the ornate building, I felt a sense of calm gently breaking through the cloud of my aloneness. On reaching the top of the steps, I took a deep breath and looked up at the gigantic structure before me, admiring it in solitary peace. This peace was soon broken by the rabble of Australian school children who were sharing this moment with me, but even they were silenced by the soothing chanting that began to emanate from a group of worshippers at the Buddha’s feet. Warm sound rolled into cadences that, after a shimmer of uncertainty, resolved smoothly into harmony.

I left the temple with a sense of composure, and decided to visit the Yoshikien garden (which only served to confirm my inner serenity) before heading back to the hostel. Today I ate by myself, got lost by myself, and even had a cheeky onsen by myself (I can see this developing into a bit of a habit). I’m learning to be alone. But it’s also good to know that people are there when you need them.