Inle Lake and touring Yangon.

I woke up as the sun streamed into my dual aspect room, and listened to the sounds of the hotel waking up. I managed to stomach my first breakfast in three days, then met Annelie, Katharina, Simone and Shoshana to participate in a cooking class. Leslie sauntered up to us, beaming as we waited outside the bank, introduced himself, and guided us through the market, which was one of the least chaotic that I’ve seen. There wasn’t too much jostling, and the smells were fresh rather than offensive. We then caught a tuk-tuk to the cooking school. The Germans had bikes, so pedalled furiously behind us, whilst maintaining their characteristic grins. Leslie set us to work, preparing a banquet of Burmese curries, salads and accompaniments. A couple of hours later we shared our creations, and were extremely impressed with the results.

To reward ourselves for our hard work, the Germans and I decided to go for a traditional Burmese massage. This was an experience I would not care to repeat, but it was a hilarious way to spend an hour. Once we’d been liberated, we cycled to the Red Mountain Vineyard, ordered the taster wines (because we’re sophisticated like that) and watched the sunset.

We spent the evening in a French cafe watching a film about a monk. The director of the film also (egotistically) owns the cafe where he screens his masterpiece every night to his unsuspecting clientele, but this didn’t become apparent until after we’d laughed at the contrived acting and holey plot. Nevertheless, we had fun, and I went to bed pleasantly exhausted.

My last day at Inle was a lazy haze of wandering around, eating Nepali food, and hanging out with Shoshana and Simone. My bus left at 18:30. I’d been a bit of a princess and booked the VIP, as I sleep very foetally, and wanted as much room as I could get. My upgrade didn’t have the desired effect. I contorted myself into as many positions as I could think of to get comfortable, but all to no avail. The sudden bends and the grating of the underbelly of the bus as we soared over speed bumps was enough to keep me awake, as was my drained mp3, which couldn’t mask the sound of a fellow passenger’s retches, or the compulsory Burmese karaoke DVD.

We arrived in Yangon at 06:00, just as grainy dawn began to spread. I shared a taxi with a Croatian couple and checked into my hotel. I then guided myself on a little walking tour around the colonial architecture of the city. The Lokanat Gallery was a crumbly mess of dusty electrics and chipped floor tiles from Manchester, but the Post Office and the Strand Hotel bore evidence of love and restoration. I bumbled around in the heat, grabbed a lassi, and went to check out the market. I’m a notoriously bad shopper, but there I bumped into Lori and Ryan, an American brother and sister who had been on my bus. We went for coffee, met a Dutch guy, then grabbed lunch at a Japanese place. We split up, and Niko and I caught the creaking train that circles Yangon over three hours. We passed dusty villages, verdant fields, and empty stations, melting in the sun. The fans that whirled overhead made absolutely no difference to our comfort, but a steady breeze streamed through the open windows and doors. We returned to our starting point, and I walked to my hotel, pleased that I’d managed to battle my fatigue.

The next day was as scorching as the one before. I hired a bike and cycled to the National Museum. I was fortunately given a very wide berth by the other drivers, who could see that I was struggling with the one-way system. The museum was a great way to spend a couple of hours. I marvelled at the ornate Throne Room, and perused the extensive art collection and samples of ethnic dress. I then visited Kandawgyi Lake.

I clattered along the seesaw wooden boards, and soon worked out that the white crosses marked planks that were best avoided. After, I went to see General Aung San’s house, and saw a number of photos of his fascinating daughter as a baby. I then cycled back to the hotel and met Vivian, and after a quick change, headed for The Strand Hotel. Friday night is happy hour (from 17:00-23:00 – really it’s a happy evening), so we treated ourselves to a cocktail or three. By chance, the Americans popped up and joined us. The evening extended far beyond our original plan – we went for hotpot, and eventually managed to direct our taxi-driver back to the hotel.

I did a lot of walking on my last day in Myanmar. I visited the Chaukhtatgyi and Ngahtatgyi payas, and spent some time people watching. It was humorous to see tiny birds fly up the giant Buddha’s left nostril, presumably to make a nest. At this point I was interrupted by a man called Muye, who insisted on dragging me around some empty monasteries and strongly advised me to take photos every two minutes. I was a bit suspicious, and my premonition was confirmed when after about an hour he asked for $20. I kindly informed him that I hadn’t asked for his guidance, and walked away without giving him anything. I spent a couple of hours in a cafe to escape the heat, then went up to the Shwedagon Paya, the iconic heart of Yangon. I watched the glistening gold fade to burnished amber as the sun set, and felt a sense of tranquillity despite the ubiquitous tour groups and walls of worshippers. I returned to the hotel, packed my bag, and prepared to say goodbye.

I feel very privileged to have seen Myanmar, just as it is emerging into modernity. Just about everyone has a smartphone tucked into his longyi, and in the countryside it’s common to see a motorbike zooming past a waterbuffalo, dutifully pulling his wooden plough. The people here have, for the most part, been smiley, inquisitive, and well-intentioned, but the country itself has a little way to go if it wants to benefit (at least financially) from tourism. It’s difficult to get around, and a lot of the historic buildings are crumbling, but to be honest, that’s part of its charm. I hope it doesn’t get subsumed into the rest of Southeast Asia. For the time being, at least, it has its own identity, and that is more valuable than anything.

That time we got nine piercings.

We arrived at Krabi and walked in the sweltering heat to our hostel. We dropped our bags then did a circuit of the town, which isn’t very big. We found ourselves in a night-market, where Mariana involuntarily doubled her wardrobe. I bought a revolting tie-dye number (that awkward moment when it stops being ironic), and then we returned to the hostel to Skype those left behind.

The following morning we were driven to the pier, where we caught a boat to Ko Phi Phi. We were at the back of the line, so were forced to sit on the bottom deck with the rumbling engine, but it meant that we were first to disembark. We found our guesthouse and then grabbed some lunch, trying to believe that the paradise in which we found ourselves was real.

We thought that this would be a fantastic time to get some piercings. I’ve been thinking about it for a while – I’ve had one in each ear since I was five, and thought it was about time to get something more interesting. Mariana wanted some more too, so we made the decision one evening to get them together. On our third attempt we found a tattoo parlour which also did piercings. I’m not scared of needles – I give blood at home, so I went first in order for Mariana to make an informed decision about the level of pain involved. I watched as Che carefully sterilised the equipment, and snapped on some fresh surgical gloves. He put a clamp on my right ear lobe, and after a brief shot of pain, it was done. He then repeated the process four times on my left ear. I happily preened in front of the mirror, indulging my vanity. Then it was Mariana’s turn. Her face was white, her eyes were wide. She had the first two in quick succession, then after a little hesitation had the third in her cartilage. It looked great, and we left the parlour very content with the results, trying not to brush against our tender ears.

Dear family,
Some of you might not be too happy with this life decision, but I’ve been thinking about it for a while. It’s partly aesthetic, and partly a preventative measure, so I don’t become too boring and corporate when I start working in tax. I hope you understand, and if not, I’ll just hide them when I come and visit.

Kind Regards,
K.

In the afternoon we walked over to Long Beach. I couldn’t have been happier, bobbing in the turquoise water. We then trekked (the hard way) up to the Viewpoint, and watched the sun set behind some mountains. We returned to the hostel, showered, and made ourselves beautiful before heading out. We went to Hippies Bar, where a skinny Thai guy with a long moustache was playing beautifully unique covers. Just after we finished eating, the fire show started. We watched in awe as three guys writhed across the stage with lighted batons and numchucks, tossing them in the air and creating elegant shapes with the flame. The deafening soundtrack (comprising solely of Linking Park) added to the drama, and covered up those frequent moments when a baton was dropped. We were disappointed when the show was over, but to make up for it we headed over to the other side of the island, to check out the clubs on the beach. We had only had a mojito each, but Mariana is one of the few people I know who, like me, doesn’t need alcohol to dance. We chose a club, then wildly flailed about, dancing like no one was watching. Well, if you could call it dancing. We leaped around, throwing in a few slow motion interpretive moves and yoga poses for variety. Despite our best efforts, our efforts to repulse grubby men were unsuccessful. We were continually interrupted, to be asked where we were from, after which the men would stand there awkwardly as we continued to boogie. After a couple of hours the interruptions became annoying, so we went back to the hostel.

We slept late the next morning, for a change. We went back to Che and I got another piercing (which explains the extra one in the photo – that’s the last one, I promise), before heading to the beach with two dreadlocked Thai guys we met there. We hung out for two hours, then Mariana and I came back into town for our cooking class. It was my fourth class, but Thai food is so delicious that I was just as excited as Mariana to see how to make it. We spent the next three hours learning how to balance flavours, frying in the heat, and sharing our creations.

Mariana got her exam results (she smashed them), so we celebrated by going to a bar and watching drunk guys beat each other up in a Muay Thai boxing ring. What could be more appropriate?

A reluctant goodbye and an ecstatic hello.

I spent my last day in Chengdu doing a bit of admin. I posted a box full of tea, textiles, and my China guidebook home, trying to cut down on the weight of my bag and make a bit more room. For more tea. I then walked down to Jinli Street, next to Wuhou Temple, and squeezed through the crowds queuing at the snack stalls to purchase meat on a stick, noodles, and sweet pineapple rice. I got back to the hostel at about 14:00 and embarked on a cookery class with the chef. It was one-on-one, bar the receptionist who acted as translator – Mrs. Wu didn’t speak English. She showed me how to make two local specialties; Gunbao Chicken and Mapo Tofu. Our resulting dishes weren’t too dissimilar, although I did opt to leave out the MSG, making the polite excuse that it’s a bit hard to find in England. I scoffed down my creations, jotted down the recipes while they were still in my head, then reluctantly started to pack my things.

For the second time I’m forcibly prising myself away from China. This visit has done nothing but confirm that at some point in the future, there’ll be a third. I could easily have spent another few weeks here, despite the bitter cold, the shuddering damp, and the heavy clouds. Yunnan and Sichuan were just as beautiful as promised, and it was worth coming back just to visit Tiger Leaping Gorge – which I highly recommend to anyone who finds themself in this part of the world. This time around, the little things that made my first visit mildly uncomfortable, or slightly inconvenient, were absent; at least to my consciousness. Spitting doesn’t make me flinch, I don’t groan when I’m confronted with a squat toilet, I happily point at a menu with no idea what I’m ordering, I don’t get disgruntled when a little old man elbows into me – if anything, lack of personal space is quite liberating; I’m not constantly apologising to every rock or table leg I bash in to. I enjoy my linguistic ignorance, and have found myself subconsciously learning much more vocabulary than was necessary in the other countries I’ve visited. Once again I’ve been the recipient of exaggerated generosity, and have met some fantastic people – one of the key reasons why I came back. Before this visit, my relationship with China was love-hate, but I’m now firmly reconciled to the fact that this has been my favourite country so far.

I got up at 06:30 after a night bereft of sleep: one of my dorm mates had an unfortunate bout of food poisoning, and my poor earplugs couldn’t stifle his violent retches. I caught the shuttle bus to the airport, and sailed through security, ready to take my first flight in three months. Interesting fact; my past four flights have all originated in China. It will be five as of this evening. I landed in Guangzhou on time, and was met by an electric buggy which soundlessly zoomed me down to the international departures terminal. I haven’t been in such a contraption since I was an unaccompanied minor visiting Canada for the first time, and I felt a childish grin sprawl across my face as we hurtled towards our destination. I recognised the security area, made my way through, and with a heavy heart got stamped out of the country. By some fluke I found myself waiting at the same gate where I met my flight to Hanoi. I boarded.

In what felt like minutes later (I guess everything feels short after a twenty-two hour bus journey), I arrived in Bangkok. I was met by a sea of western faces as I passed through security and waited anxiously for my bag. Fortunately, she’d followed me from Chengdu and we were blissfully reunited. I then came out of the arrivals hall, sat on my backpack, and waited. After an hour or so, a familiar face, framed by henna-dyed hair and plastered with a broad grin bobbed through the crowd. I gave Mariana a huge hug. We’ve been friends for over five years, ever since we met through a language exchange at college. She’d flown from Geneva to meet me in Bangkok. For the time being, I have a travel companion.

We caught a taxi to the hostel, dropped our bags and grabbed some pad thai. The main source of excitement was a cockroach crawling up my back as I was nibbling on a prawn. We then wandered down Koh San Road, mildly horrified by the wall of tourists, blaring music and dazzling lights. We turned off to a quieter street, walked back to the hostel, and slumped after our respective long days.

Busy in Battambang.

Battambang is really quite far from Sihanoukville. After thirteen and a half hours spent on buses, passing endless scrubby countryside and listening to lilting Cambodian karaoke hits with bewildering videos, I arrived at the hostel, exhausted and sore from sustained confinement. I slept well (as I normally do) and in the morning got a tuk-tuk to another hostel to meet some girls that I first became acquainted with on the bus from Kep to Sihanoukville. Together we made our way to the famed Bamboo Train – a comical motorised raft of bamboo, set on a single track, which is periodically dismantled when there’s a ‘carriage’ coming the other way. We chugged along at considerable speed, jolting rhythmically over the misaligned rivets, before arriving at a strip of tourist shops, and chugging back – the abortive futility of the track an obscure metaphor for Cambodia’s attempts to rebuild its future with the ‘help’ of NGOs.

Our fab driver, DJ, took us back into town, where we wandered through the soporific market and past faded colonial buildings to a bizzare little shop owned by a Canadian/American/Australian expat, whose primary business is making curtain tassels, but who is also a food writer and soy sauce expert. We followed his recommendation for lunch, and then got back in the tuk-tuk to go to the Killing Caves. The calm of the mountain at Phnom Sampeau belied the horrors of its past. We climbed up a road that gradually got steeper as the flat countryside spread like a puddle at its base. We reached a temple, adorned with vivid murals of scenes from Buddhist theology, and then followed a narrow path down to the cave. My stomach sank as we descended, the eery calm sitting heavily on our consciences. We reached the bottom, and beheld the two bone-filled stupas, bearing the pitiful remnants of some of the victims who died there. When the atmosphere got too much, we left the cave and stumbled down the mountain, just in time to see a relentless stream of bats begin to flow out of a crevice in the rock. A thin film of screeching was barely audible, as the tiny black dots flowed uniformly out of the cave, dissipating occasionally at a tuk-tuk horn, but soon reassuming their positions. We stood in awe, wondering how so many hundreds of bats could fit in one cave. They’re pretty small, maybe that’s how.

When the stream had slowed to a periodic drip of bat, we left the caves, driving over to the Phare Ponleu Selpak Circus – an organisation set up to teach underprivileged children performance skills and creative arts. I had low expectations, not having heard anything about the project, but I was pleasantly astounded by the daring acrobatics, concentrated strength, and humourous slapstick. My heart was in my mouth when a fire-dancer dropped his baton, and there were times when it seemed like the tumblers wouldn’t be caught, but if anything that added to the whole experience. The enthusiasm and enjoyment of the teenage performers was unfaltering; the musicians joining in the hearty laughter of the audience. It was a great night, and I was exhausted when I finally made it back to my bed, the dancers and acrobats still swinging through my head.

I was up early the next day to go on a bike tour of the villages surrounding Battambang. I met my guide, Chan Reas, and after it transpired that I was the only one on the tour, we set off. We passed local markets, yellow rice fields, and even a couple of unexpected mosques, as we chatted away, questioning each other about cultural traditions, religious beliefs, and future aspirations. We visited a few local producers who made noodles, rice paper, dried banana, rice wine, and rice cakes, and then went to smell the biggest fish-paste market in the city, but these pitstops were ancillary, only serving to temporarily disrupt our conversation. We returned thirty two kilometres later, swapped Facebook details, and said a reluctant goodbye.

After a brief rest at the hostel, I was driven to Nary’s Kitchen, were I’d signed up to a cooking class. I had been a bit disappointed with the one I did in Hoi An, so thought I’d have another go, and I’m so glad I did. Toot took me and Reva, a girl from Seattle, to the market, where we saw the familiar collage of vegetables, wriggling fish, and slabs of meat, but in addition we saw how coconut milk was made by squeezing the grated white flesh through a machine. We then returned to the kitchen, where over a period of a few hours we stiltingly managed to create fried spring rolls, fish amok, beef lok lak, and a coconut banana dessert. It was utterly delicious, and my sense of achievement was much greater on this occasion, the class having been more hands on. My chances of success in recreating my masterpieces is also greater, because I could take the recipes home with me in a book. I returned to the hostel stuffed and knackered, and reflected that maybe I’d been a bit ambitious in trying to squeeze Battambang into two days. It’s a lovely town, with a prescient and active expat community, but a well-retained charm. I’ve been very busy after my lazy beach-mongering, but it feels good to be moving again, and to feel like I’m making good use of my (not very constrained) time.