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.

Bagan and iBamboo.

My minibus to Bagan was more comfortable than I was expecting, despite the fact that by the time we left Mandalay, people were squashed into the aisles. We arrived an hour earlier than expected, so I immediately hired a bike to see the temples. I cycled around exploring, finding some heaving with worshippers, and others pleasantly empty.

To be honest, I’ve seen a lot of similar temples, in Angkor Wat, Ayutthaya and Chiang Mai, so after five or six I decided to stop. I watched the ‘sunset’, but the red ball of fire simply melted into blue haze, however the view over the plain was spectacular.

I chatted to a Norwegian girl at dinner, then was joined by Galina when her bus arrived. Accommodation here is expensive, so it makes sense to share a double room when you can. Plus it’s nice to have a friend.

I was back on the road at 07:00, as the silhouettes of balloons were bobbing against the pastel sky. I would have liked to have had the chance to watch the sunrise, after the disappointment of the sunset, but that would have meant missing my bus. This bus was a big, proper bus, with lots of legroom and comfy faux-leather seats. It took seven hours of winding up the mountain (though not as intensely as on the way to Pai) before we arrived in Kalaw. I checked in to a surprisingly cheap hotel (only $7) and then booked on to a two-night trek for the following day. When I returned to the hotel the owner was a bit annoyed that I hadn’t booked with him, and started badmouthing the company I’d chosen (which had been recommended to me by three different people). You can’t please everyone.

I was feeling a little nauseous, so I went to bed early, deciding against eating dinner, and was surprised to find that the mattress was soft, even if the room hadn’t been cleaned since the previous occupant departed.

At 02:00 I was woken up by the bark of heavy footsteps on the wooden platform outside, and the rattle of my door. I blearily undid the lock and asked what was the matter. Three travellers stood there, having been told that this was their room. This was unlikely on two counts; the first, that I was already there, and the second, there were only two beds. I offered the second bed to one of them if there was nowhere for them to sleep, but explained it hadn’t been cleaned. Then the manager popped up. He asked if I liked the room, and I said that it had been adequate while I’d been asleep. He verified that it was other travellers that were making noise, not himself, to which I think I was expected to apologise for my impertinence. I explained about the extra bed, and he said it couldn’t be cleaned because it was night, and asked why I was so worried about the other people, to which I replied, a little nonplussed, that I was trying to be nice. He left, without apologising for the disturbance, and the others found an empty room. It wasn’t the most restful night I’ve had.

Regardless of this, I was up early to embark on my trek from Kalaw to Inle Lake. I dropped my big bag off at the office, hoping it would meet me at the other end, and met the other members of my group; two German girls, a young couple from San Francisco and a fellow Brit called Sara. Shoshana very kindly lent me her sandals, as my Birkenstocks weren’t deemed to be up to the challenge, and soon we were off. We followed Ku Zo along a dirt track, and were soon amidst rolling hills, some of which were blackened by regenerative fires. Most of the slopes were green and lush with mandarin and tea plantations. We stopped for lunch at a Nepali restaurant overlooking the mountain, then carried on through a bamboo forest , a slight bog (which I managed to squelch straight into), and past a tranquil lake.

We hopped along the train tracks for an hour or so, and eventually came upon a soporific station, which burst into life as soon as an ancient locomotive was dragged into the vicinity. At this juncture, Simone managed (with Ku Zo’s help, to fashion some speakers out of some bamboo. We listened to music as the shadows grew longer, and found ourselves walking through farmland, past long-lashed water buffalo pulling wooden ploughs. We arrived in a village, and were introduced to our new home; an attic above the buffalo shed.

Our night was interjected with vague lowing, but we were on the road again early the following day. Copper red dirt was moulded to our shins, and puffs of dust exuded from our clothes as we walked. We passed more villages, and stopped for green tea. It was at this point that I acknowledged that I hadn’t been feeling well. I’d had no appetite for a couple of days, and struggled to force down the mountains of rice that were consistently set in front of me. Nevertheless, I kept going, and we eventually made it to our second homestay.

I woke up with a sense of grim determination, promising myself that I’d make it to Inle Lake, despite an impractical state of health. We walked for only four and a half hours down rocky shale, before finally arriving at the boat. We said a heartfelt goodbye to Ku Zo, who had regaled us with tales of heartbreak, and shared fascinating insights into his way of life, and then settled into our vessel, which drove us up to the other side of the lake.

We arrived, had the best showers imaginable, and then met for dinner, thankful for the amazing friendships that had formed over the previous days. Our group had been entertaining, creative, political, historical, musical, and supportive. The ceaseless conversation made us forget our footsteps, and left lasting imprints on our memories.

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.

How not to apply for a visa.

My last day in Bangkok was spent almost entirely in a cafe near the train station, where I eeked out a meal and a drink for about five hours. I chatted to a Peruvian man named Carlos, and managed to Skype one of my friends, who is notoriously difficult to get hold of (thanks for getting up so early!). It was great to catch up, and realise that despite eight months of near-silence (for which I accept 50% responsibility), nothing has changed.

I found my berth on the train, but the beds weren’t set up, so I sat on the roomy leather seat and got chatting to the Canadian couple in the next seats along (who live in the same city as my mum and brother), and an English couple opposite. Hours passed, some people (myself not included) bought the expensive though well-portioned train-food, and then a little man in a pink silk jacket began to make his way down the train, setting up beds. This sounds pretty mundane, but the speed at which he performed this task was astonishing, and slightly alarming. He adjusted the seats, laid out the mattresses, put on the sheets, pulled on the pillowcases and hung up the curtains for two beds in one minute and thirty-three seconds. We were hugely impressed. The result was comfy and private, and I would have had a great night’s sleep if the fluorescent light above my head had been switched off.

We arrive in Chiang Mai at 8:00, I found my hostel, and then walked around the small town. I visited some of the ubiquitous wats: the bustling Wat Phra Singh, the half-destroyed Wat Chedi Luang, the dark teak Wat Phan Tao. As with all popular wats, any promise of calmness and serenity was quashed by the footfall of hundreds of tourists. By the afternoon I felt like I needed a bit of space, so I enrolled in some yoga classes. It’s been months since I’ve practiced, so I felt immobile, stiff, and unbalanced, but despite this, I enjoyed the class, which was lead by an instructor who distractingly resembled Sacha Baron Cohen. After the class I went for lunch with a girl I met there called Shane, then wasted the late afternoon with a rest.

In the evening I met back up with Shane and two of her German friends, and we visited the Sunday Market. It started out fine, various wares were on sale, some of which were marginally different to what I’d seen before. As time went on, however, more and more people attempted to crush between the stalls. The result was sticky and uncomfortable, so we gave up and visited a jazz club, where a funky group entertained us with plucky slap bass and whistling guitar riffs.

Today was another significant admin day. I hired a bike, then cycled to the Indian Consulate, a few kilometres from the centre of the city. This took longer than anticipated, as I hadn’t factored in the awkward network of one-way streets, hindering my attempts to access my destination, but eventually I made it. Upon my arrival, the man working there informed me that I needed proof of flights in and out of the country, and confirmation of my booking at the hostel I’d put as a reference. I hadn’t been aware of this, as it hadn’t been specified online, but fortunately, I had two whole hours to find WiFi, book a tour, book flights, book a hostel, find a way to print confirmation of all of the above and cycle back to the consulate. I had to apply for my India visa today, because I only have nine days left on my Thai tourist entry. The India visa takes a week to come through, so I’m cutting it quite fine.

I switched into efficiency mode, ignoring the gnawing sensation of anxiety in my stomach, and found a cafe with a benevolent manager (in possession of a printer), just a few minutes down the road from the consulate. I skimmed STA, impulsively chose a tour, then set to buying flights, from Yangon to Bangkok, then Bangkok to Delhi (because that was cheaper than going directly from Myanmar), then bought a third flight from Kochi to Calgary (which is going to be very long and highly enjoyable). I then booked the hostel I’d written on my application, printed everything, and paid for my tea and the inconvenience I’d caused. I pedalled back to the consulate, arriving with about half an hour to spare, and breathed a sigh of relief as my paperwork was handed in. Niggling doubts about the authenticity of some of the details on the form are plaguing me, but there’s nothing I can do now apart from keep everything crossed.

After my faffy morning, I decided to cycle to Wiem Kum Kam; some temple ruins in the southeast. I had many of the wats to myself, and was able to salvage a sense of calm from my previously pressurised state. After a while the sun got too hot, so I cycled back to town for lunch.

I went to my second sweaty yoga class, then had dinner and met up with Shane. We went to the same jazz bar as yesterday, and the band tonight was awesome, especially the silky-voiced drummer. He had a smooth tone that you would never expect to resonate from a tiny Thai man.

It’s been a mixed few days. I like Chiang Mai, but my experience so far has been extremes of pressure and peacefulness. I’m hoping things will settle into something more constant over the next few days. Hopefully closer to the peaceful end of the spectrum.

Missedmas.

On Christmas Eve I arrived in sweaty Siem Reap (after fulfilling my tradition of watching The Muppet Christmas Carol on the bus) and immediately regretted my choice of hostel. It was nice; clean, shiny, quiet, but a bit too quiet. I peered into the void that was the atmosphere and asked myself, “Where are the people?” Despondent, I wandered around town and got something to eat (a surefire way to elevate my spirits). On my return, I saw two guys sitting outside; Alaskan Maurice and Columbian Oscar. I eagerly thrust my company upon them. We sat outside talking for hours, until it got dark. When it got dark, it stayed dark – the hostel was suffering from a power cut. Brian, the carefree and utterly inept Aussie who owns the place, cheerfully informed us that he had no idea when the power would be back, but that last time this happened, the outage lasted ten days. The utter hopelessness of the situation was hilarious – we likened it to a reality TV show, wherein a group of strangers with ornate personalities were forced into a pressurised situation to see who would crack first. We took everything in our stride, had a couple of beers, and by the time we left for Pub Street the lights were back on – Christmas was un-cancelled. We met up with Manuel, another sassy Columbian, and Andrea, a friendly Swedish girl, and danced into the early hours – it made a change from Midnight Mass.

We got up bright and early on Christmas Day – really early – 4:50, and with three hours of sleep obfuscating our consciousness, piled into a tuk-tuk headed for Angkor Wat. We arrived just as the temple was emerging from the shadows, and watched as the milky dawn spread across the sky, gradually revealing the most famous silhouette in Cambodia. We then explored Ta Prohm, the location used in Tomb Raider. Primordial trees grasped the ancient stone, the roots falling like a web over the rocks, squeezing the temple tightly in an arboreal embrace. The early morning light created a mystical atmosphere, the sound of birds and cicadas the only thing able to penetrate the heavy hush that sat over the site.

We then separated into two groups – Maurice and Andrea went back to the hostel, Oscar and I embarked on the Grand Circuit. We spent the next nine hours flitting from temple to temple, clambering over the uneven stone in thirty two degree heat. I had a disappointing Christmas Dinner of chicken and pineapple, and we eventually crashed mid-afternoon, glad to return to the cool marble of the frosty hostel. I spent the remainder of the day Skyping family, who savoured every detail of their delicious festive preparations, and proudly showed me the gifts they’d received (none of which were from me – sorry guys, I’ll bring you back some tourist tat). It was at this point that I checked my bank account, and for the first time in four months discovered an augmentation rather than a diminishment. I thanked everyone profusely, and zealously began plotting out another month or so of travel. I went to bed pretty early, watching Love Actually as my eyes began to droop. It had been a good day, but I would have given anything to teleport home, just for twenty four hours.

Boxing Day was, conforming with another tradition, recovery day – but on this occasion it was fatigue rather than overeating that was the root of my sloth. I slept late, had a leisurely breakfast with Manuel, and just sat in a comfy chair on the terrace, watching the day pass. In the evening Maurice and I went to see an Apsara show. The gorgeous costumes and enchanting movements transported us to an ancient time. The beautiful women flexed their fingers back in elegant arches, stretched their hyper-extended elbows, and seamlessly transferred their weight as they walked across the stage, to give the impression that they were gliding. The dancers were a reification of the images we’d seen carved in the stone of the temples. Their balance and control was breathtaking, and it was only when the dance was over that our hypnosis was broken.

The following day I cycled back to the temples, accompanied by Justin, an American teaching English in Korea. We made an early start, but were disappointed to find Angkor Wat already groaning under the feet of hoards of tourists. We visited the tranquil faces of Bayon, and the Terrace of Elephants and Leper Kings, but at this point the heat got too much, and we cycled back to town.

It’s been a strange Christmas. This has been the most difficult part of my trip so far, and while I’ve had a good few days and met some fantastic, generous people (thank you), it wasn’t like being at home. I missed the build-up, the anticipation, the excitement, the joy, the gratitude, and the love of Christmas, and while I was able to speak to friends and family, I wasn’t able to feel that magical festive sensation. You never know how much you appreciate these things until they’re absent. This is a lesson learnt – I’m not going to miss another Christmas.

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.

Bullet trains and bamboo trails.

Yesterday we took the Shinkansen from Tokyo to Kyoto. The train was punctual to the second, and we eagerly climbed aboard, finding ourselves in a wide aisle lined with comfy reclining seats. No sooner had we sat down than the train bolted out of the station, the Tokyo skyline blurring past at a nauseating speed. In just two and a half hours, we travelled four hundred and seventy kilometres, to the ancient capital.

Today we explored the history that is the foundation of the city. Weaving up through Southern Higashiyama, we visited Buddhist temples and shrines, perfect in their symmetry, ornate in their detail. Tourists and worshippers converged in appreciation, observance and performance of ancient ritual. The temples were overwhelmingly inclusive and welcoming. After losing count of how many we’d seen, we headed up to Gion, getting lost whilst trying to spot a geisha, before going to Arashiyama to see another of Kyoto’s famous sites.

We went to the Bamboo Grove, that inspiringly emblazons my Lonely Planet. The sounds of the outside world were dulled the instant that we entered, the vast bamboo protecting us from modern reality. We were cocooned by an organic, living shelter, that even the sunlight could only partially penetrate, the strong, supple stalks continuing to infinity beyond the path.

The pace if life here is noticeably different from Tokyo. There’s an inherent mysticism that emanates from the temples, the back streets, and the bamboo of Kyoto. It is secret, beguiling, and intoxicating. And we can’t wait to explore it further.