Arriving in Yangon
I make friends with a beardy guy who says his name is Luviu. He is from Canada, is covered in henna, beads and is wearing Elmer patchwork harem pants. He has just spent 30 days in India. We go to the phone network stall which is called Ooredoo. He buys the SIM card with the biggest data package, and is dismayed to hear that Bagan is the only place in Burma there is no signal coverage.
Luviu leaves his e-visa, which has been stamped by immigration, at Ooredoo.
I walk and walk because taking a taxi is for the weak and narrow-minded. Also because none of the drivers can read the address on my hostel booking confirmation. It's OK, I just need to get to Pyay Road. My skin is moist and my clothes are sticky.
On Pyay Rd I see a market and I'm swept away - fuck the bus for a moment. A woman is selling indiscernable deep-fried shapes which a man in a longyi is buying. The rubbernecked touristy urge to take a photo overwhelms, but oh god I forgot to turn off the flash. They both look at me and I die.
I also smile and approach, pointing at battered crispy prawns. I ask how much, she says 50. The smallest I have is 200. She offers me one for free and the man shows me to dip it in the cauldron of red spice. I take a bite and oh man - I spend the 200 on another four.
I wait for the bus and realise I don't understand numerical denominations or know where to go. I ask a nice-looking girl with long red toenails and I show her my map. She talks at me in Burmese and the older lady on the other side of her, so I smile and nod. A thin young man steps in and asks in English if he can help. He talks to us and looks at my map, then says I can follow him and we board a bus. People watch me and my massive bag. So so conscious of my massive bag.
The bus flies around the curly roads. The windows are down and it's windy - maybe that's why they're called windows. There are lights everywhere and more markets lining the streets. The buildings, the bus, the vehicles, the signs are charmingly rickety and colourful. I see Lenovo, like the Immigration lady's laptop. People smile at me and I smile at everything.
We change and get on another bus. He tells me his name which I've forgotten, but he's 25 and an engineer at the airport's new terminal. He says his home is very close to my hostel, and I don't think he's lying.
We alight somewhere and walk down a side-street around 100m. I see Yangon Hub and try to give him 1000 but he refuses saying he wasn't doing it for money. I insist and he gets annoyed so I go into the hostel and normal hostel procedure ensues.
I lie in bed and write this and there is a sudden monsoon and a power blackout.
Luviu leaves his e-visa, which has been stamped by immigration, at Ooredoo.
I walk and walk because taking a taxi is for the weak and narrow-minded. Also because none of the drivers can read the address on my hostel booking confirmation. It's OK, I just need to get to Pyay Road. My skin is moist and my clothes are sticky.
On Pyay Rd I see a market and I'm swept away - fuck the bus for a moment. A woman is selling indiscernable deep-fried shapes which a man in a longyi is buying. The rubbernecked touristy urge to take a photo overwhelms, but oh god I forgot to turn off the flash. They both look at me and I die.
I also smile and approach, pointing at battered crispy prawns. I ask how much, she says 50. The smallest I have is 200. She offers me one for free and the man shows me to dip it in the cauldron of red spice. I take a bite and oh man - I spend the 200 on another four.
I wait for the bus and realise I don't understand numerical denominations or know where to go. I ask a nice-looking girl with long red toenails and I show her my map. She talks at me in Burmese and the older lady on the other side of her, so I smile and nod. A thin young man steps in and asks in English if he can help. He talks to us and looks at my map, then says I can follow him and we board a bus. People watch me and my massive bag. So so conscious of my massive bag.
The bus flies around the curly roads. The windows are down and it's windy - maybe that's why they're called windows. There are lights everywhere and more markets lining the streets. The buildings, the bus, the vehicles, the signs are charmingly rickety and colourful. I see Lenovo, like the Immigration lady's laptop. People smile at me and I smile at everything.
We change and get on another bus. He tells me his name which I've forgotten, but he's 25 and an engineer at the airport's new terminal. He says his home is very close to my hostel, and I don't think he's lying.
We alight somewhere and walk down a side-street around 100m. I see Yangon Hub and try to give him 1000 but he refuses saying he wasn't doing it for money. I insist and he gets annoyed so I go into the hostel and normal hostel procedure ensues.
I lie in bed and write this and there is a sudden monsoon and a power blackout.
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