The sun rose in Bagan, as it often did, over a sea of ancient spikes.
I had only a faint inkling of quite how large this sea would be as our night bus pulled up to the bus station. 914 more words
After the glorious weirdness of Dalla and the delights of Yangon, we took, as all traveller in Burma must, the long road up to Bagan. Being the sometimes ignorant turd that I am, I knew little of the area except that it was full of temples, and possibly a lot of them. 447 more words
I wonder, sometimes, what immigration officers must think of me.
As I pass through their lines, I am not always at my best. Typically dishevelled, bearded and sweaty and drooping, stinking of unbrushed teeth and unwashed armpits and as much free Heineken as the stewardesses will allow me. 904 more words
Burma. It occupied a special slice in my mind, one murky with half-remembered news headlines and foggy recollections of local military history that had been looked up and forgotten. 1,018 more words
Let us now gather, children, around a warm sack of fermented woodlands beverage and enjoy some photographs of joyous, spectacular Myanmar. As an ornery completionist, the lack of Myanmar on my Big Dumb Asia MegaSojourn caused me great, undue anxiety. 544 more words
My backpack was slowly boring a hole into my coccyx.
I was nineteen and had borrowed a 50 litre green Osprey from my uncle to prepare for my Eurotrip. 1,035 more words