Crowded Planet Horror

At shortly after 5pm today a supporting wall and roof collapsed onto hawker stall vendors and customers at the Crowded Planet Restaurant in Jalan Tengkat Tong Shin near to Bukit Bintang, Kualar Lumpur, Malaysia. I was in the Seven Eleven shop next door when the accident took place. Renovations had been underway at the restaurant for a number of days. Onlookers were critical of the owner for undertaking renovations whilst attempting to keep the business open. Emergency services were quick to respond with Bomba motorcycle units first on the scene 15 mins after the accident occurred. It was thought that 5 people were trapped in the wreckage as Bomba personnel began the clearance operation.

The Temples of Kings

22nd Feb 08

I've been ill. Two full days of stomach pains, purging and mild fever. Instigated I suspect (as we always do in such cases) by what I had last eaten before my energy processor began to misfire and occaisionally backfire?!?! I lifted medicine from my hard knocks mental booklet of no pain no gain recovery and improvement techniques and starved for 24hrs. I'm almost back in the groove and last night had a delightful unbroken seven and half hours sleep. The longest I have slept for three nights at least. The two full days of illness were my last couple of days in Myanmar. Spent amongst the dour delights of downtown Yangon. Not the most illustrious finale to my Myanmar experience but enough to put the Bagan days into perspective.

The Bagan days (15th - 19th Feb) were relaxed exploration personnified. I had a full glorious three of them. Daytime sun was relentless. However temperatures moved into the uncomfortably hot zone for only 2 or 3 hours of the afternoon. Beyond nightfall temperatures fell to levels that demanded long sleeves and trousers plus bit more.
The region of Bagan covers around forty square kilometres and consists of Nyaung U, Old Bagan and New Bagan. Terrain is pretty flat. The North Western flank of the region is marked by the massive Irwawaddy River.

During the eleventh and twelfth centuries seven or eight succesive kings of the region were so bored and lost for ways of being a bigger and better king than their predecessor that each indulged their power and authority to make increasingly large and populous marks on the landscape and ultimately history. The result is two and a half thousand temples, shrines, pagodas and stupas that range in size from small and compact to massive with internal stairways leading up to terraces that offer rousing vantage points across the flatland of the region. All but the smallest of temples have a Budda statue inside each of the four compass point facing sides of the building. Many of them are of red brick construction and some have gold leaf coverings. Some are internally endowed with wall paintings presumably from the build period!!
Temples are not particularly my thing but I cannot deny the enjoyment of cycling the quiet roads and lanes with camera, water and wallet to discover the extent of those Kings indulgent follies during that period.
There were two notable acquaintance experiences.
Gita and Aloo had discarded their Spanish names and assumed Indian names for their travel in the region and possibly beyond...My early morning need for quiet solitude meant the chances of our breakfast room nods and brief hello's turning into friendly conversation were unlikely. However a fate meeting of late morning cyclists at a road junction between Old and New Bagan resulted in friendly lunchtime chats over the next couple of days. Gita and Aloo's ideas about food people and life were not so far removed from my own. Vegetarian lunch at a local dusty floored shack where customers were attended by local urchins earning a little for their families suited us just fine. We filled the air with tales of past travel and future dreams, and our stomachs with the satisfying mixture of rice and spiced vegetable delicacies. Gita set the pace of self indulgence by a 'sleep time' declaration and led out on one of the benches for a Burmese siesta. Aloo and I continued to explore the world across the depleted lunch table. Tea and cake completed the whole cosy experience at Gita's return to the world of the conscious. Gita and Aloo wanted to live the life of the land they were in as much as possible. To behold their thoughts and indulgent yet warm and friendly nature was another outstanding landmark in my travel experience. Super couple.
The other notable acquaintance experience occured late in the afternoon of my final Bagan Day. I'd cycled leisurely around the Nyaung U town centre and was drifting back toward my temporary residence with thoughts on everything but the traffic when I realised this white saloon had arrested itself in my path. I careered around its left hand perimeter giving wide berth to the opening doors. I detected a commotion as though something had been discovered or found and then heard the name Graham mentioned. I braked forward of the vehicle and looked back to see Juan standing with his arms on the top of the open rear door and Connie with her head out of the front passenger window. It was indeed a suprise and a pleasure to meet them again in the dusty town road of Nyaung U. It took us just a few minutes to arrange 'dinner'.
It was the post dinner activities that are most worthy of note here. With stomachs of Myanmar food and veins tickled with beer we ambled toward an audible source of music and song. Myanmar's version of Gladstonbury was well underway on open land and makeshift stage not minutes from our dinner location. The final hour in the amusing company of my delightful friends from Majorca was sat at the outfield of the concert sharing Myanmar Rum and Star Coke that the 'hot dog' vendor had conjured up from somewhere. Stories were of Spanish and Majorcan fiestas gone by and hopes were of a hangover free morning. I flew from Bagan to Yangon within hours and I remember Connie saying, reassuringly, more than once that it would be ok as I could sleep on the plane. That frequently relayed anecdote for the alcholically confused!! I was still conscious enough to realise that making it to the plane might be the bigger challenge.

Blues in Bagan

16th Feb 2008

Yesterday I arrived in Bagan, Myanmar on a bus from Inle, Myanmar. I am at a low. There is little inspiration or enthusiasm in my blood. I am tiring of the travel and of the long periods of loneliness. I long for the company of my family and friends. I know there is no short cut to that. I still have much ground to cover, aspects of life to confront and many solutions to find. I will need to plunder the depths of my inner resources to address them.

In many respects the travel I have committed to has been a postponement of decisions about future life, particularly about where to live, what work to take when I decide to work, and about whether to take a 'life' partner should the opportunity arise... and I know it will when I start allowing it to.

I have however enjoyed the time in Inle. Inle Lake is full of wonderful sights and mellow people. The atmosphere is quiet and serene. Early morning mists and warm evening dusks bring contrasting moods to picturesque settings that appear to be from an age long departed in other parts of this world. I had the added pleasure of spending much of the Inle time with a couple that I met in Kalaw.

Kalaw is an almost car less town. It exudes the back packer atmosphere and nestles in the hills maybe 40km from Inle. Many visitors to Kalaw choose to take a 3 day, 2 night trek to reach the lake. One overnight stop is apparently at a monastery and rumour has it that the predawn chorus one awakes to is of the monks chanting their worshipful verse. I missed that. I took the soft option and chickened out on the 3 day trek in favour of a shared taxi from Kalaw to Inle. At least my knees still work!

It was during the early afternoon of the 11th February that I had the pleasure of meeting Juan and Connie. Hailing from Majorca now but originally Spain (Barcelona) and Holland respectively they were like old friends within hours. A chance meeting in the quiet Kalaw streets led to a coffee at a nearby shop then dinner in the evening and the shared taxi the following day to Nyaungshwe, Inle.

Juan's sense of humour ran completely adjacent to my own and we found ourselves chuckling about sightings such as the hustle of small boats in a remote spot of the Inle lake that were positioned with afts to the hustle centre and the captains perched on their haunches at the afts deep in conversation. They're talking politics was the witty comment from Juan..no microphones there! The day trip on a boat across the lake to take in the floating market, lunch and finally to collect their Dutch friends at the end of their 3 day hike from Kalaw to Inle lake was a notable pleasure. Connie was warm, friendly and caring. A lovely couple. I have an invite to Majorca. Bless them!

I followed the lake boat trip on the 13th with what was described as a 5 hour trek from my guest house on the 14th. Enquires made of the guest house, Aquarious, owner reassured me that the trek was gentle and did not need a guide. I set off solo in the morning armed with suncream, water and the little rough map that the guest house had presented me with. Two hours later I had begun to get the feeling that I had missed a turn somewhere. I had been climbing gently and in some places not so gently for most of the 2 hours. The sun was strong and I was panting for much of that time. There were breathtaking views of the lake and the little town I had walked from but I had not come across the English speaking, cave dwelling monk who was supposed to have shown himself according to the position marked on the map at between 1and 2 hours. I began to think that I would go to three hours and if I was still of the opinion that I was incorrectly routed I would turn and make my way back. At least it would all be down hill and would probably be less than a three hour walk back. I continued to climb and felt that I was probably close to the peak of what appeared to be one of the highest hills around. At almost the three hour point I happened across a small village with a distinct absence of people. Just one old guy working on some bamboo who completely ignored me. I wandered across some flatland between basic woven walled dwellings toward what appeared to be a place of worship under construction. That was also deserted. I noticed a couple of children watching me from a distance. A few paces away from the part constructed shrine was a more elaborate timber structure with an open window. I called a couple of gentle hello's. Then I clocked a couple of novice monks in the shade inside the timber structure who were clearly eating and when they noticed me made the hand to mouth sign that suggested they were taking food. Don't mind me I thought. I'm just lost in space.

A more senior monk came to the window and with a series of hand signs, aaah's and ohh's I was given to believe the village I should have been at by now was a long, long way over to the west. I tried to explain to the monk that I would like him to write down the name of this village. He put pen to paper in the form of Myanmar symbols. I am not sure it will be of any use to me now but it was a nice thought at the time. I will take a photo of the map and of his writing and put into my Picasa album for the Feb 08.

I turned round from the window with my many thankyou's echoing in the air to see that the couple of children had multiplied to about 30. That and what followed made the whole walk worthwhile for me. I reached for my camera and made indications that I would like to take their photo. Immediately they fell cheerily into one straight line and I became convinced that this was not the first time they had had this request. I became even more convinced when, as I inspected the camera after the photo event, I was almost knocked over by the rush of the whole cheering group of children to my feet wanting to share the inspection with me. As I write this now I am again flushed with warmth that those happy children brought to me that afternoon. The photo will be in my Picasa Feb 08 album. My walk back was gentle. My boots were pinching my feet in a couple of places and I was sure that I would have some stiff muscles for a couple of days after but it would be a small price to pay for that experience.

That walk was to bring my Inle Lake visit to a close. I had bought a ticket for the bus to Bagan for the 15th February. 12500 Kjyet. A little over 10USD.

Before I leave Inle in this narrative I feel compelled to mention another lady that I met at the Aquarius guest house in Inle as I thought she was quite remarkable and had a lovely friendly way. Her name was Lola and she hails from Weymouth in Dorset, England. I want to mention this because I spent many family holidays in Weymouth. Lola actually owned and ran the Sandcombe Hotel close to the Esplanade Gardens for many years. Lola has retired from that business now but still spends the summers in Dorset. I have the impression that she spends most of her European winters in Asia and has spent a considerable time travelling in India. It was especially nice to hear that she still visits most of the South of England music festivals including Gladstonbury during the summers and she was keen to point out that she was old enough to be my mother. My admiration for others is pushed to new heights!

The roads are so bad here that it takes an age to get anywhere. I had to rise at 4.15am for the taxi at 4.30am to the bus stop at Taunggyi junction to take the 12 hour ride to Bagan. That bus ride was quite simply an endurance test. The bus had seats but little else that fell into the comfort category. It was incredibly dusty - inside the bus! The door didn't close properly which was a problem for the first three or four hours as the outside and inside temperature was well below 10deg C and I wore shorts and sandals. As the day went by the temperature climbed to well over the other side of 25deg C and the door needed to be open but unfortunately that meant that the internal dust count frequently rose to haze levels inside the bus. As we came to the latter half of the day the passenger count exceeded seat count by a mutliple previously unheard of but it didn't stop a gaggle of schoolgirls singing their way through the last three hot dusty hours to Bagan. As is the way in Myanmar we had some bold individuals travelling atop the bus for large lengths of the journey also. At Nyaung U, Bagan, I collected an almost unrecognisable brown Myanmar dust coloured backpack from the underside of the rattley old Isuzu bus and accepted the first offer of transport into the guest house area, a pony and trap. I am at the New Heaven guest house for 6usd a night inc breakfast. After that bus ride I can confirm it is aptly named.

I will adjourn for a beer now and be back at the keyboard over the next couple of days to record some experiences from the Bagan days. The writing has lifted my spirits a little as it always does. Nevertheless it is getting close to the time when I need to make some hard decisions about life beyond this period of travel.

The Night to Kalaw

11th Feb 2008

I arrived in Kalaw, after a coach trip from Mandalay that would produce such exclamations as; ‘oooh I say Graham, how terrible’ if I were to relay this little travel episode to the folks back home. Mandalay and Kalaw people in Myanmar would see it is as perfectly normal I am sure.

The Nylon Hotel in Mandalay took an extravagant (in retrospect) 17000 Kyet from me for a seat on what was touted to be an aircon bus from Mandalay to Kalaw. Aircon it was not; thankfully for the night trip it wasn’t really needed.

Seating was the unusual and compact 5 across system; no aisle. This was achieved with aisle fold down seats whose occupants were forced to play musical chairs when anyone else wanted to move, enter or depart. In other words we were packed into that bus like the proverbial sardines.

I tried very hard not to look to long and hard at the poor unfortunate soul who occupied the flip down aisle seat next to me. He was either Osama bin Ladin or his twin brother fully prepared for a cold night in the foothills directing operations to repel capitalist insurgents. My other neighbour was younger and seemed more friendly if not a little exuberant. He was pure entertainment. He was having a good bash at conversation with me as we rolled, literally, out of the bus depot. Short sentences of Burmese floated across to me on a vapour of whisky were always concluded with an enquiring 'ok?' to which I grinned a thumb in the air ‘ok!’. His happiness at my willingness to engage in a mostly hand signal and body language exchange of gestures was signaled by frequent flashes of betel infected crunchers. What you might call the Burmese smile.

Names weren't important. We were getting along fine. Exchanges extended to chewing gum and boiled sweets.

Did he really like me as much as his seating position seemed to suggest? For a few moments I flushed as the delayed alarm bells began to ring in my head. He sat at an interference fit with left hand items of my anatomy. Mysteriously there appeared to be inches between the left side of his anatomy and the window. I made a show of measuring both spaces and shaking the hand as the Asians do to indicate the 'why?' or 'don't know' status. The betel gums reappeared as he dug his leather jacket out from the cavity between his butt and the window. It was definitely 'off the peg' as I recalled noting when we were outside of the bus. As we both relaxed into a twenty percent increase of available seat space he dug me in the ribs with his elbow in a request for me to look more closely at the jacket. He had parted the lining and a wad of local currency as the size of a bedroll was peeping at me. He had also refined a laughable hand gesture that sort of said 'anything goes' or 'let it be', which was what he was waving at me now. Clearly a Jack the Lad.

Roads in Mandalay teeter on the edge of survival. Some were conceived but never born. The dust and fumes outside the coach were what had played havoc with my throat, breathing and sleep for the past days. I was heading for cleaner air. It was a little way off yet, I couldn’t wait. The scheduled arrival time was 4am. 10hrs of travel in this sardine pack. The torture increased as the TV and DVD player was stoked into action. For my inimitable pleasure there were a couple of hours of Burmese pantomime comedy acted out by Little and Large lookalikes in Sarongs and basic props. At points most of the coach were laughing and my whiskey mate would join in most of the singing although he would pretty much be solo in that effort.

The roads began to deteriorate and for most of the time were single vehicle width with wide side tracks for passing other vehicles. Toll points were slightly better prepared. We were also clearly and slowly climbing. At about 9.30pm we pulled into a the Myanmar excuse for a service station. Some of the more friendly occupants of the coach uttered ‘dinner’ with a smile and hand to mouth signs that confirmed we would be able to eat. I went forward to a table manned by a serious looking Burmese war veteran lady that handed me rations as if there was no choice so I assumed there was no choice and took a bowl of rice with a little garlic and peanuts sprinkled over the top. Listlessly, to the side dithered an emancipated fowl limb. I was also brought soup. Then my whiskey mate arrived. He had the similar base rations but had found some withered sausage like material which I was encouraged to try. Another lady had also appeared and was energetically peeling boiled eggs to which I was treated two. I assumed that this was part of the bus deal. I even ate the Burmese at a chicken leg. Then the most touching thing happened. The serious looking lady that had handed me the rice at the beginning was now manning the cash till and I saw her mutter something to the soup girl. The soup girl approached our table and looking at me said two thousand. My whiskey mates hand went up and around to suggest all in. Despite my protestations he bought my dinner. He bought my dinner. Dah!

Back in the coach the roads subsided to stoney tracks. At best our headway was hitting a maximum of 20kmh. We twisted and turned along the edges of hills. We were climbing more steeply. In the black of the night we'd frequently need to pull over to let an oncoming vehicle pass and we'd frequently need to navigate a narrow path around a broken down truck or bus being careful not to lose a wheel over the road edge. Then suddenly all of the twisting and turning stopped and within minutes we were into civilization. I spotted a board with Eastern Paradise painted boldly on it. We were in Kalaw! The driver pulled over and someone pointed at me. Gosh, my stop, realization dawned. I felt excited but alarmed. 2am. Will I be able to secure a room at my chosen guest house? Or would I have to snook down until dawn in crevice of a building somewhere? My trusty backpack was retrieved from the rear of the vehicle and I was left there to my own devices as the bus pulled away again. Hello..came the gentle female voice from an approaching figure. Where do you want to stay? This lady had heard the bus arrive, saw that it was to deliver a bewildered tourist and hopped out from her bed across the road to help me to a room for the night. Kalaw friendliness! Eastern Paradise, Yes it’s this way. We walked the 700yards to the Guest House and raised the proprietoress who, after multiple bell presses appeared in woollen hat and cloak over a night dress. Toto, my street meet told me she would see me tomorrow to talk about treks…ahh I knew there might be a catch. Nevertheless I can’t knock the friendliness. I was ushered to a room by the sleepy proprietor, given the time for breakfast and told everything else could be settled in the morning. I had arrived in Kalaw and had a place to sleep!!

The Air of Yangon

6th Feb 2008

Myanmar is proving to be something of a challenge. Today I have flown on a Yangon Airways turboprop flight from Yangon to Mandalay. The hot, dusty and frenetic streets of downtown Yangon had taken their toll. There had been little inspiration in them for me although I had enjoyed collecting some 'street life' photos.

Little has left me feeling 'Wow' ed.

Pagodas, Stupas and more Pagodas have quickly re induced shrine sickness within me. I have yet to reap anything like the reward that the beauty of Bali, Boracay and Laos visits have bestowed on me.

I have suffered a constant irritation of the throat that is indisputably a result of the overwhelming dust and traffic fumes. Add to this the difficulties and inconvenience of communication, finance, infrequent electricity, mosquitoes and rats bigger and bolder than Basil Brush ever was then personally and frankly being here feels like punishment.

There are humungus quantities of people. The majority of which need to go somewhere all the time. At any one point in time approximately half of these people are shamelessly expelling mouthfuls of pulped beetlenut mixture in a fashion that puts mere gobbing to shame and insignificance. The other half are trying to sell you something.

Most men look as though their teeth and gums have been thirteen rounds with Frank Bruno. A smile from a local has seen me respond more than once with raised eyebrows and mouth agape expecting the Gotcha or Candid Camera man to spring out from behind the nearest trishaw to reassure me it was just a silly Dracula prank. Do they actually kiss their partners in that state?

Other mostly female indivduals deem it positively becoming to scrawn pancake mixture across their cheeks and foreheads in a clearly misdirected mission of beauty attainment.

Ingenuity amongst the people appears to be inspired by transport. Buses have rear crash bars and roof racks that are frequently home to more passengers than the cushioned interiors. Today I swear I have seen vehicles that have been built from those rice harvester machines. There is the eighteen sided fat wheel at the front. The diesel engine that rev's once every two seconds and puffs dense black clouds at an equal rate is held aloft by a lengthy trailer producing an entire contraption that moves at about 5kmh piloted by a man with reins in his hand perched at the front of the trailer.


The Mandalay airport is the best part of 45km from the city. In an attempt to avoid the cost of a whole taxi from the airport to the city I began to make some less than discreet enquires of possible taxi partners in the baggage reclaim area of the airport. An English speaking party of four admitted that they wouldn't mind to share but they would probably occupy one taxi between them. I slipped into a state of 'who gives a shit anyway' as the minutes slipped by and my baggage slipped toward missing presumed lost status.

I needn't have been concerned. A sarong on the pathement near to the exit declared himself the almighty but unofficial taxi manager (no badge). Share he understood and I was told to wait there. 10 minutes later four strangers of which I was one, each with luggage, plus a driver were crowbarred into a Toyota Corolla of 80's vintage still evidently wearing original suspension springs and dampers (the Toyota).

Now back in my room at the ET Hotel some local in the street below, possibly from a competitors organisation has a tape player playing a tape of a child crying set to full volume and repeat. Either that or its a real child in despair. Bright joy.

Passage to Yangon

My passage to Yangon in Myanmar had been mostly land travel; at my choice. I had left KL at 9.30am on the 26^th January to embark on a 9hr coach trip to Hat Yai in Southern Thailand. The coach was aircon’d and I had a single reclining seat with adequate leg room. The 9hr trip passed smoothly and comfortably. The coach made it’s way into the centre of Hat Yai and I hopped out fairly close to one hotel that I had stayed at before in the smallish town. However, although it was pretty good value for money at 750baht/night I knew I could get lower. With bags loaded about my person I made way through the central streets of Hat Yai focusing on ‘guest house’ accommodation. The results were dismal. Grey sheets, mouldy, smutty walls and incredibly bad smells left me cringing and depressed. I needed to come upmarket and finally found a clean room with shower and toilet, tv, aircon and fridge for 450baht per night. I had only one difficulty with this place. The pillows had this really weird strong contaminated foam rubber smell. I tried not to think what the contamination might be. If I led on my side it was just too much and prevented me from sleeping so I had to acquire a technique of falling asleep on my back with my nose in the air! I spent a couple of nights there and tried to enjoy the shopping and food that the small town offered but couldn’t really get into it. I decided to move via train to Bangkok. On the evening of the 28^th Jan 2008 at 18.05hrs I boarded a night train destined for Bangkok. The trip was scheduled to to be 16hrs and would arrive in Bangkok at 10.20 hours the following morning. It eventually arrived at almost 14.00hrs making a total journey time of over 19hrs. The cost was 900 baht. It was a sleeper. An aircon’d carriage and crisp clean and comfortable bedding helped me toward a great nights sleep which made the 19 hour journey bearable approaching pleasurable.

I had no accommodation booked in Bangkok but had been in email contact with a friend who had been staying at guest house called ‘Wendy House’ near to the National Stadium. This would be my target location and a tuk tuk made an efficient means of transport there from the railway station. Wendy House had a room but it was 1000 baht per night. Nice room though! However 2 doors away was ‘The Bed and Breakfast’ for 500 baht a night which I moved to the following day. No TV or fridge and just enough room to shuffle around my single bed but close enough to still be able to use the Wendy House wifi from my room. It was my new hutch for four nights whilst I was getting the Myanmar visa processed. I spent the days re realizing that I don’t really want to live in a city. Hot, dusty, jammed and polluted. I think I will always enjoy being in the city environment in short bursts but full time… No thanks.

My most pleasant day was spent with an old pal from the semiconductor days. We did a city tour on the river. As is the case with many cities Bangkok has a river life that predates most of the modern concrete city of Bangkok. We took in a pleasurable couple of hours of the from a long tail boat with captain that we hired for a reasonable 1200 baht. The path of the Chao Praya river through Bangkok is complemented by a network of canal ways that supported (and still do to some extent) small to medium industries as an economic means of moving materials in and products out. This was most evident when the following day I visited the Ban Jim Thompson. This American built himself a traditional Thai home or ban on the canal to support his growing interests and business in the Thai silk industry. Sadly and spookily he vanished whilst on holiday in the Malaysian Highlands in 1967. Now the house is open to the public as a salute to the contribution to Thai silk that Jim made during his time there. Storytelling scrolls, ancient Chinese blue and white pottery and Buddha statues figure largely in the décor. Built with the most prominent entrance from the canal itself, the house is a lovely robust dark wood construction characterized by open airy landings, shuttered window openings and shady gardens. The lady guide couldn’t do R’s and still had the rise and fall of the Thai language in her voice when she spoke her English so I had to listen very carefully to connect it all together. She also seemed to have a thing about potties and was keen to point them out in each of the bedrooms to us all…??.

Yangon Arrival

03 Feb 2008

I have arrived in Yangon, Myanmar. There are surprises! There are no ATM's. Sometimes there is electricity!. There is no mobile phone network. Wifi is not yet word in their vocabulary and Internet Cafe's still serve coffee whilst you wait for the connection. Many people wear pancake mix smeared on their cheeks. Indian’s with all their colourful often flower oriented antics appear to make up a not insignificant portion of the population.

I was met at the airport by a young Burmese man holding a card with my name spelt correctly. That was one of the more pleasant suprises! I was escorted to a taxi and tranpsorted to the guest house that I had found on the Internet whilst in the Coffee World shop at MBK in Bangkok on the 2nd Feb. I am grateful for that welcome as the airport scene looked less welcoming and less organised than any that I have seen elsewhere in South East Asia.

For 10USD a night I have a single room with attached toilet and shower, aircon, fridge and a TV that receives satellite transmitted images at a signal strength that constructs pictures resembling a part finished jigsaws. Peculiarly the sound rolls in a lot less fractiously.

The bathroom presents an initial clean and hygenic image but I have noticed a rat shaped hole in the mesh that covers the right non glazed half of a window (to nowhere except rat city I suspect). I will be keeping the bathroom door tightly shut tonight.

My arrival at the guest house was before 9.30am Burma time. Yangon is the only city I know that makes half hour adjustments to it's local time against other countries in the region. Yangon is 1.5hrs behind Malaysian time. At 9.30am local time there were guests still partaking in breakfast at the small dining area in my guest house, called the Ocean Pearl Inn.

I sat nearby. I cannot knock the service so far. Within seconds I was being plied with coffee toast eggs and fruit by the kitchen staff. I listened hesitantly to the conversation at the table.

It was French. At the first opportunity I proceeded to make enquiries of their time in Yangon (2 days) and whether the accomodation was to their satisfaction. The general impression painted was ‘approaching acceptable’. One of the girls was convinced that she had seen a rat in her room and the guy advised me not to look under the bed! I think it pretty much summed up how I already felt.