A Trip to the Circus

Kho Phi Phi Don - finding The Beach

Twisted Firestarter

Lots of Rules in the Hotels of Bangkok

Phlittering into the amusement park of the Land of Thais.

Jump into a pink glittery car, lights flickering and flashing, and tuk tuk ride around bonkers Bangkok town.

With the go go boys and lady boys...Thai girls waiting for chunky rosy sun stained rugby boys and Korean business boys.

Sex and sleaze wafting in the breeze.

So ringmasters keep order with the stringent rules.    

Join the the drunken monkeys, wrinkled tattooed hippies, freaky cattle whirring around the electric counterfeit playing ground.

Tailor me a suit, rent me a boy and buy my brother a Siamese bride.

Thrill seeking maniacs join leisure time enthusiasts to explore this South East Asian Pleasure dome.

A great shock of culture smacked into my face with modern convenience, consumption, disgrace. 

Same continent, familiar, same, same but different.

No stem of the barrage of basic decisions, no time to compute, and an overwhelming travel breakdown.

And a miniature Thai Tigress can creep on my back, crinkle and crack, swinging my jaded body bang flat. 

All aboard the foreigner factory line, juggling flows of whining boys and girls in skimpy stripy vests, straw hats, neon ray bands and flip flops.

Southward bound hordes flying down the helter skelter towards the full lunacy party.

Just another colour coded dopey clown heading to the frying pan, to be processed by maniacal tour reps screeching in the darkness with unbridled hysteria.

The lauded “Land of Smiles” long gone, sub-contracted out to reliably friendly Burmese workers.

Cruise the Andaman Adventure, through crystalline waters, in search of The Hollywood Beach.

Would be paradise but for ten damn thousand folk flocking from Phuket.

Busy, busy, dear and full. 

And the House of Horrors down the bulging ugly town in Kho Phi Phi, its pulsating concrete can only be escaped in a long tail boat to our private party. 

Our Mushroom House

Coastal swap to a mushroom getaway on the Gulf Coast and a spontaneous intern to a Kho Tao circus school to relearn The trustworthy Law of Boyle.

Released from an earthly surface presence, defying nature's wishes and phlitter down the trapeze rope into the midst of rotating schools of glassy purple fish.

           

Clouds of plankton billow through the turquoise water, the curtains shaded in blue and green dissolve into an ominous darkness below....showtime.

Slow motion descent into the maelstrom to perform on the pinnacle conducting trigger fish to snarl and gnaw with sharp carnivores on minion fish hiding amongst the ebony spikes of sea urchins and tease the stark white sting rays pulsating dangerously.

Inflating lungs like a hot air balloon, acrobatic trickery, hovering Buddha buoyant with unexpected serenity, flippers whacking coral, enjoying the safety of the blue planet's womb.

An after show party with barbecued barracuda and toxic local punch then a compulsory rave on the big top on the beach.

Certification received then join the 36 hour Northern ascent of the roller coaster train, armed with hot dogs and candyfloss, station master swap at Bangkok Central.

Through the Royal Ages

Every twenty metres a Seven Eleven and every ten metres a royal portrait and loyal homage to KingBhumibol Adulyadej.

Down the hill and land with a bump into Chiang Mai with a bout of Thai tonsilitis.

Get well in the hammock and recuperate for next weekend's special circus tour into the jungle. 

Dragon Show

Get ready for the elephant show before a float on a raft, tick the box, miss your slot and join the next entourage of merry travellers conducted by bored bored tourist ringmasters.

Into the forest to gape at waxwork tribes and slide down the log flume waterfall wonder.

School trip rigmarole, flame throwing at ten, bed by eleven.

But the ghost train pauses to appease the jungle spirits, offer them their dinner to keep us protected. 

The Thai Circus where animistic beliefs mingle with Buddhism, Ipads and Starbucks. Democracy and Demi God monarchy. Package tours and student season tickets, DIY sex tourists, everyone can join the carnival.

Me & My Myanmar Monks

After nearly 3 months in India I am excited to visit 

Myanmar. We phlitter from Malaysia over the Bay of Bengal to magical Myanmar nestled secretly in the armpit of the Orient. Thousands of miles below the Andaman Islands (part of India), scattered jewels in the emerald ocean, glittering in the late afternoon golden sunshine. The archipelago morphs into the Burmese Delta, a myriad of velvet shapes, rectangular lush green paddy fields partitioned by a network of glistening linear canals. The great aqueous sponge is dressed with chunky silver rivers snaking through the delta. The plane is alive with excitement of immigrant workers returning home to see their families who await at the airport with faces pushed against the glass. Already at the airport I am intrigued by this fascinating country and delighted to see all the men wearing longyis (first priority to acquire longyi and get some local longyi wearing lessons – differs from the Indian style and spelling - lungi) where I will pass twenty days blissfully cut off from the rest of the world. Tiring at times to travel around and lots of decisions about which wonderful corners of the country to discover I join the new band of merry travellers seeking out a taste of a real Asia of the past, a country where India meets China. 

Quickly departing Yangon, we head East to the town of Kalaw where we explore golden stupas and a lively market.

 We leave Kalaw and trek for three days through the hilly plateau of Shan State enjoying the nutty cuisine. As in other Asian countries it is mainly women working in the fields, tilling the land with scythes and axes and walking for miles, a fine balancing act to market, with baskets of white root vegetables teetering on their heads smoking long aromatic cigars, still years away from a mechanized agriculture, I ask our female guide about the men working and admire her strong response.

“The men in our country are lazy, they sit in tea houses all day and drink whisky!” She breaks off to stop and explain to an old lady spraying her crop with fertiliser that she should wear gloves - chemical companies come in to distribute free samples of fertiliser to poor farmers which gets the crops hooked.

Nun

We visit rural villages, stopping to cook lunch in a bamboo house. To the wonderment of the Grandma I chop cauliflower and carrots for our noodles, her wrinkly face lights up as she laughingly calls me “a helpful foreigner” then continues to tell the local scandal about the outrageous behaviour of her bigamist son-in-law who has been banished from the village after marrying three girls. After lunch some visiting ladies from the next village appear with bags of corn and enter into a long and loud good hearted negotiation with our hosts to trade for a sack of blazing red chillis. Many of the world's rural communities live and trade their produce without using cash and it is fascinating to observe. 

The visiting “dragon ladies” are from the 

Palaung tribe, heads adorned with bright red cloths. The local legend tells of the dragon ladies' descent from a female dragon who had disguised herself as a woman and married a man.

The old Dragon Lady is delighted with her grandson's toy gift we give

We sleep at the village monastery in a big room, the holes in the bamboo floor and walls let in the night time freezing cold. As we eat supper we watch the young novice monks practising their melodic evening chant. The mystical spell is broken when after their chant they all dart to a TV in the corner where they spend the rest of the evening glued to a blaring gratuitous American war movie. The novices are withdrawn and subdued, perhaps due to the canings by the older monks after their morning chants we see the next day.

We visit the local school in Pat To Pa village to give the teacher a few books and pens, it reminds me of a mocked up Victorian school house recreated in a British museum. A gaggle of boys become delirious with excitement as I chase them around the school room hiding like rabbits in the cupboards. The girls stand like porcelain dolls posing for photos and the teacher sinks shyly into the corner. We spend the night at 

the house of the head mistress who sits with                      me in the morning chill by the fireplace telling me tales of the village. Then we huddle with the village kids to get warm.

The hill trek ends at the wondrous Inle Lake with communities of stilted teak houses and floating tomato gardens. Long boats loaded with sacks of potatoes and live fish judder through the morning mist to the floating market. Fishermen in wide rimmed bamboo hats, balancing and dancing, perched on the tip of their boats rowing with their legs with strange conical nets silhouetted against the surrounding hills.

We explore Myanmar on 12 hour bus journeys doddering along bumpy roads. Each passenger gets a bottle of water, toothbrush, toothpaste and freshening towel and we are treated to the in-house entertainment on flat screen TVs blaring Burmese films. The films follow a standard format of cheesy romantic stories, lingering shots of flowers and couples larking lovingly in garish modern houses, the slapstick humour causes bellows of raucous laughter from the Burmese passengers chuckling under the christmas baubles and kitsch butterflies hanging along the aisle. Scenes are interspersed with a musical interlude with karaoke style sub-titles. We stop to buy noodles for dinner, selected from a lady's head.

Poster for Ann San Suu Kyi's party - National League for Democracy

Aung San Poster Seller

We arrive frazzled at awkward hours, 3, 4 am, organised for passengers to start their day, general Burmese waking hours being from 5 am until 9 pm. Dazed we pass the slow morning hours waiting for hotels to open, taking refuge in a street side café we watch Mandalay wake up. Slender Burmese ladies stroll elegantly past with long shiny silk black hair and long shiny silk lungis of green and lavender holding traditional umbrellas. Girls stop by on motorbikes for a takeaway breakfast wearing shiny black and pink pilot hats, faces smudged with lines and circles of tanakah – the charming traditional multi purpose make up which decorates, protects and treats the skin; a natural yellow paste from bark. The cook is a boy of 14 or 15 in a yellow t-shirt of Aung San (the national hero who led Burma to independence from the British and Japanese) and his daughter 
Ann San Sui-Kyi - “The Lady” (the nation's heroine). He masterfully conducts the pavement cooking show, swilling flaming hot oil, flipping pancake pastries in a great blackened iron wok. A young boy in a dirty ragged red Manchester United football kit refills our tea urn from a big, old, black kettle and serves us with greasy chick pea pastries, grinning at the curious foreigners. Locals stop for their set breakfast which includes a cigarette in a glass.

A sea of barefooted monks flows through the streets at dawn, clasping black lacquer alms bowls and the occasional scarlet umbrella, in a blur of maroon, saffron and amber cloths, shaded with age or to signify seniority. A long line of monks in order of size queues patiently for their meagre spoonful of rice, shopkeepers take turn to provide for the monks.

Mandalay is an atmospheric proud second city, especially at night with lively street cafes and markets. Many travellers had warned that it was a horrible dirty city but after India I found it clean and quiet! I remind myself to avoid prematurely polluting my judgement on places by other travellers, books, travel fora etc. 

Mandalay is surrounded by ancient capitals, golden buddhas, monasteries and temples. We climb the hills of Sagaing and marvel at the hundreds of shimmering golden stupas, the lovely pink nuns who balance layers of cloth on their heads and meet young friendly monks from the Buddhist Academy eager to chat with us. I pass an afternoon in the cultural heartlands discussing philosophy, Theravada Buddhist practice (the ascetic form of Buddhism followed in SE Asia), politics (but monks are not allowed to vote) and life with the monks of Mandalay. It was the monks of Mandalay region who initiated the uprisings in 2008 which were violently suppressed by the regime and the monks are eager to tell me about that difficult time. They are happy to learn that the world is aware of the plight of the Burmese people and delighted to discuss the new film The Lady & Zarganar – the Burmese comedian who was a political prisoner for years and the focus point of my local Amnesty International group's fundraising comedy night for Burma in Hackney, London - he was finally freed last October.

 The monkhood in Myanmar seems to provide a fascinating social and moral security system. There are nearly 1 million monks (population around 60 million) and nearly all boys and girls spend a period of novitiate living in a monastery. Amongst this huge monk population are orphans, sick people, elderly and children from large, poor families. The community then provides for nuns and monks through donations. Monks in turn provide moral guidance. Theravada Buddhism is based on the principle that each individual is wholly responsible for his or her own accumulation of merit and sin and subsequent enlightenment. Donations to the monastery therefore bring merit and help the path to nirvana and the end of the tiresome snakes and ladders cycle of life. If one has had a sinful weekend for example this can be counterbalanced with some good karmic actions such as buying then releasing a captive sparrow or baby owl or a fish even from the market – captured and sold for this purpose!

U Bein Bridge - Mandalay

One Mandalay monk, Zanaka, who radiates a special calm, tells me he became a monk to “follow a peaceful life” and several times monks and others tell me spontaneously that they are happy now, “our country is freed”, I really hope so. The regime has relaxed media censorship and freed political prisoners but there is a long way for the country to go and the regime is unpredictable. There have been democratic elections a few times in the last twenty years but the regime decided to ignore the outcomes and imprison their opponents. The schizophrenic regime has also in recent years whimsically changed the country's flag, the country's name and relocated the capital to a random isolated village in the jungle - Naypyitaw - at obscene expense on the advice of an astrologer to further shelter the paranoid erratic government from the world. By elections in April will see AnnSan Suu Kyi stand for the first time as a local politician but much expectation weighs upon The Lady who sits in the heart of many Burmese, the daughter of the iconic national hero. She represents well the graceful noble spirit of the people and is comparable with Nelson Mandella with her peaceful approach in the face of great personal suffering for her country and of course having spent many years under house arrest away from her family. I find a copy of her collection of writings – Freedom from Fear – and am impressed by her eloquence and depth of knowledge of her country and people. Any new leader will struggle to bring together the diverse races of the country, with fighting between different ethnic groups continuing – partly a consequence of the glorious British Empire's devastating divide and conquer policies. The more I travel the more ashamed I am when I read about the disgraceful behaviour (“we were treated like bullocks by the British then like dogs by the Japanese” Aung San) and detrimental actions of the British across the world.

Myanmar is one of the poorest countries in Asia despite its natural resources of minerals, wood and crops which the British Empire raped and new imperial powers are eyeing from across the border to the north. There is none of the extreme poverty I witnessed in India, Myanmar being a more egalitarian society without India's caste divisions. The country is massively undeveloped in terms of health and education. The easing of economic sanctions and opening up to the world is welcomed by the people. Visiting the country at this time I was privileged to receive a great welcome and also had an opportunity for the first time in my life to keep up with English football.

After keeping abreast of the progress of the England cricket team through my conversations with men in India I now effortlessly keep up with the English Premier League matches through unsolicited information offered by Burmese boys. I even hear stories of Wayne Rooney's dastardly private life dalliances - “he likes fast life” a monk tells me with a sly grin.

Bagan

Another hilarious and bizarre response to my nationality, common with the rest of Asia, even from young boys (passed down the generations) is “loverly jubbely” - a reference to DelBoy's catchphrase.  

From Mandalay we venture into the vast dry plains of Central Myanmar heading straight for the top tourist destination of Bagan, the ancient capital of kings, which hosts thousands of red brick lego like temples. A fragile sheet of mist lurks over the landscape, ancient temple stupas point through the gauze into the atmosphere and the faint silver reflection of the Irrawaddy River (which I disappointedly fail to sail down ) snakes beneath distant hills. The mighty Irrawaddy is depleted of its monsoon drench trickles through the dusty plains, ferries chugging through the thick lethargy of the afternoon. On riverbanks Burmese ladies thrash their laundry with brown muddy water and ox carts trundle over the bumpy sand flats. Trees inhabited by nat spirits are dotted amongst the temples.

Betel Prep

In the dusty town square of Nyaung U circles of men tap footballs, playing chinlon, from shin to forehead, longyis hitched up athletic milky brown legs teasingly to reveal shaped buttocks. Along the street a group huddles around a cauldron of sizzling hot fat dipping unidentifiable parts of creatures on sticks into the mix, one cultural experience I avoid. Men in khaki green army jackets saunter to street side cafes to sit on miniature stools, sip green tea and gossip. The air is alive with the sound of life. People gnaw chicken carcasses served with accompaniments of black pepper flecked soup, stringy black fishy mush and pickled orange vegetables. Young waiters, 9, 10, 11 years, cheated of their childhood, dash around the cafe, balancing trays of nutty tamarind curries and steaming noodle soups, anxious under the watch of the proprietor who rules royally from his high black leather throne guarding the precious cash, directing his under age employees with his gaze and gruff shouts. The king pauses his command, his cheeks bulging like hamsters with betel, to shoot a mouthful of dripping scarlet betel juice in a graceful arc into the royal silver spittoon.  

Soon I will be phlittering on the roof of a truck through Mon State spitting betel juice onto the road at sunset, to the delight of my Burmese co-passengers who share their betel packages – green leaves pasted with lime chalk and wrapped together with betel nuts. My mouth froths with the sharp soda foam mix, scalding my tongue and I spit the effluence, splattering the road from the moving vehicle. I have arrived. We pass through the delta sodden flatlands, the luminous green paddy fields dotted with white storks and wicker hatted women and into Mon State where strange rocky formations jut out of the landscape.

Mon State in the South East is full of mystery, we visit the national Buddhist pilgrimage site, 

The Golden Rock, Mount Kyaiktiyo, and join the pilgrims on a crazy truck journey up the mountain. Disappointingly it is a commercialised theme park like site at the top of the mountain which “warmly welcomes tourists”, an excuse for the government to milk some more hard currency from foreigners. The legend of the rock centres around a few strands of the Lord Buddha's hair which were brought to Myanmar and lie under the precariously balanced rock miraculously preventing it from falling. Around the hillside ancient animist spiritual beliefs are as evident as the Buddhist faith with stalls stocked with animal parts, bears' feet, a jaguar's head, elephant tail or for a fiver an inch of the girth of a tiger's penis to provide virility. And we make friends with some lady boys making a film set at the Golden Rock.

There are far fewer tourists in the South Eastern part of the country and we enjoy the last few days in quiet towns chatting with locals, visit some Buddhas in bat caves and then the largest statue of a lying Buddha in the world. At 8000 feet long it is still unfinished but work has already started on a new bigger lying Buddha which will face it. It's slightly tacky and the surrounding 


area is full of litter and poor. I can't help thinking there are better ways to spend money in this poor country, on schools perhaps, but the such symbols are extremely important to the Burmese.

A final long distance journey, a bone shaking, painfully slow and uncomfortable train journey back to Yangon on wooden seats bouncing Burmese babies on my knee and eating a selection of food sold on the train.

This season sees more tourists than previous years but they're still relatively few tourists compared to neighbouring countries. Hotels are happily overwhelmed by this gush of Lonely Planet clutching Westerners (mainly French) and Chinese, prices kept high as demand begins to outstrip supply. After years of isolation suffering under a crazy military dictatorship the government is relaxing its grip. For travellers this means we can explore independently despite the still present irritating government fees to visit some places. Some travellers are irritated by the lack of infrastructure and exploring the country requires some patience. The unfortunate elements of tourism seen in other Asian countries are creeping in with children asking for pens and hawkers becoming persistent and developing their guilt complex inducing approach to selling their trinkets. And of course the usual hard bargain for a taxi or a banana but this can be approached jovially. The good nature of the Burmese redeems the challenge and curbs the aggressive approach which I experienced in India. Refreshingly in Myanmar everyone wants to welcome and genuinely help visitors and there is rarely a hidden agenda at trying to procure something for themselves which makes travelling here a real pleasure.

I would like to return to explore the far flung corners I did not reach this time to enjoy further the golden, green and the betel and also teach English in a monastery. Regardless I will be watching the country more closely and expectantly for the change it needs, and hopefully a harmonious change which retains the gentle character and strong philosophy of its people. Ann San Suu Kyi' writes that Myanmar “still remains a society awaiting for its true potential to be realised.” (something which is emphasised to be by its contrast with its neighbours). Let's hope that she gets chance to help realise this potential soon.