Escape From Myanmar/INLE LAKE

Now bound for Inle Lake, I arrange a taxi to the airport for 6,000 ks, a little less than a tenth of all the money I have left. Inle Lake is famous because it has a lake, and people live in and around the lake. You can take a tour of this lake, and see the people living in and around it. For some reason, this seemed really exciting at the time. Onboard the plane, an American girl across from me and I talk for a bit. She asks if I want to share a cab, so that's taken care of. Her name is Tiana, and she's from Santa Barbara. We share the taxi with a French-Canadian couple, one of whom is a screenwriter who is noteworthy because he is the only person I've ever met who's heard of the obscure Jay Baruchel film The Trotsky. He says he's been to Myanmar a dozen times, because it's good for writing. No distractions.

The dream.

He also jokes that he's graduated from backpacking into mid-range accommodations, and Tiana and I watch jealously as the couple is dropped off in front of their hotel, and greeted with glasses of cold lime juice. Meanwhile, we get dropped off at some dusty shit-heap that Lonely Planet claims has the cheapest roofed spaces that can qualify as rooms.

Turns out they're full. Across the street is Little Inn, which charges a whopping 12,000 ks a night (if you'll recall, I'm down to less than 30,000 at this point). They're still cleaning the rooms though, so after leaving our bags and "promising" to book a room, we have some time to look around. Tiana is somehow even more keen than I am to bargain hunt, and us two badasses of thrift set off on a price-checking expedition the likes of which this fucking town has never seen.

The search is confounding at first, because of the number of non-licensed guesthouses which aren't allowed to rent to foreigners. Of course, they don't tell you that. Instead, you'll walk ten minutes up the road to a place, hopeful and sweaty, only to be told at the desk, "It is not suitable for you." And while Lonely Planet's prices are wildly out of date, they do accurately predict we'll run into the aggressive owner of a certain Teakwood Guesthouse (teakwood! I know what that is now!). When checking out their establishment, this old pitbull of a lady comes out to give us the business. She makes a big show of reluctantly dropping her initial asking price from 15k to 12k, but no further! She is adamant. After we've pointed out some of the other quasi-lovely places we've looked at, she launches into the hard sell:

"We have hot shower! Powerful shower! Delicious breakfast! You like! Little Inn not good shower, not good breakfast!"

She stopped just short of cursing the ancestor's of Little Inn's proprietors for their contribution to a substandard lineage of hoteliers, but we were unswayed. Not literally unswayed, because this lady could really push you around, but we moved on to the next guesthouse down the road. They're called Joy, and their name gives happy coincidence when we find they have the lowest price yet: 8,000 ks. Tiana immediately has them hold a room for us, so we can go get our bags. But I'm not satisfied. Not quite yet. There's still one more entry in this Lonely Planet that sounds like they could be cheaper yet, and that's Gypsy Inn. Tiana is reluctant, but acquiesces. I can see there's a thirst for savings in her bones that can never be fully slaked.

Unfortunately, Gypsy Inn only matches the 8k offered by Joy. We start to walk off, but some people checking out ask us if we're planning to stay, and mention that they have complimentary pancakes with their breakfast. Well then, ladies and gentlemen. Show's over, doors are to your left, we do not validate parking.

Pancake Town, population: Hungry

Oh, and Tiana manages to talk them into giving us a room with an attached bathroom. That's cool, but it's no free and delicious breakfast staple. She also retrieves our bags from Little Inn and deals with the fallout of canceling the room they just prepared for us, because I am a pussy and my conflict radar is pinging like an internet utility testing the reachability of a destination network host. After the awkward-dust has settled, we grab lunch at Inle Pancake Kingdom, because synchronicity is important to me. Also, I keep seeing the signs, and I am an advertiser's wet dream. You know who buys every novelty "limited edition" candy bar, or fast food menu item? I am customer zero. I had a bowl of Oops! All Berries once, and am doomed to roam the Earth in search of a new marketing gimmick that can recapture that simple magic. Although, I do order a crepe at the Kingdom, so maybe there is hope for me yet.

After I take a nap, Tiana finds me and says she found a Polish couple to split the cost of the lake tour. Score! Although it occurs to me I'm basically vestigial to Tiana's backpacking adventure. This is confirmed when she tells me the next morning over breakfast that she's moving out of our room so she can get her own place. She says it's because she hasn't shared a room in a long time, and doesn't like the feeling (and I promise you, Dear Reader, I slept like a traumatized eunuch the whole night, curled up fetal on my edge of the bed like always). Apparently, she was worried about me hearing/seeing her tossing and turning the previous night. Could be, or it could have something to do with me that she doesn't like, but the astounding unlikeliness of that...Perish the thought. Insecure tosser-turner she is.

Tiana and I meet the Polish couple at the appointed pier. I don't recall their names, but the guy was alright. His girlfriend, on the other hand, was a furious hellion who has never in her life been privy to merriment or good cheer. This is not helped when, upon meeting our boat captain/tour guide, he asks where we're going.

Towards the water, I reckon.

Never a great start to a tour in my experience, having to tell the tour guide where to go. After the Polish girl has screamed at him to the point where I start to feel sorry for the poor dumb guide, he takes us to a jewelry workshop.

We aren't long in the water before we see the one thing that makes this lake special- the local fishermen have a custom where they row the boat with their legs wrapped around the oar. It looks a little something like this:

Hell if I know if it's more effective, or even as effective, as any other kind of arm-centric rowing method, but it's kind of neat. Unfortunately, leg-rowing sets the bar a little too high for the rest of the lake. The jewelry workshop is pretty much like every other tourist trap in Thailand that a tuk-tuk driver will insist on taking you to before your destination, except that the building is on stilts. Because it's in a lake. So far, the 4,000 ks I paid for my seat on the boat may not have been the soundest investment.

Take it all in.

Our tour guide waits for us outside, playing a game on a beat-up wooden board. He takes us next to a textile workshop where the looms are worked by local indigenous people who have those neck rings that make them look like those aliens at the end of A.I., but poor and exploited. Although the tour guide says they are so happy to have jobs and be working, so what the fuck do I know.

Nothing, really.

Next on our docket is a massive blow-out from one female Polish passenger, upon learning that we are going to a market, but not the market she wants. Apparently there is a really big market that tours usually do, but it's only open on certain weekdays. Our guide insists that today is not one of those days, but she isn't about to let the concept of time dissuade her. No, our guide finally has to motor the boat over to where the big market normally is, so she can see that it is indeed closed before she'll relent.

The market we do go to is plenty big, though.

After passing aisle upon aisle of goods both tourist-centric and not, our group stumbles upon an area far from the entrance where a bit of shady gambling is taking place. Naturally, this is the coolest thing I've seen all day, so I snap a quick picture. The Polish guy makes the sensible/dumb mistake of asking if he can take picture, and immediately he's shut down and told what we're seeing is pretty illegal, and "The government maybe make problems."

I hereby declare this blog to be Fighting the Power.

The game drawing the most spectacle involves people placing bets on the six pictures you can see above, and then watching as three humongous dice, with those pictured animal graphics on their sides, are sent tumbling down a ramp. If your picture is face up, you win. It's fun to watch, fun to play, and the odds are almost certainly better than most Vegas games. Good on you, underground gambling ring.

There's talk of some nearby stupas that are supposed to be worth a look, so we go off in search of them with the help of some child monks. The stupas have been completely overgrown with green shrubbery, the white paint weather-beaten and exposing the brown clay brick underneath. A pretty good photo op.

The kids of course ask for some money afterwards, and it almost seems like this whole spiritually-superior enlightened monk thing is a crock of shit, and children will always be children and people are all the same everywhere. But then, that would imply that the backpacker quest for interesting people and exotic cultures carries with it an underlying racist fascination with the Other...Woof, best not to dwell on that too much. Check out this kid looking creepy as balls:

After that tiny peak of excitement, the tour slides again into tedium. There's a boat workshop...

And a weaving workshop...

And an iron workshop...

And a cigar workshop...

Although that last one wasn't so bad. They never pressured us into buying anything, gave out free leaf cigars, and watching these ladies roll actually made for an impressive show.

Before you start feeling like you just wasted precious minutes of your life reading about a kinda-disappointing boat tour, let me tell you the name of our final destination: The Jumping Cat Monastery. At least, that's what we heard it called at the time, but if it isn't their name then it should be. Clearly this monastery had been struggling to break away from the competition, and some young monk dynamo stepped up to the plate in a big way. Bet he was looking pretty pleased with himself come Christmas Bonus time. Or not, because asceticism.

What the fuck was I saying? Oh yeah, we go in, the head monk rings a bell, a woman comes out, and she holds a small hoop out for some cats to jump through.

This must be like gazing upon the face of God for some specific people.

And that was it. Not the most exciting tour, but definitely plenty of stops, some weird boat-rowing, some illegal gambling, some jumping cats...I've seen worse. But this Polish chick is not satisfied. She demands to see more, who knows what but she wants to see it dammit. Her persistence convinces the guide to take us to a coffee shop on the lake, and the whole time he seems as mystified as myself about why she is so keen on absorbing as much tourist trap bullshit as possible. She mutters to herself the whole way, and I learn that Polish swearing sounds very similar to Russian swearing. We drink some instant coffee, and the guide takes a nap. Tour over.

Still, these guys were pretty neat.

Back at the guesthouse, I wait for Tiana to come back, and try to think of ways I can convince her to stay, lest I be forced homeless since I can't cover the cost of the room by myself. Unfortunately, while pacing frantically around I notice that all of her stuff is already gone. I confirm with the front desk that she has indeed checked out. Panicking, I ask if they have any single rooms, and how much they cost. They tell me they understand my situation, and I can keep the room I'm already in, for the half cost that I'm already paying. Cool relief washes over me, and allow myself to relax for a few precious seconds. Now I need to find a share taxi to the airport for two days from now. Should be a piece of cake.

I check a dozen places, and none of them have an open spot in a taxi. There is no cake, and the bakery's been burned down by anti-cake fanatics. Teakwood mentions that a Dutch pair was looking, so I leave a note for them at the desk. While I'm wandering around town in silent hysterics, I run into the Polish couple. We have a nice, stressful dinner at a chapati joint where the Polish girl, who of course is vegetarian, thinks her food has meat and screams accusations for a much longer amount of time than you would think a person could physically be angry. When I get a beer at Gypsy after dinner, however, I'm given 100 ks extra in change. Maybe my luck is turning around.

The next morning I eat breakfast with a British photographer, and regale him with my tale of woe, the whole stolen backpack bit. He counters with a story about he too was robbed in Thailand: he lost $19k USD worth of camera equipment. No one likes a one-upper, guy. He says he'll come by later so we can rent bicycles together. He doesn't.

I did meet some people who would be my friends though.

After some more fruitless inquiring about taxis, I decide to just stay in. My new netbook with its bootleg copy of Windows has shockingly become corrupted, so I take two Xanax, ignore my hunger pangs, and lie in my mildewed bed finishing The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and listening to Aphex Twin. I feel like the coolest, hungriest motherfucker alive. For lunch, a side of Mandalay Rum. No food, need to conserve money. I think it was Matthew Lesko who let me in on that little trick.

Life-hack.

Somehow, I pass out and wake around 9:30, too late to do anything about a taxi now. Which I need tomorrow morning. I ask the Gypsy people, and they suggest getting my own for 15k. In fact, all I have left now is 15k, and I'll need 10k for taxis when I get back to Yangon. This will not do.

Also, I cracked my sunglasses. The seas are pretty rocky right now for the USS Jamie.

In the morning I resolve to keep my wits about me. Someone has to have a taxi, and everything will be fine. I will not be trapped in a third-world military dictatorship with no money or place to stay. You know, hopefully.

I take a shower to relax, but when I touch the hot water knob my arm spasms, and an intense pain rockets through my body. Confused, I touch it again, because I never played with wall sockets as a kid and learned that valuable lesson. I'm electrocuted again, and in my head I can hear Mathieu singing "Danger! High Voltage", mockingly. I wouldn't have expected that in a country with so little electricity to spare, that they would splurge some just to fuck with me on this particular morning.

My flight from Inle Lake back to Yangon is at 10:30 am, so I check out nice and early at 6. It takes about an hour to get there, so that gives me about 2 hours to find a ride and get to the airport before the check-in counter closes. Should be no sweat. Just don't think about what happens if you fail, Jamie. Dammit, you went and thought about it. Now just look at all this sweat.

The guesthouse gives me directions to a pick-up stop where I might be able to hop on a truck that's airport-bound. It's not a lot to go on, but it's something. On the way there, I see some guys outside of Teakwood loading into a taxi. The Dutch pair! I approach them as un-desperately as I possibly can and ask if their taxi's full. They say they only have 3 people, and can totally take a fourth. Finally seeing a ray of hope, I ask the driver if it's cool for me to jump in. He says no. The Dutch guys shrug their Dutch shoulders. "Sorry, mate," one of them says. I watch as they drive off, fourth seat completely empty. Sorry, mate. Sorry mate.

Spirits drop even lower when I get to the pick-up stop, ask which truck goes to the airport, and I'm told this is the wrong spot, and I need to walk up the street for the airport pick-up. No worries, I'm sure it totally exists. Let's go there now. About a half mile up the road there's another pick-up stop, and everyone here says there is no airport pick-up, because apparently I'm in a surrealist nightmare from which there is no escape. Completely out of leads, I'm left milling about and badgering these guys for a ride.It's now past 7, and I will fucking learn Burmese if I have to, but I am getting out of this goddamn country.

A couple of the touts say they'll take me, for 10k. It's difficult to describe how utterly void of fucks I was at this moment. Like...a celibate black hole. That's the look I gave these guys. I tell them I have five thousand, and I would like to go to the airport for five thousand. They say eight thousand.

Maybe I can just knock one of them out and steal his motorcycle. I say five. They say seven.

If I am stuck here, I am going to make a throne out of all of your femurs and sup wine from your hollowed-out skull, for I will crown myself BattleLord of this infernal place and fight you very violently. I say five. They say six.

Oh god, what am I thinking, I'm going to die here. I say five again, ready to beg on my knees. One of them must sense my last shred of humanity about to slip, and directs me across the street to where a scooter driver will do it for five. I find this fabled gentleman, and miracle of miracles, he says he'll do it. We just need to go to his house for an extra helmet. Okay. Okay. Okay. We can do that. Let's get a helmet, and then my heart will stop exploding.

As an added bonus, he gets me to the airport in half the time it's supposed to take. What was I so worried about? I read until the Air Mandalay counter opens, whereupon I'm actually patted down in security for the first time in this country. After everything it took to get here, these banal airport procedures are somehow immensely comforting.

I manage to share a taxi from the airport in Yangon with an old woman, maintaining my $5 limit. At Sakura, I pack up the various things I left with Madoka while she watches a DVD of Cider House Rules. She's making sushi for a potluck and gives me a couple pieces to try, an almost cruel gesture since all I've had to eat all day are some stale chocolate cookies in the airport. Soon, though, I'll be living a life (night) of 5-star luxury. Like I deserve. At 5 pm I leave to catch my 7 pm flight, using my last 5 dollars.

This is all I have left. Two unusable shit-bills totaling 40 cents USD. Clearly, planning is for wusses.

It should come as no surprise by now, that this is the first flight of my entire trip that gets delayed. The plane finally departs around 8:30 pm, but this being Air Asia, I'm given nothing to eat or drink, and have no money to buy anything. Water in the airport costs 500 ks, so I'm nearly as thirsty as I am hungry. Seated next to me on the flight is a gentleman who was smart enough to buy a meal with his ticket, so I get to spend the entire flight watching him noisily slurp instant noodles through betel-stained teeth, which I'm pretty sure is the 2nd or 3rd circle of Dante's hell.

Of course, the flight takes longer than estimated, and we finally arrive in Kuala Lumpur around 1 am. Not great, but still early enough for a good night's sleep before check-out. I am finally able to withdraw some precious, wonderful cash from an ATM, with which I buy a bus ticket to the Golden Triangle, KL's main shopping and nightlife district, and where my hotel is located. Unfortunately, the bus from the airport doesn't leave for another half hour, and I drastically underestimated how long the bus ride would take. And the subsequent transfer to another shuttle.

All told, the shuttle finally pulls up to the lavish entrance of the Shangri-La Hotel at 3 am. The reception is waiting for me and oh-so-happy to help me with my bags, and oh we're so sorry to hear about your flight delay, yessir we can absolutely offer you a late checkout at 4 pm. That French-Canadian was right, it feels damn fine to graduate from backpacking accommodations.

They give you fresh fruit in your room! Like I'm some kind of Apple Royalty or...a Kiwi King.

Just look at all this stuff I found in the closet! And none of it's covered in lice or semen! Yet.

Now I have a choice: stay up using the first decent internet I've had in weeks to masturbate in relaxed luxury, or sleep in this bed that feels better than taking a shit on ecstasy, and be fully rested for the free gourmet breakfast buffet that ends at 10 am.

You read that right. Better than a shit on ecstasy.

I ain't no fancy man. I masturbate and sleep for 3 hours so I can make the free buffet. It is rapidly occurring to my hungry, sleep-deprived mind that this whole 5-star thing may be wasted on me. Still, it's nice to pretend, if just for a night, that I am a Kiwi King.

Going in Circles/YANGON

Today's the day. I'm finally getting out of Thailand. Before I catch my flight in the afternoon, I run around Bangkok on various errands. I get my final suit fitting, before they ship the whole package stateside. I buy a new MP3 player, remembering the advice of those guys on Ko Tao who were so keen on biking around in Bagan listening to music. Finally, I need cash. Lots of it, in USD.

On account of Myanmar being so tightly closed and controlled, there are apparently no ATMs in the entire country. This means any money you need for your stay, you have to bring ahead of time, and they only accept US dollars for exchange. The bills also have to be in crisp, perfect condition, due to their fear of forgeries. After some online research, the place to go seems to be Super Rich, a currency exchange place in Bangkok that deals in exactly this sort of thing. After running to a nearby ATM for some baht (where I forget my debit card, only to have a security guard come running after me and politely explain that maybe I shouldn't be forgetting things like that), I get 600 USD in new, pristine bills. To keep them mint, I put them between the pages of a scuba textbook in my backpack.

Now, at this point I've been in Thailand 31 days, which some may notice is a higher number than the 30 days a Thai tourist visa allows. However, to my surprise and even greater relief, I don't have any problems going through airport security. They notice, of course, but I feign ignorance. Something in Thai is written over my visa stamp (I like to think it's a curse), and I'm on my way. Smooth as butter.

That is, until a security guard comes running up to me where I sit eating at an airport sushi stand. This is it. I'm scuppered. Whatever scuppered means, this is it. God, why did I have to watch Brokedown Palace before leaving on my trip? I know exactly what's in store for me. But who's going to heroically sacrifice themselves to take my jail time? I've got a real shortage of best friends around me at the moment. What could be the punishment for overstaying your visa? Fuck, what's the number for the consulate?! Why didn't I ever register with the embassy?! Why don't I do the things you're supposed to do?!

The guard produces my netbook. "Is this yours? It was left at the security check."

Guess I won't have to involve the consulate after all.  Get yourself together, Jamie. Hopefully Burma will fix the holes in my brain. No drugs there, except for that whole Golden Triangle heroin thing, but that's a little outside my league. Maybe I won't even drink, and really dry out properly. Sounds nice.

Before I board the plane, I get some gelato finally. I forgot to mention I've been craving gelato for awhile, which is strange because it's so interesting. Now you know. Gelato cravings. But that's over now.

Around 6:30 we land in Yangon, formerly Rangoon, where I grab a taxi from the airport that reliably overcharges.

Sup.

A couple months ago, I signed up for the internet site CouchSurfing. For those who don't know, CouchSurfing is an international community of travelers, most of whom are looking for a place to stay or offering a place to stay. There's a lot of high-minded feelgoodery I could get into, but suffice to say it's a great place to find a couch abroad.

I had originally planned to use the service in Australia, but wasn't able to find anyone available in Perth at the time. Instead, the first couch I managed to book is in Myanmar of all places, with a Japanese girl named Madoka. When I get out of the taxi, I'm more than a little excited to see that she lives in a rather nice upscale hotel. Also, that she's a real person, and not a murderer, or even a rapist. Incredibly, she's a wonderfully nice person who just likes to host backpackers and hang out. Murder-free!

I notice another backpack already in her apartment, and Madoka tells me another couch surfer will be here the same time as me. His name is Evan, and apparently he is also a nice non-criminal. In fact, the only actual criminal act was performed by myself, when Evan came home and I proceeded to steal much music off his Macbook for my new MP3 player. Evan invites me to check out the Shwedagon Pagoda, supposedly the oldest in the world, and Yangon's biggest tourist attraction.

It is absolutely gorgeous at night, as the lights of the temple bounce off and illuminate the golden stupas. It's also filled with rad electric Buddhas, which answer the age-old question of how to make religion accessible to the youth. It is, and has always been, flippin' sweet light shows.

We meet back up with Madoka, and the three of us get dinner at, appropriately, Friendship Restaurant, and then retire back to the apartment where I tune Madoka's guitar and find that I was wrong. People abroad don't just want to hear Oasis. They want to hear Oasis and Green Day's "Time of Your Life".

In the morning I steal some more music from Evan, and make plans with him to check out the circular train. Apparently, it’s the best way to see the real Yangon and hang out with the real locals and be really "real". Before that, however, Evan’s seen an ad somewhere for a plane travel package of Myanmar through Air Mandalay, so we head to their office to check it out.

The package is a few hundred bucks for tickets around the Golden Kite, which includes Mandalay, Bagan, Inle Lake, and then back to Yangon. Evan and I both sign up, and then inquire about the circle train. Immediately there is a communication block. One girls says there is no circle train, then another girls says there is, another girl says there isn’t…So we do what any sane people would do, and trust the internet. We take a taxi to the train station (which exists), and get on. Somewhere in there we forgot to buy a ticket, but…whatevs?

The internet also said that we would need our passport, and would have to stay in the conductor’s carriage, neither of which are true. This marks the...second? third? time the 'net has been wrong, maybe ever. Sometimes I wonder if this internet thing is really going to last.

It is also very possible that we didn't even pay for our train ticket. Extremely possible.

The back of the train has a string demarcating seats for scary military dudes. I probably should've paid for my ticket.

The train is a long, slow, bumpy ride. We're the only foreign passengers, and everyone else seems to be going to work or hopping on and off to sell snacks and drinks. It's the sort of thing that pops boners for the backpackers who want everything to be "authentic" and only talk to locals and just want to be "real".

So anyways, we talked to this authentic local who was real as fuck. A lecturer/engineer who lives in Germany, and basically only travels at the convenience of the government. Apparently, the government here kind of blows. Locals, man. 

Evan and I start to feel a little peckish, and the occasional mango hawker isn't cutting it. We get off the train at a random stop, which turns out to be approximately the center of nowhere. Apart from some metal and wood shacks set up by the train tracks, the rest of the area is a dusty field stretching out into dry scrubland. We head for the shacks.

In one of the corrugated metal huts is a woman making...some sort of foodstuff, by the look of it, which'll have to do. She uses her hands to scoop and shape the food, which is a sticky tofu-like substance that actually tastes pretty bland. I figured her unwashed hands alone would create some kind of flavor sensation.

No flavor sensation here.

In more exciting news, next to her maison d'E. coli stood a stall where a kid was selling betel nut. Betel nut is something the Burmese like to chew on that stains their teeth blood-red and causes them to spit absolutely everywhere, resulting in streets that look like an overenthusiastic Zombie Walk met up with a violent street riot. I had no idea what the effects were. I had to try it.

Bingo.

The betel nut doesn't actually taste that bad, but man does it get the saliva going. A fairly intense head rush comes on for a few minutes, and I actually feel stoned for a good spell, before it fades and is replaced by a sharp caffeine buzz. All the while my mouth is filling with ruby spit, and now we've gotten on another train, and it's moving. The car is filled with people, and there's no room to maneuver for the door. I consider spitting out the window, but that would involve not only getting myself into a position to open the window, but also spitting this vampire loogie out over the shoulders of about 4 innocent bystanders. Instead, I stand in uncomfortable resignation, cheeks bulging, insides of cheeks and roof of my mouth tingling, then burning. Imagine your mouth full to burst with horrible exotic tobacco juice, daring yourself not to swallow, yet considering...

Outta the way, I've got nut juice I need to get rid of! Eh? Eh? You get it.

When the train stops again I'm finally afforded an opportunity to dash out of the carriage and empty my raw, burning cheeks, looking much like an ebola victim with an upset tummy.

Sorry, guys.

At this point Evan and I notice that calling this the "circular train" might be a bit of a misnomer, as now the train simply starts going backwards after a long stop. Apparently, there is no circle, and those ticket saleswomen were right to be confused. Oh well?

Who wouldn't want to see these sights twice!

Ready to end our non-circular tour, we ask some locals next to us about getting a taxi, which prompts the entire carriage to converse in loud, excited Burmese. A gang of elderly women take it upon themselves to help us out, and they get off the train with us to find a taxi together.

As for where to find taxis, no one has a clue. Our unintelligible multi-generational posse wanders around the station, back and forth, until finally the guy in control of the trains has to come out and point us toward the main road.

You can see here all the people who just gave up and resigned themselves to be Station Folk for the rest of their lives.

I see a kid walking around in a red and black swastika t-shirt. And before you ask, not the nice Buddhist one that's all straight and nice. This was the other one, the one tilted at an angle. The angle of evil. Go figure, amid the totalitarian regime of the Myanmar government, Nazi fashion does alright.

A taxi eventually comes our way. Evan gets out around Shwedagon so he can see it in the daytime, and I get out at Bagyoke market, thanking our elderly benefactors. I need to use the black market at this literal market to exchange all my crisp USD bills for Burmese kyat, and before I even have a chance to ponder how exactly the fuck I'm supposed to do that, a guy has already come up to me and asked if I need money changing. How on Earth he distinguished me from a local, I'll never know.

Pictured: Me! Pretty much.

I talk the guy up to 820 ks for the dollar, which I feel pretty good about. Madoka later tells me that the official exchange rate the government sets is 45.5 ks to the dollar, hence why everyone comes to the black market. I also later learn that Evan got 822, and Madoka gets 825. I just did the math now, and that's like a 3 dollar difference. Somehow I'll learn to live with it, in time. 

After we're done with our illicit transaction that had me feeling like such the badass, black market man takes me to get a bottled water, which I requested, and then takes me to his "mother's shop" to buy a longyi, which I did not request. A longyi is basically a men's skirt worn exclusively in Burma, or by the same awful backpackers who make concerted efforts to wear Thai fishermen pants in America and are just waiting for people at a party to comment on them but they won't because everyone hates you. Also, the longyi cost 5,000 ks, and if I'm going to wear a novelty skirt, it's got to be, I dunno, half that. I'm putting my foot down.

While trying to find a cab I end up visiting another pagoda, because while Burma may not have liberty, they do have Buddhist prayer stations in spades. Another money changer offers me 840, and I assume him to be a short changer because I just do not need any more regrets in my life. I turn him down, and he's nice enough to tell me where to hail a cab. Down a long road full of palm readers, it turns out.

Evan is already back at Madoka's, but she's still at work. Turns out, her complex has a rather nice swimming pool, and it is completely empty and also lovely.

I feel like this whole Burma thing took a left turn somewhere.

After she returns, Madoka makes some pasta for dinner, and the three of us leave for a bar called the 50th St. Cafe. It is extremely western, with a clientele that seems to be exclusively US expats with their Burmese prostitutes. There is a band, and they play The Cranberries, Hotel California (twice), and Justin Bieber's seminal classic "Baby Baby Oh Baby Baby Oh Baby Baby Oh, Etc.".

This is a menu boasting the best Bloody Mary in Asia.

This is an aggressively mediocre Bloody Mary. DANGIT JAMIE YOU FELL FOR IT AGAIN.

So, I came to Myanmar to dry out and detox, and I ended up getting buzzed on betel nut and drinking in a shitty pub. Maybe there's a moral there, or maybe it's just one of those mysteries. Like how to pronounce "calculator". Nobody knows.