2013_05_26 The Last Leg posted

The LAST LEG

[Editor's note:  i don't have dates for these bits... but alexa has been home for weeks.]

Arrived by plane in Milan early in the cold morning and decided to take the train into the city, greener than the bus, same price, but less frequent service. Arrived at the rococo train station and began looking for Internet cafes to find directions to my couch. Finally a helpful soul at a nearby McDonald's obliged me with her netphone and I set off on the Metro to meet my Polish hostess. She only had a night to give me, but convinced me to go back into town with her and see the sights. We walked around the Duomo (cathedral) and found a free exhibition of the paintings of Bob Dylan in an old palace! The train station had the most expensive pay toilet I'd seen in Europe; one euro, or $1.30. Europe a lot pricier than Asia. Subsequent ones went down to a more reasonable 25 cents. Agnietzka cooked her first meal in her beautiful studio apartment, courtesy of her employers. 

I had an open invitation to Lorenzo's couch in Arcidoso, in Tuscany, called Amiatautogestita. We researched the transport online and the next morning I was on a train for Grosseto. But since it was Sunday, the buses to Paganico and then Arcidoso were not running. But the sun was out, and so was my thumb, and three kindly Italians saved me. An angel in white headed for Bologna left me in Paganico; a bearded father of ten stopped in his old van with his oldest son and left me at a bus stop one village away. When the local bus failed to arrive, another man delivered me to Arcidoso and I dragged my luggage up the cobblestone street to the castle on top of the hill. A man pointed at Lorenzo's anarchist library/free store/600-year-old couch haven opposite, calling it 'bed and breakfast.' 

From the website and Facebook's translation: "AMIATAUTOGESTITA  believes that through free education and work (we) can become individuals capable of developing the necessary strength to deliver us from the nightmare of the injustices perpetuated in the name of capital. Learn to be active and responsible individuals producing our food together is just one of our activities that serve to learn love for what surrounds us."

I was impressed that Lorenzo was a vegetarian who didn't want to pay the murderers who provide meat. Always great to meet people more radical than myself! Another local Italian named Yuri and an Iowa backpacker appeared. I browsed the free store for warm clothes and boots and the library. The English books were non-fiction but I enjoyed beginning The Prize, about the history of America's oil industry. There was a pile of wood outside to keep the fireplace blazing. That and the cigarette smoke gave me a cough that hung on until I reached Lisbon.

The next day, the Iowan gone, Lorenzo, Yuri and I walked down the hill and up another to a small plot of land, the commune's garden. My job was picking weeds and roots out of the turned earth. We went back another way, stopping at Yuri's parents, who welcomed us with an impromptu dinner of eggs, bread, cheese and wine. His mother gave me shoelaces for my 'new' boots. Kiwi and cream for dessert. I still had a rabies shot to get and Yuri mistakenly advised me to go to the next town, 3 kilometers away for it. It was a nice walk but the hospital directed me back to a district clinic 200 meters from the couch! The doctor would be in the next morning. When I returned, he took me from the packed waiting room, copied all my paperwork, and explained I didn't need any more tetanus, it was part of the TDAP series I'd gotten in the states. I got my last rabies shot for free!

Rain and cold precluded any more garden work. I made several trips to the local supermarkets for beans, bread, cheese, pasta, wine, which didn't last long in that crowd. A Russian fellow arrived and left. Other local Italians dropped in to eat, smoke and discuss. An Italian girl from Perugia arrived, and she and Yuri got busy restringing and upholstering the kitchen chairs. I had my own bedroom and double bed. You had to fill a bucket to flush the toilet. My Indonesian rubber poncho finally got some use. A young American couple who had been WWOOFing joined us (doing construction and planting on an organic farm).

I took a morning bus to Florence (Firenze). I had missed visiting the Boboli Gardens and Piti Palace in 1995, but despite a four hour layover, I couldn't make myself pay 5 euros a bag to secure my heavy luggage at the station. I also resented a 10 euro booking fee I'd paid in Arcidoso, when I got on a half-empty bus, until in Florence I got on the bus for Dijon, packed with Arabs and Africans. I might have been stranded. I had found a couch in Dijon and it was a reasonable distance from Nancy, my next destination. Another night on a bus, still reading MacKinley Kantor's Spirit Lake. The Iowan knew of the book, which takes place in frontier Iowa, and ends with a massacre (spoiler alert).

I read more when I arrived in Dijon in the shelter of the train station. My hostess would not be ready for me for hours, recovering from a birthday party the night before. Finally with some help I got a tram ticket to the Place de la Republique, and finally found someone with a cellphone to call her. Veronique was nearby in the square, a divorcee of Italian descent with a lovely old ground-floor apartment. I was given her now grown son's room. We went to a Chinese restaurant and then to a film, Bill Murray playing the philandering FDR, reassuring the stuttering King of England of American support for the war. Veronique had a map of Dijon and the next day I discovered that lovely old walkable town. President Hollande was visiting and I photographed a demonstration on my way back from the botanical garden. We had a lovely meal of pesto pasta and the next day I was on the train to Nancy, and Marianne, the daughter of the mayor of nearby Toul, where my Army father was stationed in the '50's.

Elegant Marianne lives in a lovely old apartment off the beautiful Place Stanislas I'd visited in the summer. She had the kitchen and bathroom, indeed the whole place remodeled since her mother's death. She cooked lovely meals and we enjoyed French TV from her mother's adjustable bed. This visit I would see the museums. Marianne took me to the Beaux Arts and the Ecole de Nancy (Art Nouveau) and along the canal and the old town. My camera got a work-out. She gave me a warm wool sweater and an English book, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society. She cooked marvelous meals but spurned my beans from Italy. I went to an Arab Internet place to plan my remaining days in Europe. I had wanted to revisit Trets and Marseille but time was getting too short; I booked a bus to San Sebastian, Spain for a last visit with my old travel partner of the '70's to India, Tino.

It was a long cold wait for the bus to Spain but it finally arrived, coming from Germany and ending in Portugal. I was sorry another all night trip gave me no chance to enjoy the scenery. I arrived in San Sebastian before dawn and sort of recognized my surroundings, but dusted off my rusty Spanish and finally found Tino's apartment building. The name of the street had been changed back to Basque. Luckily it was Sunday so I could join him for his weekly dinner at his sister Marife's flat, with another sister, now a joyful grandmother, Coro, I had met so many years ago. Marife gave me a soft wool hat for my baldish head. Why did I think getting it shaved in Malaysia was a good idea?

Tino shared his library, his videos, his CDs, his washing machine. I wore my Frieda Kahlo self-portrait shirt and clown pants from Italy. He urged me to keep my hat on and hide my head; my hair is slow to grow back. We watched Frank Sinatra in The Man with the Golden Arm, which I'd never seen. I read a book in two days and I can't recall what it was! He couldn't part with Raymond Chandler's The Long Goodbye but gave me Looking for Mr. Goodbar instead. I didn't remember most of it; it kept me occupied on the train to Lisbon. The sleepers were sold out and somehow I lost my precious Burmese umbrella at the station. 

I took a bus and a tram to Cascais, outside Lisbon, to spend one night with my very first couchsurfing hosts of nine months earlier, Ruis and Isa, the naturists. Isa picked me up at the tram station and took me to their big new apartment, walking distance from the beach. She also removed her sleeping three month old son, Santi (Santiago), from the back of the car. Surprise! He joins their two large German shepherds. Isa, 25, trains dogs for the Portuguese Air Force. Ruis, 45, trains dogs privately the dog whispering way (Cesar Millan). We walked the dogs and drove out to his inlaws for a weekly dinner and baby-sharing. Santi tried solid food, fruit. Though Isa's mother doesn't know English, she wanted to be my Facebook friend, as Rui and Isa are. The table groaned with good food.

Isa found a spare pair of hiking boots for me that fit me better than Lorenzo's, which she promised to give to the homeless. Another walk the next morning with the pooches through their leafy upscale neighborhood, past the first shopping center ever built in Europe. Then it was off to Lisbon airport, courtesy of Isa (as in Isabelle; the name means Jesus) and Santi. Rui was dog-training. Isa returns reluctantly to work in another month. She has a pierced tongue and a pin in her back, plus tattoos; a stunning woman. Rui got it right when for his fifth wife he chose a military bride.  

Cheap-O Air, which sold me my round-trip Aer Lingus ticket, kept changing the time of my departure from Dublin to New York until the layover from Lisbon reached 23 hours 45 minutes! I must have sent 15 couch surf requests to Dubliners before Cathy, a Frenchwoman with two girls, Mia, 1 and Chloe, 10, accepted me. Cathy lives in Balbriggan, a half hour bus ride from the Dublin airport. Chloe speaks English and French and is learning Irish in school. We drove in the cold rain down flooded streets to look at the raging sea. We stopped in a pub for a Guinness and a hard cider. I bought a loaf of soda bread. I slept with the fishes in the living room after a tasty meal of fries and chicken wings. Chloe loves an American series about witches I never saw before. Mia was a happy baby holding onto furniture to get around.

The morning of my flight we drove to a local castle by the sea to walk through the cold wind. We stopped at a supermarket for lunch makings - cheese and ham, bread and olive spread. I divested myself of my last euros and was delivered to the bus stop back to the airport for a six and a half hour flight to JFK. First I watched Argo on the little screen before me; then Lincoln, and was halfway through a third film when the strip of Long Island appeared out the window. I found the Airtrain back to Manhattan and after a couple of anxious hours and phone calls, my hosts returned from the theatre and once again I slept in my last couch on the West side. The next day I explored the Brooklyn Museum and celebrated Passover with my hosts. Tomorrow a bus to Philadelphia to see old friends, then back to New York for my last all night bus ride to Columbus. Another bus to Nelsonville, my cats, and Easter dinner with my sisters! 

The end!

2013_03_25 It figures...!

I'm ready to go back to Asia in 2015!

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2013_03_25 Bagan [Myanmar] and Back

(looks like Alexa was in New York when she re-wrote this.. the first version having disappeared on her)

BAGAN AND BACK

Bagan is on a plain along the great Ayervaddy river dotted with temples. You must buy a $10 government pass to visit the sights. Some years ago the military decreed all the inhabitants had to vacate to a New Bagan nearby. Was it to preserve the archeology or establish a touristic enclave or profit from the creation of a new town?

Mindala Ba! Hello! I said dozens of times a day and always got an answer and a smile. I think I left my heart in Myanmar! Nothing like the charm of the street peddlers' cries, and native songs blaring from some radio before dawn. Unlike the Westernized pap on television.

Christian the Frankfurter and I travelled on the all night bus from Yangon, formerly Rangoon. I would rather do that than rise before dawn, get an hour taxi to the bus station and arrive at dark. We took bus 43, whose numbers look like a bow in Burmese script, for nearly an hour to the dusty collection of buses and stalls on the outskirts of the city. We had time to kill, and indulged in fresh ground sugar cane juice with lime and a coffee. I read MacKinlay Kantor's 800 page tome of Iowa pioneers and murdering Indians Spirit Lake once our stewardess got the nightlight working. There were complimentary plastic bottles of water at every seat. And a dinner stop at a huge lit-up complex of restaurants. I was served about a pint of rice I didn't want, bony spiced meat and dubious vegetables. And overcharged, nearly three dollars for a meal!

On a roommate's tip, I had reserved a dorm bed in the Eden guest house with a 25 cent phone call from Yangon. They told me to get a 1500 kyat taxi to the Eden, about a dollar and a half. We arrived around four in the morning to find a small crowd of men, one holding a sign saying "Alexa Ross" as you see in airports. Flattered, I followed the man to a pony cart. Christian and I mounted the back with our luggage, not knowing we should face backwards, and clattered down the predawn streets that teemed with people. It was magical! We dismounted at the Eden, and I presented the little nag with an apple but it wasn't interested. The driver asked if I wanted him to return for a dawn tour of the temples. NO! But many others rise in the dark to see the sun rise.

A lady welcomed us to the Eden. I was amazed that we would not be charged to sleep in that morning. Christian with his cold took a room. My dorm bed was across the street and up three flights, a mattress on the floor. There were several fellows sprawled about. Next to me was the door to a terrace. I saw Christian settling into his room across the street. My bed was $7 a night, $9 with breakfast across the way outside Christian's room. It wasn't as good as the Okinawa, just eggs and white toast, fruit and instant coffee or tea bags but you did meet your fellow travellers.

On the streets were bikes for hire to explore the ten kilometers of temples. One of my roommates, a Chilean, told me there were Indian restaurants a 15 minute walk away. I headed out, photographed a brick temple and found the restaurant Aroma, but it didn't open until six and the prices seemed high, starting at $3. I walked on, reading restaurant menus, and settled on a place with tasty rice and veggies and papaya juice. Across the way was a workshop of waxed paper umbrellas in brilliant colors suitable for rain, sun or snow. I resolved to return one day and buy one. At the end of the street was a free Thanaka, or sandalwood, museum, wood that is used for construction, crafts and cosmetics. Two monkeys looked out from their cage at research gardens.

At the hotel you could have laundry washed and ironed for 25 cents apiece. Every day the power disappeared, so there was a flashlight available for the bathroom off the lobby. There was a television with HBO and many commercials, but the owner's brood preferred to watch sports.

Christian rented a bike his first day, and threatened by village dogs, tripped in his flip flops and fell and cut his hand. A local doctor cleaned his wound. I found a restaurant featuring soup, salad, entree and dessert for $3 and dined in solitary splendor, wondering how the place survived. Then an older European with a native girl arrived for alcoholic drinks, and there was a big hotel next door.

The lady owner of the Eden told me about a trip the next day in a shared van to Mount Popa, for a price. At first I demurred, intending to rent a bike and tour the temples. But I came to my senses and joined Christian and four other Germans the next morning, just after buying a photocopied edition of George Orwell's Burmese Days, for sale everywhere in Myanmar. The other Germans had lots of stories of being ripped off one way or another in their travels, especially changing money on the street. We stopped at a roadside farm where a man was climbing a tree to harvest coconuts and an ox was walking in a circle, grinding palm nuts into oil. There were numerous things for sale, coconut candy, sesame seeds, baskets, booze...I looked at palm liquor being distilled over a fire and bought a bottle nested in a woven leaf carrier. A woman painted pale sandalwood leaves on my cheeks. I joined tourists at a table sampling a mixture of dry tea, coconut, garlic, beans and peanuts that was delicious. At another stop to photograph Mount Popa from a distance, little girls tried to sell us stones with smaller stones inside that rattled.

Finally we were at our destination and began to climb the 777 stairs to the top. It was a varied and interesting, shoeless climb. All along the way were stalls selling food and souvenirs, families of monkeys and also men with rags intoning "Donation for cleaning..." monkey poop off the steps. Many photos, many views of the valley! I lost the rest of the group but we had a rendezvous with the van in an hour. At the top, I noticed many plaques devoted to tourists from different countires who had given five dollars or a hundred dollars.There were glass boxes full of bills everywhere. I rushed back down to the street and my legs were trembling as I sought out strawberries, sugar cane juice, and bags of potato and banana chips.

When I got back to my room I realized my camera was missing. I ran across the street to the main lobby and the company was called. I waited anxiously, ready with a generous tip, and then the camera and Christian's hat, also left on the back seat, had been returned to my lobby. Blessed again!

It was time to brave the hot weather and rent a bike at $2 a day. It had an ingenious lock built into it. I headed out of town and saw a large temple with tour buses that required a visit. A lady shopkeeper directed me where to leave my sandals, and to see her wares. I just didn't want to add a thing to my heavy luggage. But I gave into buying a set of color postcards with a dollar bill. I regretted it later when I passed a meditation center and garden on the river, admission one dollar. There are large bells hanging near the ground at these temples and big clubs to strike them with. I love to oblige and hear the deep sound they make.

Back on the bike down the dusty road a few kilometers was another very big temple, this one with uniformed guards requesting to see your tourist pass. I dawdled before a shop and bought some sandals. In the temple were large Buddhas in four alcoves facing four directions. I enjoyed my lunch by my bike, then turned up another dusty road where a horse and cart were awaiting their tourists. A young man approached on a motorcycle, told me he was a student, then wanted to show me his art work, paintings on cloth that didn't wrinkle or weigh anything, of temples, of monks...but I just didn't feel they were things I couldn't live without. I read Burmese Days.

I wanted to see the world famous Ayerwaddy river up close and turned into a village and asked directions, heading downhill to the shore. A man asked if I wanted to hire his boat to watch the sunset. I ordered a sugar cane juice with lime and eyed the dogs. I walked my bike along the river to an outdoor restaurant with fried bananas, patties, and other things, at the base of a temple up a long flight of stairs. A kind fellow volunteered to carry my bike to the top! More pictures, and studying the map to see where to go next.

I must have visited three or four more temples and palaces before turning around and heading home. I still had a good 40 minutes left of my bike rental so I explored the town a way off the roundabout I'd never been and ended up again at the river at dusk. I returned the bike and stopped for cheap noodle soup at a roadside stand. Back at the Eden my Chilean roommate was replaced by a Japanese one. Two Chinese sisters (one recovering from diarrhea) and their niece had a room nearby and befriended me, as well as a youth from Mandalay traveling with them but sleeping in the dorm. He gave me bags of cookies and sweet toast, I gave him a black and white striped referee shirt for his birthday. I'd hauled it around for eight months and never worn it. We became Facebook friends. I gave my copy of Burmese Days away.

There was a little Internet place up the road but the connection was agonizingly slow, and of course the power was off half the afternoon. I had called all the cheap places in Mandalay listed in Lonely Planet, and all were booked. Christian headed that way on a bus, but could always sleep in a monastery. I bought a ticket from the lady to go back to Yangon for two nights before my flight to Bangkok. The cheapest flight back to Europe from Asia proved to be to Milan, so the same day I flew to Bangkok I would fly all night to Italy. I found a couch for one night there with a Polish girl.

I spent a final melancholy day in Bagan. The man at the restaurant next door, was a drunk, very friendly to me one night, very angry at everyone the next. His mother and sisters put up with it. He was ex-military and tried to explain an injury to me. He gave me a nice back massage right there in the restaurant. I ordered vegetables but they were inedible. Up the street I chose a native salad and it was a job to get through it. I returned to the umbrella shop and picked an orange one, even more beautiful with the light through it than the red or green or gold. I talked to the man about cutting it down to fit in my suitcase. He gave me a brilliant orange carrier bag and a bag full of tamarand slices wrapped in tissue. I lost that umbrella at the train station in Lisbon. I'll have to go back to buy another one on my next trip!

The bus was late but came at last the next morning. I had to change buses after a while. I sat with a tall European who had been to Bangladesh and Africa and said she loved it. There were French people on my second bus and I told them we could take a cheap bus back to Suda Pagoda but when we descended at dusk the taxi drivers swore the buses stopped running at six. I had run out of money and there were no ATMs in Bagan. I agreed to share a taxi with the French, but then we passed buses and I figured we'd been lied to. The taxi driver had his wife and son in the car. The son wouldn't take candy from me. The driver didn't much know the area and asked repeatedly people on the street where the French people's hotel was. Finally we spied it. I hoped the surly receptionist at the Okinawa would lend me my few dollars share of the taxi. We went round the Pagoda twice before I pinpointed the right street. It wasn't a problem, they seemed glad to see me back. And there were the Germans from the van to Mount Popa heading home the next day!

I took my same bed as before and met the fellow I'd sat next to on the plane from Bangkok. I set off for the ATM machine and paid my hotel bill and repaid the loan. I went off for strawberry yogurt and masala dosa and joined the street life of Yangon once again. I had heard of a nice two hour circular train journey around the city, $1 for foreigners and ten cents for locals, who often brought huge sacks of produce to market that way. I found some Aung San Suu Kyi t-shirts and headed for the gems market, but couldn't see paying $10 for a tiny citrine or aquamarine or peridot, so I bought a few dollar bracelets and a card with samples of thirty or so gems found in Myanmar. I thought of buying two cards to make earrings...

It was off by bus to the airport, I could get there at one twentieth the price of a taxi! I had a short ride in a tuk tuk the last kilometer and flew to Bangkok, but my flight to Milan was from another airport. No problem, a free shuttle! This airport was huge, modern, with giant standing demons in a line. I ate, I read, I walked around, I lost my pointed straw Oriental hat. I had so much time between flights I nearly missed my plane. Suddenly the kids from the ticket counter were rushing me to the gate. How did they find me? This would never happen in the West. When I got on the crowded airbus jammed with Italians, the energy was astounding. I shook my head in disbelief and left Asia behind.

--

ALexa

2013_03_22 facebook clips

March 21  Now in Lisbon, tomorrow to Dublin!
Almost completed my Myanmar blog and it disappeared into the ether.
Lost my lovely orange handmade Burmese umbrella on the train!


March 15th 
All night bus tomorrow to San Sebastian: the countdown continues!

2013_03_05 from facebook

"Here am I"

 

 

Yesterday I got my hands dirty sifting tiny roots out of this garden in Arcidoso, Tuscany, italy. 

Vegetable power! 

Cats in Europe much calmer and friendlier than those in SouthEast Asia 

 

 She says she is staying near the castle at the top of the town..

 

 

2013_03_05 Yangon, Myanmar aka Rangoon, Burma

Subject: Yangon, Myanmar aka Rangoon, Burma

Out of my mind with worry from the stories; high cost low quality accommodations, one bank machine in the whole country, only perfect US currency accepted, two weeks will cost you $7OO! Since losing my Visa card in Zagreb, I had had to raid my cash reserve and had only about 2OO dollars in presentable bills. And my Visa card again stopped working in Thailand!

Couchsurfing was impossible, it is illegal to host a foreigner. They must even get permission to host a relative! That is what I heard.

The aspiring hostel owner Alex I met in Bangkok had emailed that he would reserve a bed for me in Yangon, formerly Rangoon, at the Okinawa Guest House near Sule pagoda. There were four 9 dollar dorm mattresses on the floor with wooden lockers and mosquito netting.

On the plane from Bangkok, the only way to enter Myanmar, I sat with a young traveler with no place to stay. We changed our watches, as Myanmar time is half an hour different from Bangkok time. On my last night in Burma, he was on the mattress next to mine in the Okinawa Guest House! Very small world. Everyone remembers the bald headed American lady. It takes her a moment to figure out why she should know that person.

I met a Finnish couple before the flight and again afterwards and we agreed to share a taxi into town. The line in the airport to change money collapsed when they ran out of kyat, pronounced chat. 855 kyat to the dollar. We bargained the taxi down from twelve dollars to ten. Two weeks later I would take public buses back to that airport for 3O cents! I didn't have a five dollar bill for my share of the fare. The taxi left us on the one way street before the Okinawa Guest House, a block from Sule pagoda. It was fully booked."You know where to find me," I said, but I never saw them again. Worse case scenario they could stay in a monastery.

The friendly driver, 35, with limited English, told us the woman in the back seat was his sweetheart, 42. He drove on the right side of the road, yet the steering wheel was also on the right! I sat to his left. Traffic was heavy, mainly taxis. I saw a colorful Obama tshirt for sale and later bought one. There were others of Obama and Aung Sung Syi  together from his visit to Myanmar for 6 hours last year.

I noticed many women on the streets seemed to have bandages on their cheeks. I later learned that was thanaka powder, or sandalwood, mixed into a paste and applied to the face for sun protection, smoothness and beauty. Some men and children also sport it. Twice it was applied to my face.

I also noticed many shaven headed monks in maroon robes off one shoulder. There were nuns too, also shaven, but with pink robes and sleeves.

Small dark boys who cleaned the place led me up two flights to the dim dormitory and gave me a padlock and keys and a towel, rare for Asia. There was a small air conditioner humming feebly and one dim light bulb. When my friend appeared while I was unpacking, I asked him to draw me a map of the area in the back of my 1973 Burma guide book, of the internet cafes, sights, possible bank machines, big hotels with wifi in their lobbies. The Yangon river was just a few blocks away.  He wrote arabic numerals and the Burmese equivalents so I could recognize the bus numbers. 43, my principal bus, has two characters which together look like a tied bow. I gave him a ten dollar bill and received a thousand kyat bill as change. I had money!

Everyone said not to change money on the street. I met a French woman, Anya, of my generation, divorced and living in Polynesia - she had a double bed next to the dorm by the steps going down to the bathroom. She planned to go to the gem museum the next day, would I like to go?

She went off to buy a beer, I went in search of an ATM. The streets were dark and crowded, full of people selling food. I soon turned back to the safety of the guest house. Korean and Chinese students were in the other beds. Cries of street hawkers woke me in the morning.

Getting up meant gathering the hanging mosquito netting up to  the ceiling. Anya was bitten until she lowered her netting. When I went downstairs, the short, smooth faced receptionist asked me if I wanted breakfast. It was included! A cup of hot water, a packet of sweetened instant coffee, a cup of green tea, a concoction of noodles with shards of vegetables, peanuts, a tiny slice of lime and a spicey red sauce on the side. Also a dish of watermelon slices or two small bananas. Everyone ate outside overlooking the street.

A boy walked down the street striking a gong and neighborhood ladies began to assemble with pots of rice.  A line of monks appeared and received ladles of rice in the pots they carried. Anya hadnt known about breakfast either. She dined with the Korean and Chinese boys and I took their picture.

She had bought a bus ticket for Bagan for the next morning and couldn't find it. Her taxi driver of the day before appeared hopefully. She asked him to come back at 5.3O in the morning for the hour ride to the bus station. We headed towards Sule pagoda when an Indian greeted us up the street and invited us for a cup of tea. It was that delicious spiced milk tea I remember from India. We sat on tiny plastic stools in the street. After the little cup of delicious tea, there was a pot of Chinese tea. He assured me there was masala dosa, the curried potato stuffed rice pancake, available nearby. He would invite me for tea another time, and I couldn't pay. I finally got his card and email, he was a 7th Day Adventist!

The agency where Anya bought her ticket wasnt open yet. We walked in the hot sun, me with my pointed palm rice paddy hat, and caught an ancient bus with the numbers looking like a bow. The fare was around 12 cents, the floor made of wood, the windows open and the betel chewing conductor with red stained teeth hawked at the door calling out a litany of destinations at every stop. Anya had her French Lonely planet and the address of the gem museum. She would lend me the 5 dollar admission. It was near a temple and since we were there, we went in.

Anya had stayed at an ashram in India. We doffed our shoes at the entrance and passed a gauntlet of stalls selling flowers, incense, statues and religious items. We entered a small museum with a large mural of a devotional country scene, in the foreground statues emerged from the flat, making it a rather cheesy form of 3d. Little alcoves of Buddhas lined the walls. In the middle of the round pagoda was an inner sanctum, a special shrine where people brought offerings of flowers sold nearby.  We joined the people seated on the carpet, bowing, as a guard stacked the offerings near the image. There was a small fee for photographs and Anya had me take one of her.

The Gem Museum was nearby, just past Yangon University. We went through metal detectors, then took an elevator to the top floor, the other floors were full of gem shops. We peered at glass display cases of every kind of gem but emeralds and a large map of the world with gem distribution. Myanmar is very rich in gems. We saw rough and polished peridot, lapis lazuli, citrine, ruby, commercial and utility jade from green to white, not only as jewelry, but statues and tea sets. Metals too from iron to steel, silver to asbestos to aluminum. Some gems just had a chemical formula.

I went to the ladies room and saw a very large rat dart by, though the building seemed very clean. Downstairs were bracelets starting at a dollar, and I especially liked a chart with examples of all the gems found in the richest part of Myanmar. Anya did some shopping, I vowed to return. I thought I would email my jewelry making friend if she wanted some gems. Apparently you could double your money back home.

We went to a shopping center across the street. Anya needed a memory card for her camera. She couldnt find it in her bag! We had taken pictures at the temple, she was horrified to think of lost images of her grandchildren.  Back we went to the gem museum where we had checked our bags. To our vast relief, it was in the cabinet. Leaving, we showed some British women Anya's purchases and they turned around to shop some more. Back to the shopping center we went for the memory card, much cheaper than in polynesia, then a pleasant rice lunch for a few dollars.

It was a long trudge until we found a bus stop back to the Sule pagoda area. Anya knew the way back to the Okinawa. The ticket agency had opened and closed in our absence, but Anya noted a number, and then found her ticket. Sitting outside the guest house we saw a vendor passing by with strawberries hanging from a pole across his back and bought some for 45 cents. We told the Korean and Chinese about our adventure. They planned to skip the museum and just visit the shops.

Anya had been to Yangon's major attraction, the Schwedagon pagoda, and wanted to return there to watch the sunset, but the receptionist said it would be dark by the time we got the bus there. My Visa card once more wasn't working, but through Skype, I could call my bank in the States for ten cents a minute and get them to release my money. To my relief, I found a working bank machine so I was able to repay Anya. She went to bed early and I found an Internet place in one of the many shops circling the base of nearby Sule pagoda to catch on up Internet at less than a dollar an hour. There was a storefront temple next to the Guest House and women started chanting that evening into a loudspeaker for over an hour. I had read about this, as well as the wet bathrooms and having to pass through people's rooms to get to them, on hostel reviews online. There was nothing to do but go find a meal of greasy masala dosa where I enjoyed Myanmar television in the restaurant. The modern romance seemed to have little to do with the street life I saw around me. The waiter kindly refilled my water bottle, I hate buying plastic water bottles!

I happened to be up at five and woke Anya for her taxi and bus. I took her email and hoped for a report of her visit to Bagan but have yet to hear from her. I started noticing a lot of German tourists and my next travel companion was a Frankfurter, Christian, with a shaved head like mine, and a beer and a cigarette usually nearby. He had been to Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam, and was on vacation from a pharmaceutical supplier but recovering from a cold.

I took a bus after breakfast to the national museum but it was closed two days a week. I headed back by foot and met a British woman on a tour cooling off and catching her breath, sitting in the shade. She had been to Scott's market so there I headed. Several floors of fabrics, paintings, lacquerware, wood sculpture, jewelry, everything you could imagine. It was too much. I saw tshirts of Aung Sung Shi I wanted but I needed a sugar cane juice drink! I found Chinatown and walked its length, stalls of food and vegetables spilling into the streets. I found a yogurt stand with a very fat man collecting all the bills from the boys who waited on the customers. I treated myself to a strawberry yogurt shake, costing over a dollar!

I still had more shots to get for the Bangkok street dog bites. The receptionist pointed out an SOS clinic for foreigners near the Inye Lake resort. I headed off on the bus and an obliging young man escorted me halfway there. I saw a native doctor who had studied in Chiang Mai and could read my paperwork. He took my pulse, listened to my heart, then a nurse administered the injection. I filled my water bottle and then got the bill, 57 dollars! 2O for the doctor, 16 for the nurse, the rest for the drug. The staff told me there was a bank machine nearby that gave dollars, but they were mistaken. I parted with three twenties, they had taken my passport! I didn't want to repeat the trip. I hope my travelers insurance will reimburse me. It was much cheaper in Thailand. But I shouldn't complain. Some seniors pay hundreds monthly in supplemental insurance.

My favorite beverage in India was sugar cane juice, the long stalks freshly ground with a slice of lime. Bells are attached to the wheel so you can hear the ringing promise of refreshment. It became a daily habit. I saw from the map we were just blocks from the river so I headed there to find a ferry to the other side and numerous food stalls and stopped for sugar cane juice. Twice I made my order before noticing a diesel generator to crush the stalk. I much prefer to watch them crush the cane, fold it and crush it, fold it and crush it, and gather the juice through a cloth.  A little ice, a little lime, heaven! A few blocks later I found a sidewalk restaurant serving Indian food. I sat on a childsized plastic chair and watched a child scrub and rinse torn and battered plastic stools. Myanmar is dry and dusty. Rain is not expected for months but the weather, already in the '90's, promises to get hotter.

I had finished the Vonnegut book and found Water for Elephants in the lobby and read it in a day. I asked the receptionist for another light bulb, it was too dark to read in the room. He was not receptive. There was plenty of light outside at night. The man across the street washed his new white car lovingly nearly every night. Taxis went by continuously and parked laboriously. Tourists were continually arriving and departing. Then the Buddhist women started their chanting on the loudspeaker. I repaired to an Internet shop. A friendly monk who stopped by during breakfast was there going online to my surprise.

It was time to visit the famed Schwedagon pagoda. I took the bus and had a time finding an entrance to the park. I was charged 5 dollars and found myself in a dusty amusement park. One ride featured motorcycles, which I hardly saw in Yangon, unlike the rest of South East Asia. I thought perhaps they were outlawed by the military so terrorists could not strike and escape easily. Then I heard that the son of a prominent military man was killed on one so they were forbidden in the city. There were plenty later on in Bagan.

I could see the gold pagoda from a distance, but how to get there? I followed a dusty path but a young man redirected me to a park where couples posed before a sculpture spelling out Love and finally the entrance. Huge white demon dogs guarded it.  A woman chased me for another 5 dollar fee and then, barefoot as required, I proceeded down a long hall and up several escalators to the real beginning of the temple. Huge Buddhas were stuffed together. Throngs of people milled about, sat and bowed in various rooms before Buddhas. Huge hanging bells with thick clubs nearby invited you to ring them, and I did. 

Visiting the pagoda meant circling it and enjoying the varied statues, large and small, of Buddha. Some had LEd lights radiating colorfully behind his head, a Vegas effect I found cheesy. One man was setting up a slide show and historical lecture. There were many tourists taking pictures. Two genial monks in one room encouraged me to take any photos I wanted, and chatted amiably where before I had been afraid of making eye contact. I had finally explored all of the immense compound as it grew dark, but the temple was brilliantly lit. Some children presented me with a packet of Ovaltine.

Finally back on the street, I asked a passing couple where the bus station was. The man, in immaculate white shirt and lungi, material hanging from his waist to the ground like most men, said "My English little skill”, but turned around and walked me some distance to the bus stop. Then they boarded the bus with me, paid my fare, and walked me another eight blocks back to the Okinawa guest house. The kindness of strangers! I asked him if he had email, he said he was too poor to have a computer.

I returned to the national museum the next day, where two oversized statues of Burmese kings flanked the immense building. The first exhibit was on the development of the present curly alphabet. A huge room held royal palanquins, beds, furniture, accessories, costumes, and next door was a red lined throne room holding the last surviving lion throne of the original eight. It was impressive though I couldnt tell the front from the back. Several other floors had extensive displays of mannequins in different costumes from the different tribes or races of Burmese, musical instruments, paintings, crafts, but without any music or video it was all a bit lifeless. I hope they improve it!

I bought a bus ticket to Bagan after calling and reserving a bed at the Eden Motel, which an Australian girl in the dorm had recommended. Christian was also going so we boarded an afternoon bus 43 for the long ride to the bus station and our all night ride to the north, warm clothes and hats handy in case of excessive air conditioning. I started reading Mackinlay kantors book, Spirit Lake.

2013_02_19 facebook post + e-mail

Facebook post:

Booked a flight March 1 for Milan, on the same day I fly from Burma to Bangkok. Risky?

It was the cheapest European destination on Skyscanner.

 I have some 6 hours between flights.

 Now looking for an Italian couchsurfing host!


e-mail:
March 1 I fly to Milan from Bangkok,

My return ticket March 23 is from Lisbon.

2013_02_22 Chiang Mai, Thailand, continued

On 22 Feb  Alexa sent the 2^nd installment of :  Chiang Mai, Thailand

I was lucky to be delayed as two friendly young American Lesbians were
leaving Lucy's couch as I arrived. One had my same haircut but
plans on keeping it. I can't wait for my bald head to disappear.

 My wonderful ex-pat couchsurfing hostess, Lucy, never wants to live in
the states again and distrusts Obama.  She showed me a map of
Chiang Mai, indicating the sights, the markets, the travel agency
where I could find a plane ticket to Myanmar. In the spare room for
couchsurfers were travel brochures and a glossy local expat monthly
with an article about couchsurfing quoting Lucy. There was also an
invitation to help oneself to free books left behind. I took Kurt
Vonnegut's Hocus Pocus, an absorbing, offbeat read. I later bequeathed
it to the guest house in Yangon and picked up Water for Elephants.

It's never easy to leave the security of a couch for the unknown, but
I headed into the hot day, bought four little bananas from a stall on
the alley leading to the main drag, with Chiang Mai University, and 
eventually leading to the historic center. I hailed a small taxi truck 
where passengers sit in the back, getting on and off whenever
they need to. Schoolgirls in the back helped me decide where to disembark:
by the statues of three emperors. Lucy's travel agent, All Seasons,
was kitty-corner from the police department but they were only half
open and directed me to another branch a ten minute walk just past the
city gates. 

 It's always challenging to walk down excavated sidewalks and cross streets clogged with motorcycles and vehicles. Traffic is a universal dilemma.

I'd heard that Bagan Air flew from Chiang Mai to Yangon (Burma) twice a week,
but it was much dearer than Asia Air. So I'd have to return to Bangkok
to fly to Myanmar.

The girl could've booked the ticket for me for 200 baht but I saw she had Internet computers in the office for hire so I did it myself at a tenth the price.

Was that why the 350 baht bus tickets back to Bangkok for the day I needed were sold out? She told me I could go to the bus station out of town where numerous companies made the run. But none of the vehicles that stopped for me wanted to go there for the sum she quoted. I was getting nowhere fast. I paused at a few travel agencies advertising buses to Bangkok but they were a lot more than 350 baht, and left you at the notorious party street. I was afraid of buses being sold out and being unable to get to the flight I'd just paid for to Myanmar!

I found an Internet cafe where the clerk assured me I could find a ride to 
the bus station but wouldn't do it for me.

I stopped in a 7-11 for whole wheat bread, a half dozen eggs, watabi flavored dried peas and a 6pack of coconut yogurt to get change for the tuk-tuk driver. One finally agreed to take me for less than half what I'd paid in the morning from the train station.  Somehow the air-conditioned taxis of Bangkok charge a fraction of what they do in Chiang Mai. But the ride was a revelation, going past all the lit-up tourist 
traps of downtown.

I'd thought of asking the driver to wait for me to go back into town but he was soon gone. I stopped at several counters but nowhere did they have that 350 baht deal. I went across to an older bus station and found a 'government' bus for a couple of hundred baht more. It had air-conditioning and the seats reclined somewhat. It would be an all-night ordeal.

My next driver seemed pleased to take me back home for 60 baht but he
hadn't understood my destination. He stopped somewhere in the dark
night that made no sense, then picked up another passenger and she too
looked at my writing from the morning, Wat U Mong. He stopped again
seemingly in the middle of nowhere. I didn't have Lucy's phone number
with me. I was in despair and the motor was running. He turned around
and found about 6 Chinese partygoers with drinks and suddenly
something looked familiar. I banged on his back window and climbed
out, thrust money through his window. I saw the 7-11 up a slope
I'd noticed in the morning. I followed my nose and found the banana
seller's stall. Lucy's street! It was a miracle. I later realized he'd
taken me to the right place, the cul-de-sac where Lucy had met the
morning taxi and led us to her house. She  had retired for the night.

I took a shower, squeegeed the walls and looked at Kurt Vonnegut's
prose, secure in my couch!

Lucy gives her surfers breakfast. She toasted the bread, hardboiled
six of the eggs and made me coffee, which she no longer drinks, with a
French press. Her gym had gone bankrupt and she was shopping for
another one nearby where she could bring her personal trainer. She
hires local youth to clean her house. They have trouble adapting to
Western ways: being on time; using a vacuum cleaner rather than a
dusk-raising broom. I admired her garden in the back which was a 

rubbish strewn sandpit when she built her house. Now it was a garden
with a pond. She's trying to grow tomatoes.

Lucy urged me to find a clinic to get my next rabies shot. I walked up
her street, turned the corner, passed the banana seller and emerged
again on the main drag.  There were numerous food stalls catering to 
university students. I had a snack, bought some papaya and started 
asking where a clinic was. On and on I went, past a canal, past a pagoda
worth a look, a craft store outlet for hill tribe handicrafts, and a fruit stand 
for pineapple. My fan hat kept blowing off my head, and I discovered that
one of my Bangkok turquoise earrings was missing. I started retracing my 
steps in the dusty heat but it was hopeless. 

Finally I reached a hospital just outside the historic part. I went in a room
for treatment but the doctor looking at my paperwork noticed I was a
day early, according to the original Bangkok schedule. So I continued into 
the sightseeing center, joining others in doffing their shoes and touring 
and photographing temple complexes, trying not to stare at orange-clad 
bald monks.  Buddhas, drums, amd bells, altars and dragons, lifelike figures 
of dead monks and stone elephants.

The next day I boarded a tuktuk for the hospital but the driver didn't grasp 
where I needed to go, turning off into another part of the city. Eventually 
he delivered me, smiling, to the hospital, and I found an older British fellow 
being treated for wounds. Was he a drunk who'd fallen? I never found out. 
I joined a long line to pay my fee, entertained by electric keyboard and various
karaoke volunteers. Then I had to wait for the pharmacy to locate the rabies 
shot, which I took back to the treatment room. After a bandage change and 
a shot, I was off into the hot day again. 

I was again near the school and heard a band practicing. My happiest moments
in high school were in band. I stood outside the gate and cheered as they rehearsed a spirited YMCA. Other tourists joined the fun. So funny to hear familiar music on the other side of the world.

After two nights a Chinese couchsurfer and his mother were due so I
had to vacate the beautiful home with the big back yard. I put on the
TV briefly to hear that Obama had mentioned climate change in his
State of the Union message. I packed and departed, leaving the key
under the mat; Lucy was gym-shopping; then at the banana stall I
realized I'd left the boiled eggs behind in her fridge and so I had to drag
my suitcase back for them. 

Map in hand, I hailed a tuktuk. He turned at the moat surrounding the 
old town and after a couple of corners, I decided to bail out, in case
he headed away from the old town, and then I accosted tourists, asking
after cheap guest houses. Temples demanded to be photographed. The
place was crawling with guest houses but it took some time to ferret
them out. I passed a shoemaker stand on the sidewalk and turned back
to see if he could sew up my rolling suitcase. Where I'd strapped the broken
handle the stitching was pulling free. The airline in Indonesia insisted I get 
the suitcase plastic-wrapped or plastic-strapped. Just a few more weeks of 
service! He laid it down, opened it up, got out a needle with a hook and in 
ten minutes, for 20 cents, made an excellent strong repair. I was afraid 
without elastic thread it would break again, but so far, so great!

I kept accosting backpackers. Some guest houses were too high, another 
required a wait, finally I came upon Jay's Guest House (my father's
first name) and a surly woman advised me look at the dorm first. It
was up a flight, dark and dismal but had a fan and was dirt cheap without 
being especially dirty. Of course the shower was over the toilet. In Bangkok, 
hostels were 250 baht; here, 90! I settled in (no storage locker, just a door key) 
and plugged in my camera and Kindle for recharging, did a little eating and reading, 
then set off again.

I wanted to see elephants before leaving Thailand. At the travel agency there
was a brochure about an all-day mahout training course, feeding and washing 
them but it cost a hundred dollars. When I mentioned to the manager I was looking 
for an elephant tour, she handed me a booklet of various options. I chose a 1200 
baht all day safari tour with van pick-up, an hour's ride to an elephant park for a show, an oxcart ride, an elephant ride, a buffet lunch, a bamboo river raft cruise, an orchid farm and a discounted price of 900 baht if I didn't tell. 

I found a restaurant down the street and chatted with a young tourist about Burma. 
I was getting more and more nervous, hearing about high prices for hotel rooms, a
total lack of ATMs, US currency having to be in perfect condition, a police state...

before leaving Lucy's I'd been ironing my remaining greenbacks. I didn't have much

and someone said two weeks in Myanmar required $700!

Only one other person was in the dorm that night. I woke early and 
paid 15 baht for instant coffee with my hardboiled eggs and bread. I
stuck my luggage in storage ready to get the bus that night. The tour van
was due from 8 to 8:30 and I got quite worried as the minutes ticked
by but finally a tall friendly stocky Thai appeared and I mounted the van. 
We stopped at several fine hotels for more customers, all Chinese. The
guide discussed a tiger photographing opportunity at the end of the
day, about $15 to enter and pet tigers, a high price for a few minutes but
they eat a lot of chicken. They are sleepy in the daytime. The cubs were 
higher priced than the big ones. I wanted in!

At the elephant sanctuary an hour away were many women selling sugar 
cane and bananas to feed the elephants. We gathered in bleachers
before a field on a river for the show. The announcer kept asking
people in the front to take their seats so others could see. The
elephants with their trainers were introduced, name, age and sex.

They paraded in a circle holding tails in trunks. They played soccer, kicking the ball. They danced to music. They painted portraits: one of bird; one of a tree; one of an elephant. It took months of training and the sale of the pictures benefits the elephant hospital. I thought they only did abstract painting!

We next headed for the oxcart ride behind two Brahmin bulls 
continually whipped and yelled at by the driver who took pictures of
us with our cameras, appearing to drive the cart. I think he expected a
tip. I gave the oxen a few of the bananas I'd bought. Then we were
left at a platform awaiting our elephant ride. No one paired up with
me so I was alone behind the driver, who was sitting on the elephant's
head. The elephant slowly lumbered down into the river. I gave it more
bananas, and the driver a tip at the end.

Lunch was a huge buffet of soup, fruit, rice, salad, curried meat, 
breaded fried bananas, coffee or tea on a large scale. There was a
gallery of paintings, of elephant-painted fabrics made into clothes,
bags, etc. I spied a conical palm leaf hat I had to have for 100 baht.
I'd been lusting for one since Indonesia. Now I was ready to work in
the rice paddy. The Chinese were very friendly and amused. Then we
were herded onto bamboo rafts for a peaceful seated cruise down the
river. I had no more small change for the two boatmen but the Chinese
took care of them.

Next, the tigers. I later realized I could have watched from outside 
and saved some money, but I used my card and was allowed in the cage
with the beasts, drowsing in the midday heat. My backpack with
luncheon chicken scraps for stray cats did not go with me. I had to sit 
behind them where they lay and stroke their tummies as the keeper took 
photos with my camera. It was very brief and the fur was not soft at all. I 
walked around and saw the popular cubs cavorting and a solitary lion sitting 
on a table in his cage. What a profile!

Our last stop was the orchid farm, with row upon row of hanging  flowers; also an antique car collection and restaurant. We rode back the hour to town, arriving as promised by 4:30 and I set off to find an ATM. It didn't work! Was it the plane ticket I'd bought the day before?

My USAirways Mastercard had not cooperated in the purchase, a later email announced suspected fraud activity. My OU credit union debit card had worked for the flight but no more! Call your bank, the ATM told me. Back at the hostel an obliging Italian let me use his laptop to Skype a call to the bank, but of course it was 6:30 in the morning in the US so that didn't work.

People were waiting for pick-ups by the cheap bus to Bangkok. The manager could have sold me the cheap bus ticket to Bangkok but I'd already bought mine out of fear.

I had to find a tuktuk willing to take me out to the bus station for my 
overnight ride. French tourists helped me flag one down.

It was a double decker bus with a toilet, a free bottle of water, a 
paper coffee cup, instant coffee, a sweet roll and a blanket. I sat
with a Thai man but couldn't get the reading light to work. The hours
passed and suddenly we were somewhere at some terrible huge bus
station in Bangkok.

I found a motorcycle taxi to the nearest subway and headed back for my old hostel where I'd been bitten. They let me store my luggage and get online, but the dog-owner didn't want to pay for any more rabies treatment. I emailed the fellow who wanted to start his own guest house in Myanmar; he said he would reserve a dorm
bed at Okinawa guest house, where he was, $9 a night. One of my fears, of only finding $45 plus accommodations, was set to rest.

Last minute luck: the hostel staff asked me which airport I was leaving from. 
I'd been advised earlier which subway stop to use: wrong airport! 
I left again for the Queen Sikirit station, rode to the end of the line, and then 
found the local bus that went all the way to the right airport. It looked like I 
was going to make it!