Bagan

On a whim, we took the morning flight into Bagan and biked around the mystical land of 4000 temples.

We rented bikes and zig-zagged our way along the sandy roads

and stopped at the temples that drew us in.

Everybody under the blazing sun smeared thanaka, a yellow

paste made out of tree bark, on their faces. 

Impossible to get a high five in this town just

because I was a girl.

Shwezegon. 

These kids were the best sales people ever. 

You want to buy postcard?

I already bought 6 from you and 3 from him.

Ok, maybe later. Think about it, ok? Ok?

After a long day, we chartered our own private boat to go up the coast

so we could catch our 11 hour bus ride back to Yangon.

We were toasting with ice cold lychee drinks, celebrating a fantastic view

and a successful bike trip, when all of a sudden, our boat stopped. 

The boatmen thought we only wanted to go up the coast to check out

the temple from a distance. Instead, we desperately needed to get back to 

the bus stop near the temple so we could make it back to Yangon.

But there was no way to pull the boat to shore because of the wide sand bank.

So we made a quick decision and said a silent prayer.
We had one hour till the only bus left this town
and we needed to be on it.
We jumped off the boat and starting wading.

Waving around some bills, I mimicked to the boatmen that I needed
their help to carry our bikes to the sand bank.

And then came a five mile hike on baked sand, bare feet, and
a lot of blind faith. We all took turns carrying/ pushing/cursing
those bikes. Especially, when we hit another river that
 separated us from dry land.

Miraculously, there were also other fishermen on paddle boats who

understood our frantic waving. So we threw our bikes on their 

boats and drummed our fingers on the wet planks, praying that we

could move faster.

Once across the river, we left the bemused fishermen and ran through the pig farms. We hit the main road and peddled as fast as we could. 

We made it as the bus was backing out.

Half soaked and freezing cold, we rode for the next 11 hours, listening to Gangnam Style on replay, and wondered why Myanmar's totalitarian government could not have at least added this song onto their block list.

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There is an inverse correlation between the number of adventures I have vs. the number of posts I write. It's not because I get too busy. It's because I get bored writing travelogues. Instead, I love writing funny stories that happen throughout the day because nobody, not even me, will remember them a week later.

Just a realization that I write nonsense so much better than things that matter . . . and grappling with what that means about myself as a casual writer. Gee. At this rate, I might as well start taking photos of my daily outfits and then write random thoughts underneath them.