Dia 72 - Frágil

A sensação de acordar numa cama estranha depois de uma noite de copos é (dizem-me, nunca me aconteceu) já de si deveras confusa. Ser acordado por um senhor japonês que nos entra pelo quarto adentro a dizer que temos dez minutos para nos pormos na rua fez-me precisar de profunda reflexão para me lembrar de quem era, onde estava e que aquilo não era um episódio do Samurai X. Uma curta negociação levou os dez minutos a meia hora, e uma hora e cinco minutos depois estávamos de mochila às costas a caminho da estação de Shinjuku.

A primeira refeição do dia (mais um almoço do que outra coisa) fez-nos imediatamente sentir bastante mais humanos, mas ainda assim senti que precisava da mágica combinação de gordura e açúcar oferecida por um gelado de chá verde. Ao fazer o pedido numa gelataria ali perto a rapariga que me atendeu perguntou-me se era a minha primeira vez naquele estabelecimento, e ao responder afirmativamente todas as empregadas se juntaram para me cantar uma alegre melodia, o que me fez sentir ao mesmo tempo pasmado e observado e decididamente não ajudou a aliviar a minha profunda dor de cabeça. Outra canção surgiu após deixar uma pequena gorjeta (que, descobri depois, não é comum por estes lados), mas o gelado foi precisamente o que estava a precisar para melhorar o meu estado de espírito.

O nosso comboio-bala partiu da Tokyo Station, que o Pete teve dez minutos para apreciar antes de irmos para a nossa plataforma. As primeiras duas horas de viagem passaram a correr, provavelmente por estar a dormir profundamente, mas a terceira hora brindou-nos com um bonito pôr-do-sol e a chegada a Kyoto deu-se sem percalços. Esfomeados e com o Pete a admitir que desde o dia que chegou que não parava de pensar em Sushi, encontrámos um restaurante de tapete rolante onde rapidamente recuperámos os níveis de energia e nutrição enquanto nos ríamos sobre estórias esquecidas da noite anterior.

No regresso a casa decidimos dar um passeio pela famosa rua de Pontocho, que foi interrompido ao descobrirmos um bar de Jazz e Whisky, onde apreciámos uma hora de música ao vivo enquanto saboreávamos dois excelentes Whiskys japoneses - nada melhor para curar uma ressaca, certo? Na verdade, a combinação do Jazz, do Yoichi e da conversa como o Pete foi a maneira perfeita para terminar um daqueles dias raros em que o meu estado de espírito melhorou progressivamente do princípio ao fim.

Beijos e abraços,
Ginete

Day 71 - Loyalty

If the odyssey that eventually got Renu and I to Yangon was a test of our improvisation skills under sleep deprivation, the events of Friday the 13th added the ingredient of alcohol (and possibly evil spirits, if you are into that sort of thing) to this dangerous equation, arguably leaving Pete and I more helpless and in the hands of fate than on that long night in Burma.

The sun-lit part of the day went through without incident, as we checked out the Asakusa area of the city, mostly known for the Sensō-Ji collection of temples and shrines, after a breakfast and quick walk through the Shibuya crossing. The persistent drizzle did not deter the crowds of foreign and national tourists, leading us to seek refuge in the Amuse museum, a collection of Japanese folk clothing, utensils and stories that was surprisingly interesting and easy to navigate on the way up to the rooftop terrace, which was the main reason we went in to start with. After admiring the cloud-covered views of the Tokyo Tree and the Sensō-Ji we grabbed a couple of beers and some dinner at Shinjiku (where we had previously left our bags) before checking into our Airbnb, which was more than adequate for a one-night stay even though the bathroom looked more suited to an airplane than an apartment.

Once I finally managed to get some laundry done we rushed off to meet Pete’s friend Simran at what is probably one of the places I have encountered so far that best describes Japanese culture - the Hachikō statue, outside the Shibuya train station. Hachikō was a dog who wandered to the station to meet his owner, a Professor at the University of Tokyo, every evening as he arrived at the station after work. After his owner passed away, Hachikō kept showing up to the spot where the statue now lies for the nine years he outlived his master, becoming a symbol of loyalty and fidelity for the whole of Japan. At a time where these virtues seem to be irrelevant for most of the developed World, Hachikō’s story shows how different this society is from everything else I know.

Our night started at an office party in a wealthy part of Tokyo, where a guitarist attempted to perform (mostly being drowned out by the crowd) and a DJ followed with a set that tried to get people to dance (which eventually happened, with Simran leading the way). Our hazy memories from the party include our surprise that the toilet seats in both the ladies and the gents featured a sticker preventing them from being lifted, Pete dramatically falling on his knees as I beat him at extreme beer pong (played with Sake rather than beer), and both of us losing our Croc virginity, as the most hideous pieces of footwear ever invented were supplied for those who wanted to climb up to the wet but very pleasant rooftop terrace.

As the party started to slow we moved onto a club called Bonobo, where we engaged in conversation with a spectacled gentleman who worked at the British Embassy and tried to patronisingly argue the point that Russia is as powerful now as it was in the 1960s, which makes me a bit worried about the British diplomatic representation on this corner of the World. As Bonobo was too chilled for our inebriated state we got on a taxi to Oath, a much livelier alternative that was both full of expats and loud enough to keep us awake for a bit longer. At this point, Pete realised that not only was he missing his phone, but crucially also our house keys. After spending the best part of an hour looking for it all over the club and accepting there was no way Pete was going to remember the last time he had used his phone, we decided that our best chance to avoid having to sleep under a bridge was to get a taxi back to Bonobo. To be perfectly honest, my assessment of the situation at the time gave us no more than a 5% chance of success despite Japan’s legendary levels of honesty and decency, which we were told make it commonplace for people to leave their iPads on restaurant tables as a means of reserving them while they place their orders at the counter.

As we arrived at Bonobo, the guy who had been manning the door two hours earlier was taking the bins out and appeared to know something about a phone and some keys, but confusingly just told us to go in rather than offering to help. We obliged and went upstairs to the chill-out area where we had spent most of the time, and upon opening the door to one of the rooms I found Pete holding his phone with an expression on his face that was not of happiness or relief, but pure astonishment that the very thing we were hoping to achieve by returning to this place had actually happened. I, on the other hand, was dominated by all three feelings at once and in great quantities, probably the only reason I managed to stay awake on the train ride home. It is 6am, very much light outside and we have to check out in five hours. Somehow I have a feeling that is not going to happen, but we will see…

Cheers,
J-Wowww

Dia 70 - Contraste

O último dia antes de o Pete chegar foi muito semelhante ao anterior, começando num café simpático no meio de uma área residencial onde tomei o pequeno almoço e tratei de reservas para a última semana da minha viagem, onde voltarei ao Vietname. Apesar de os empregados falarem um inglês bastante aceitável (o que é raro por estes lados) eu era o único estrangeiro no Mojo Coffeehouse, claramente um sítio bastante popular para encontros profissionais.

Na hora e pouco em que estive sentado ao computador assisti por duas vezes à cerimónia de entrega de cartões de visita, que acontece em cada reunião de trabalho entre dois desconhecidos. Reforçando a ideia que o Japão é o país mais diferente que já visitei - no sentido em que, não sendo muito mais ou menos desenvolvido do que o sítio onde vivo, é fascinantemente estranho - não admira que haja vários casos de choque entre as culturas profissionais ocidental e Japonesa.

O resto do dia foi passado a vaguear pelos serenos jardins do Palácio Imperial (o palácio em si é fechado ao público), que mostram uma dicotomia perfeita entre a antiga Edo e a moderna Tóquio. Apesar de só restarem as fundações do castelo de Edo, é ainda assim fascinante subir às mesmas e observar os imponentes arranha-céus que cercam estes jardins com mais de quinhentos anos de história. O fascínio continua no caminho até à Tokyo Station, construída no início do século vinte e agora imersa num mar de edifícios de vidro do final do mesmo, uma metáfora perfeita que descreve numa imagem quanto o Mundo mudou em menos de cem anos.

O resto da tarde foi passada à procura de uma objectiva para a minha máquina fotográfica, que acabei por encontrar a bom preço perto do hostel depois de várias visitas a lojas de máquinas usadas onde o meu Pai facilmente passaria horas e de onde sairia de bolsos vazios. Assim que o Pete chegou, e por estarmos os dois a morrer de fome, aventurámos-nos debaixo da chuva até ao edifício onde se situa o restaurante onde tínhamos planeado jantar. Depois de dez minutos à procura do raio do elevador que nos levaria ao oitavo andar (visto que os armazéns que ocupam grande parte do edifício já estavam fechados) lá o encontrámos, escondido no meio da estação de metro.

O conceito do restaurante é simples - os pedidos são feitos num iPad (felizmente com menus numa espécie de Inglês) e os pratos chegam num comboio que percorre o bar. Apesar desta geringonça os preços são bastante razoáveis, ao contrário do Beersaurus - o bar onde fomos a seguir, supostamente inspirado simpáticas criaturas extintas mas, na realidade, simplesmente usando meia dúzia de bonecos como desculpa para cobrar preços exorbitantes por um copo de cerveja.

O dia terminou no nosso hostel com uma sessão de marcação de alojamento para o resto da viagem, com o ponto alto a ser o Airbnb que marcámos numa ilha perto de Naoshima, cuja descrição avisa que se estiver nevoeiro é possível que não haja barco, e que a casa não é limpa porque é antiga. Não sei se é a ressaca da viagem de táxi até Yangon a incutir em mim um claro excesso de confiança, mas acredito que vá correr tudo bem…

Beijos e abraços,
Ginete

Day 69 - Crossing

It felt extremely weird to wake up without an alarm after so many days either sleeping too little or not at all. The ten hours of sleep I got last night were a gift from the gods, one I am happy to have taken as halfway through the day I realised I still have two more days on my own in Tokyo at the end of the Japanese leg of this trip.

Even so, I decided I should do some sightseeing today, after spending a couple of hours catching up on writing over two very tasty cups of coffee. The first stop ticked off the list was the Meiji shrine, built in the middle of a garden often visited by Emperor Meiji and Empress Shoken, as a tribute to the man who ended the last military rule in Japan and established the current political system.

The gardens are an oasis of calm in a city that never seems to stop, and even with quite a few visitors around this was by far the most serene spot I have visited in Tokyo so far. Sadly the shrine itself was covered up, as renovations ahead of its centenary are currently under way, but even so the surrounding buildings were enough to get a feel for what the next few days will bring in terms of shrines and temples. Despite a fair amount of foreign tourists, the shrine was mostly visited by locals who treated it as a place of worship, with families going as far as dressing up their children for the occasion.

Deciding to save a few hundred Yen and give my legs some exercise, I continued walking South towards the Shibuya crossing, stopping for some very tasty Gyoza and a Kirin on the way. Although partly due to the fact that today was cloudy, the streets of Tokyo clearly come alive after dawn, when the people come out and the bright lights come on, and this version of the city is undeniably photogenic.

The famous intersection is essentially a set of zebra crossings which, were it not for the few dozen tourists posing for pictures, could be anywhere in a busy area of Tokyo - so much so that one of them asked me if this was the famous crossing, since he was surprised it looked so much smaller than in the movies…

Another interesting interaction I had while taking pictures was with a self-described “artist” (then amended to “artist/bar staff”) who asked me what I was photographing (which I thought was fairly obvious) as he was “observing what people were interested in”. We then had a brief conversation, the highlight of which was his assertion that he had spent the whole day eating tomatoes and bread, as he felt that the “Tokyo diet” was depriving his body from vitamins. Had he not been holding a can of an unspecified beverage with 9% alcohol content, I would have probably asked him exactly how tomatoes and bread are a step up on any diet, but in this instance I just smiled, nodded and walked away.

On my way to the metro home I was forced to stop by a band playing on the pavement, as the combination of the skinny Japanese rockers and the colourful background was too good not to photograph. Their music ended up being quite catchy as well, which led me to stick around for long enough to be joined by a kid who, judging by his dance moves, will clearly be a rockstar when he grows up!

As much as I have enjoyed exploring Tokyo on my own, I must say I am looking forward to Pete’s arrival tomorrow (a day earlier than I expected). While I probably would enjoy travelling on my own for an extended period of time, I do like people and after having been accompanied for the rest of my trip it does feel weird to have such limited human interaction for an entire day. Obviously this would probably lead me to meet more new and interesting people if I were to travel on my own for a while, but for now it has just made me more receptive to conversations with drunk artists while watching many people crossing the road at the same time…

Cheers,
J-Wowww

Dia 68 - Hiperactivo

O despertador, que me acordou violentamente às três da manhã, quase não chegou para me fazer chegar a horas ao check-in. Para começar, demorei dez minutos a perceber como se saía do condomínio da Sally, cujo elevador tinha indicações detalhadas sobre que se passava em cada andar (piscina, jardim com vista panorâmica, etc.) mas não se dava ao trabalho de dizer onde era o raio da saída - eu sei que o primeiro andar é normalmente uma boa aposta, e neste caso era a correcta, mas quando as portas se abriam o primeiro, o segundo e o quadragésimo andares eram, à primeira vista, idênticos… Quando finalmente cheguei ao meu Uber  parámos para ir buscar uma senhora fora do caminho, mas eventualmente o senhor entrou em modo de qualificação e chegámos ao aeroporto em tempo recorde.

O voo da ANA fez-se sem grandes percalços e cheguei à capital japonesa dez minutos antes do previsto. Depois de uma conversa engraçada com o senhor da alfândega (que emitia sons evidenciando diversos graus de surpresa ao lhe responder de onde era, onde vivia, onde tinha estado antes e quem estava a viajar comigo) e de arranjar um cartão SIM (que me custou meio fígado, o primeiro sinal do que está para vir no país mais desenvolvido que visitarei nesta viagem) apanhei o Skyliner (o resto do fígado) para o centro.

Chegado ao meu hostel - que tem bastante piada, com as camas inseridas em estantes de livros (que serão sem dúvida pontapeados para o chão durante a noite) - deixei as minhas tralhas e fui dar uma volta rápida por Ikebukuro. Como era de esperar, Tóquio é um pequeno choque para alguém que passou as últimas semanas no Myanmar e no Cambodja, não só pela maneira como tudo funciona como um relógio suíço mas também pela multitude de luzes e sons que nos perseguem pelas ruas. Se Singapura é uma cidade limpa e austera, Tóquio é uma cidade limpa e com um caso sério de hiperatividade.

O metro, que apesar de sempre cheio não é mais claustrofóbico do que o de Londres em hora de ponta, é claramente a maneira mais prática de navegar pela enorme metrópole. Sempre que usei o Google Maps para perceber como chegar a um sítio o caminho de transportes públicos era mais rápido do que de táxi, o que é para mim sinal de uma cidade bem planeada. Mesmo assim consegui chegar a Shinjuku um minuto depois da hora combinada com a Ryoko, o que pelos vistos no Japão é uma contra-ordenação grave.  Bem tentei explicar que sou Português e que até cinco minutos de atraso não conta, e que demorei cerca de meia hora a desfazer a barba (que crescia desamparada há quase um mês), mas na verdade todos sabemos que tenho um problema crónico de atrasite aguda…

Depois de um excelente jantar num bar de Sushi seguimos pela vibrante zona de Shinjuku, onde parámos num salão de jogos cheio daquelas máquinas cheias de peluches que quando era miúdo nunca me deixaram agarrar o que quer que seja. A Ryoko queria, no entanto, introduzir-me ao bizarro conceito do MiMiy. Depois de entrarmos numa espécie de máquina de fotografia tipo passe e de iniciarmos um processo estranho que envolve tirar uma série de fotografias a fazer poses (claramente do conhecimento geral no Japão mas perfeitamente desconhecidas para mim) somos dirigidos para um ecrã onde podemos adicionar todo o tipo de efeitos às imagens resultantes - que por defeito já me alisavam a pele e triplicavam o tamanho dos meus olhos. O resultado está à vista, e creio que (neste caso mais do que nunca) uma imagem vale mil palavras.

Dois excelentes whiskys japoneses foram mais do que o suficiente para me fazerem sentir os efeitos de 72 horas em que o total de horas de sono não excedeu o número doze. Depois das despedidas e de apanhar o metro de volta (ainda com bastante gente, apesar de já passar da meia noite) nunca fiquei tão satisfeito por me encontrar dentro de uma estante de livros como neste preciso momento.

Beijos e abraços,
Ginete

Day 67 - Circular

As I had not met my quota for train travel in the past 48 hours, I decided that the best way to spend my last morning in Myanmar was to take the famous Yangon circular train, the city’s version of the circle line that (confusingly for a former Londoner) actually ends up where it starts. Praised in all travel guides as a great way to get a feel for the city, it fit nicely in the three-hour window I had available.

Things started strongly as the train headed off in the counter-clockwise direction, opposite to the schedules I found both at my hostel and on the interwebs. This immediately scuppered my plan to get off at the penultimate (now second) station and walk to my hostel in plenty of time to catch a taxi to the airport, but even so I figured I should have enough time to make it back to the start of the line and still make my flight - although at this point I realised I could have saved 10000 Kyats by bringing my backpack with me and getting off at one of the several stops near the airport, but I guess I would have missed out on the excitement of sitting in traffic to the airport an hour before take-off…

The journey itself was a treat in terms of urban scenery and people watching, with the locals trying their best to interact with me despite us having exactly one word in common (“mingalabar”, burmese for “hello”), with cute babies being once again the most fascinated by my presence. Since communication happened mostly through smiles and silly faces, which alternately amused or scared the poor children and probably just had the latter effect on their parents, it was actually more enriching to try and interact with them than with grown-ups, who mostly stuck to words I did not even remotely understand.

With the train getting quite full towards the end and the clock ticking I had to power-walk out of the station and find a taxi driver willing to take me to the hostel to pick up my bag and then to the airport, with my unwarranted stress leading me to give up on my bargaining a tad early. In the end, Yangon International Airport was basically empty and within ten minutes of setting foot in the building I had checked in, gone through immigration and had a plate of tasty coconut noodles and a reasonably cold Myanmar beer in front of me. Simply by allowing me to take my backpack in hand luggage and giving me an emergency exit window seat, Myanmar National Airlines quickly won my heart.

After a slow start in Mandalay, the country itself also eventually made me very glad I made a point of coming here as part of this trip. In many aspects, Myanmar is like the last raw gem in Southeast Asia, amidst a few others that have been so heavily polished they just look like a cheap fake at this point. While Yangon looks like a bustling city that you would expect a former capital to be, Bagan and Inle are two of the most special places I have visited on this trip and I sincerely hope they stay exactly as they are for a long time - mostly so I can afford to come back and do a balloon trip in Bagan, but also so you guys can see them before these places get covered in gift shops!

You may have noticed I have avoided mentioning the humanitarian crisis that is going on at the border with Bangladesh, mostly because I did not want the military to show up at my door while I was in Burmese territory but also because it feels like the version of events people believe over here seems to be dramatically different from what the rest of the World talks about. Perhaps that is because the weird quasi-democratic arrangement the country has settled on after 2007 is not as open as the quasi-democratic arrangements I am used to, or maybe the situation really is more complicated than it seems. Either way, the treatment Aung San Suu Kyi is getting in the West is, in my opinion, a bit unfair. It is pretty obvious that either way her hands are tied, and taking the “stand” that sounds so simple to some could potentially endanger the limited freedom her people have fought so hard for, and putting that ahead of her Nobel Prize and Oxford degree is, to me, commendable. That said, whatever is going on has had a horrible impact on innocent civilians and I sincerely hope it ends as quickly as possible, much like I hope the Burmese people get the democracy they deserve sooner rather than later.

Now that the serious stuff is out of the way, being back in Singapore for a few hours brought back nothing but good memories from a month ago. Sally (who I first met a long time ago when she became part of a very improbable group of friends on an awesome trip around Portugal) and her boyfriend Darren very kindly offered me their spare room so I could catch some sleep before my 6am flight to Tokyo. Better still, they even more kindly offered me a couple of beers when I arrived, which we enjoyed in their balcony, together with a pretty impressive light show and conversation about their exciting travelling plans. I must admit these made me a little jealous because let’s face it - I have 25 days to go and they have… well, as long as they want. As much as I would like to sit here and feel sorry for myself, my alarm is set for two hours from now so I should really get some sleep. And accept that 25 days is still quite a bit, I guess.

Cheers,
J-Wowww

Dia 66 - Directa

É-me difícil distinguir o dia de ontem do de hoje, visto que o desconforto do assento e a sonolência do condutor não me deixaram dormir grande coisa na viagem nocturna de seis horas que nos trouxe até Yangon. Relativamente sãos e salvos, ficámos deveras satisfeitos por eu me ter lembrado de reservar duas noites no hostel, permitindo-nos tomar banho e pequeno almoço assim que chegámos, antes de cairmos para o lado de sono até ao meio dia...

Ao acordarmos com alguma fome e com um par de horas livres antes do voo da Renu decidimos ir até o lago Kandawgyi, onde almoçámos num café muito engraçado, criado dentro de um antigo autocarro e com um menu com piada, ainda que limitado (a Renu teve de comer um hambúrguer de salada, à falta de ofertas vegetarianas). A meio do almoço um ar de pânico surgiu na cara da minha colega de viagem, que percebeu que tinha deixado o seu trolley no porta-bagagens to Uber que nos tinha levado até ao lago. Felizmente conseguimos contactar o condutor através da app e alguns minutos depois (a troco de dois mil Kyats) lá conseguimos reaver a mala perdida.

Depois de apanhar boleia do táxi da Renu para levantar a minha última fornada de Kyats e de lhe dar um forte abraço de despedida, voltei triste, só e abandonado ao café-autocarro (uma vez que tínhamos, mais uma vez, ficado a dever parte da conta) para tratar dos posts atrasados dos quais a minha mãezinha já se tinha queixado no meu Facebook. O pôr-do-sol foi fraquinho mas animado pelas famílias locais que passavam o serão de Domingo à beira do lago, até ao ponto em que um senhor estranho meteu conversa comigo ao perguntar se estava sozinho, de onde era e se era casado…

Após um excelente e estupidamente barato jantar de Shan Noodles, num pequeno restaurante na She Taung Tan St, decidi ir rapidamente dar uma olhada aos mercados nocturnos, que em Yangon são montados no “Strand” cá do sítio (uma versão da avenida ribeirinha em Londres, decididamente com um charme diferente). Curtas doses de fogo de artifício, ainda resquícios do festival das luzes que quase nos deixou atascados no meio do nada, animaram um cenário relativamente morto, o que seria de esperar de um Domingo à noite chuvoso. Amanhã o plano é apanhar um comboio da famosa linha circular de Yangon antes do meu voo para Singapura o que, aliado ao cansaço acumulado das últimas 48 horas, suspeito que me fará adormecer em menos de três centésimos de segundo.

Beijos e abraços,
Ginete

Day 65 - Stranded

When I set off on this trip I imagined there would be times where I would feel very obviously out of my depth, stuck in a foreign place without the guile or the resources to find my way back to a safe haven. The first time I felt that way was in Delhi, upon learning about the landslides in Shimla derailing our plans for the next following days, which ended with Ben and I being conned into paying for a holiday to a war zone. With 20/20 hindsight, I realise we were not actually out of our depth on that occasion, but rather tricked into feeling that way by some pretty resourceful Indian scam travel agents. Today, on the other hand, Renu and I were genuinely treading water for a little while…

The day started pretty calmly, with a relatively early start followed by a relaxed breakfast at the delightful White Orchid Hotel, which along with the traditional noodles and fried rice that are staples in Burmese breakfasts also offered us pancakes, which went down a treat with a strong cup of coffee. The hotel Manager personally took us to the train station without charging us one kyat, making sure we knew where the ticket office was and giving us a couple of bottles of water before heading back, officially making this the best accommodation experience I have had since Sri Lanka.

The journey on the Slow Train to Thazi started off as a pretty normal affair, aside from the snail-like pace of the train (Mo Farah would have probably kept up with it for a good while) and the fact that we were initially given tickets for the same seats as a Burmese family before getting moved to an even more old-school Upper Class carriage, with long flat benches instead of the green armchairs we were originally assigned. The route to the first station was pretty pleasant as we had two benches to ourselves and got to enjoy the view while nodding off whenever we felt like it.

As soon as we got to Aung Ban, however, things changed. First of all the train stopped for a while and all the other western tourists got off, never to be seen again - it appears that one stop on the slow train was enough for them. We went to the bathroom and, when we returned, our carriage was quite a bit fuller than it had been before, with a little girl’s parents having to stand for the next segment so that she could sit next to a badass monk that accompanied us for the rest of the journey. Shortly after we stopped for another 15 minutes in Kalaw, where we got some pretty tasty curry (which would be our last real food until Thazi) and yet more people got onto our carriage, with the floor now being completely covered in either groceries or people.

The next few hours of the train were a bit like the movie Inception. Our train constantly changed direction, probably a result of the age of the line and the steepness of the mountains, and every time we stopped we seemed to take on more people than we lost, even though most of the time this seemed physically impossible. This had an undesirable effect on the temperature inside the carriage, meaning we were both crammed in our seats and sweating profusely for the last few hours, just around when I was starting to feel like I had had enough of the old train (Renu had been in this state continuously from about 8.05 this morning).

Personally, I thoroughly enjoyed the journey. While the scenery was not as breathtaking as the trip from Ella to Kandy, the people-watching was decidedly next level. Looking around gave us a feeling of having taken a trip back in time, as everything around us looked like it was from a different era and everyone looked at us as if they felt reciprocally - while most people (especially children) smiled at my funny face, some flat-out stared at the weird foreigners like they had never seen anyone like us. The way the carriage was filled for most of the journey made the very complex manual reservation system (no computers in Shwenyaung, much like at the Nyaung-U airport) seem pointless, as everyone just took whatever real estate was available in the carriage at any given time.

We arrived in Thazi about fifteen minutes after schedule, more than eleven hours after we left Shwenyaung, with the last hour of the trip after sunrise seeing the carriage filled with even more insects than people, more excited about the lightbulbs on the roof of the carriage than I thought insects could possibly get. In stark contrast, Renu’s excitement for our train trip reached an all-time low at this point as the tiredness, hunger and a dislike for this transportation method finally cracked her usually bright and happy spirits for a short period of time. Little did she know of what was about to come.

Our plan for getting from Thazi to Yangon was to try and get on a sleeper train, with the overnight bus being our back-up option. All the research I had done pointed to it being a pretty safe bet that one of the two options would get us there in time for Renu’s flight, as the buses run hourly until about 1am, leaving us plenty of options. At the ticket counter of the train station we were informed there were no tickets for the 7.45pm train (sleeper or otherwise), and our only other train option was the slow train we had just got off, which departed at 10pm and arrived after 2pm the following day and which we had read about as being a fairly hellish experience. The bus was going to have to do.

After getting a taxi to the nearby city of Meiktila, which aside from being the point from where the buses to Yangon depart offers no other reason for any traveller to ever stop by - you can call it the Burmese Nagpur if you wish. Our taxi driver, in an effort to be helpful that we did not fully appreciate at the time, stopped at five or six different coach companies to ask if anyone would take us to Yangon, and the answer was always that all their coaches departing tonight were fully booked. Apparently the Thadingyut Festival meant all public companies and offices were closed from Wednesday to Friday, with people starting to make their way back towards the end of the weekend and eliminating any possibility of us getting on a bus tonight. We went to the desk ourselves making our best sad-puppy-eyes but were still told the next available bus was in three days, at which point I plan on being in Tokyo…

Literally stranded squarely in the middle of nowhere in a country ran by a military junta, we were left with no other option but to give up a vital organ for a taxi ride all the way to Yangon, which we managed to negotiate down to a mere kidney each. Our Thazi taxi driver left us by the side of a road next to the shop of the guy who had agreed to take us, where we had to wait for quite a while until our old and already sleepy-looking driver decided to get going (he was actually around for quite a while, but they must have had to catch up on the latest developments of the Myanmar Football League or something).

Shortly after we hit the road the gentleman muttered some words that were unintelligible to me, but which Renu interpreted as meaning that we would pick up a friend of his and take him to Yangon in the front seat with us. As this came in the form of a statement rather than a question we did not really get a chance to say no, although it left us wondering exactly in which way we were going to get slaughtered and me wishing they started by cutting my legs off, as it would at least temporarily make my journey a little less painful. As it turns out, his friend was the most harmless young girl, whose adorable family came to see her off and was so visibly grateful to us (for unknowingly agreeing to take her) it made us feel a lot better about the whole situation. My legs, however, were still confined to a space that made me consider turning myself upside down, before realising it was also too small for my arms to fit comfortably.

After stopping for dinner at a pretty dodgy roadside restaurant (completing a clean sweep of dodgy meals today - if I did not get food poisoning from the Kalaw curry or the chips handed to me by the adorable little girl sitting in front of us on the train or this place, I really should start buying lottery tickets) Renu and I swapped places and we are currently sitting, somewhat comfortably, in a car on the Mandalay-Yangon highway, with an ETA of 6am. It is just past midnight and our driver has already had to take a couple of breaks to do some stretches and what I presume are tried and tested wake-up exercises…

If you do not hear from me in a couple of days it was nice knowing you guys, take care and tell my family I love them for me. Although I am sure it will be fine.

Okay, he just took his hands off the wheel and yawned. This is going to be a long six hours…

Cheers,
J-Wowww

Dia 64 - Lago

Tudo o que rodeia o lago Inle sofre de uma mais-que-ligeira inflação - uma garrafa de água à beira da estrada, que em Mandalay custa entre duzentos e trezentos Kyats, aqui custa quatrocentos. O nosso hotel, por muito idílico que seja, foi mais caro por uma noite do que o anterior tinha sido por duas. Claramente a zona mais turística por onde passámos no Myanmar, é um dos casos em que a popularidade não vem por acaso - Inle é um dos sítios mais especiais por onde passei até agora.

O dia começou cedo, visto que as cortinas transparentes e as janelas altas do nosso quarto não nos deixaram dormir até tarde. Depois de um pequeno almoço agradável fomos dar uma volta de barco pelo lago, onde começámos por ver pescadores fazer o tradicional malabarismo de remar com uma perna enquanto se balançam nos seus barcos com a outra, deixando as mãos livres para pescarem à rede. A destreza necessária para não acabarem a dar um mergulho no lago já é muita, mas a naturalidade com que eles se equilibram na ponta das suas embarcações é impressionante.

Com a chuva sempre à espreita seguimos pelas aldeias flutuantes onde indústrias de tecido, ourivesaria e carpintaria servem a população que lá reside e geram interesse para os turistas como nós que por lá passam. Decidimos parar numa fábrica de barcos, onde as embarcações a motor que circulam pelo lago (de 10 a 15 metros de comprimento e meio metro de envergadura, tornando-as bastante sensíveis a qualquer movimento lateral dos passageiros) são feitos à mão e re-impermeabilizados todos os anos.

Seguiram-se dois locais religiosos, o primeiro o Pagode de Phaung Daw Oo que apesar de não ser particularmente vistoso é sem dúvida autêntico, com dezenas de homens a empurrarem-se numa plataforma para poderem venerar a figura de Buda (acto proibido às mulheres, que se limitavam a rezar no chão). O mercado à volta do templo era igualmente engraçado, com birmaneses de todas as idades a vender variados bens, desde bijutaria e roupa até milkshakes e água de coco.

A paragem final do nosso passeio foi a aldeia de Inn Dein, que tem como principal ponto de interesse um templo (Budista, caso houvesse dúvidas) rodeado por milhares de estupas funerárias em diversos estados de conservação. Enquanto que as mais antigas se encontram em ruínas, outras foram erguidas há pouco mais de um par de anos e mantém-se resplandecentes. Por se situar no topo de um monte, o caminho até ao templo (ladeado de lojas de souvenirs, com minhas favoritas vendendo marionetas bastante assustadoras) é longo e cansativo mas a vista faz com que o mesmo valha decididamente a pena, com as montanhas escondidas atrás o manto descendente de templos pontiagudos a formar uma imagem única.

O regresso ao hotel ofereceu-nos mais uns pingos de chuva mas lá nos pusemos a caminho do nosso destino mais ou menos à hora marcada. No caminho parámos no restaurante onde almoçámos ontem para pagar o que devíamos, noutro restaurante para almoço e nas grutas de Htet Eain Gu, um templo Budista que consiste em centenas de figuras de Buda espalhadas pelas cavidades de uma gruta natural. Enquanto que a Renu se recusou a descalçar os sapatos (como era suposto) eu decidi ser respeitoso e rapidamente me arrependi, já que o chão molhado e lamacento não só deixou os meus pés castanhos como quase me fez estatelar-me no chão meia dúzia de vezes.

Às grutas em si achei bastante piada, com a combinação das estátuas e das formas naturais das paredes a formarem um ambiente ligeiramente assustador, já que me sentia rodeado de Budas para onde quer que olhasse. Já a Renu acha que os Budas foram postos na gruta para atrair turistas (eu sempre fui um bocado naïve nestas coisas…) mas foi uma excelente assistente ao posicionar com grande destreza a lanterna do seu telefone de modo a permitir-me tirar uma ou duas fotografias quase decentes…

O nosso dia acabou nas primeiras vinhas do Myanmar, onde jantámos e provámos o vinho tinto produzido no sopé das montanhas que rodeiam a cidade de Taunggy depois de fazermos check-in naquele que é o hotel mais simpático de que me lembro. Infelizmente é também no meio do nada, perto da localidade de Shwenyaung (não confundir com Nyaungshwe, a meia hora de distância…) onde amanhã apanharemos o tal comboio lento às oito da manhã. Eu estou expectante pela viagem épica de onze horas que nos espera. A Renu está… menos.

Beijos e abraços,
Ginete