Home and away

Flashing through the proof bound copy didn’t show any glaring mistakes, I wasn’t about to read it thoroughly all the way through, I’ve done that so many times already. I know it was my last chance to pick up mistakes, but I was prepared for a product slightly lacking in perfection. That wasn’t quite the way I viewed it at the time, impatience ruled I must admit, seeing the first print run roll off the production line was my only focus. I’d timed my return for the books release only to find it delayed by a month, my main concern was not to delay it any further. That proved a touch rash; the first copy I picked up, the first page I perused, glaring at me from the page was the first mistake. It’s not the only one, though they don’t come thick and fast by any stretch of the imagination. It has to be sorted, before a second print run, and despite being so familiar with the story I still feel I should read it as a printed book. (Photo: Penrhyn Quarry across the valley - Bethesda, North Wales)

Most of my time has been spent organising the promotion of the book, tackling the local media and booking venues to host the book signings were relatively easy really. The story has had plenty of publicity locally, which stems right back to Cai and me leaving for our amazing father and son adventure through the Americas. In some ways the publicity has come back to bite me on the arse, Cai’s demise has provided the sensationalised aspects of the media interest. I don’t want to sell the book on the strength of losing my son, but there’s no denying that it’s what makes the story special. It isn’t just the story though, the telling of it has to be done skilfully otherwise an inspirational story could turn out to be boorish, or cumbersome to read. Over the years I’ve read a phenomenal number of books, I have a wide range of interest and form clear impressions of a good author when reading their work. It doesn’t matter how good a story line is, it must read well to be a success. So I guess it was with baited breath that I waited for feedback once it went on sale. (Photo: A walk down the valley - Nant Ffrancon, Nr Bethesda)

First things first though, I had to sell copies! Impatience again ruled the roost, I booked venues and arranged interviews with local reporters before there were actually any books available. That’s me all over though, impulsive and once I get an idea in my head can become a little obsessed about it. It was rushed, I should have taken more time, allowed more time for advertising, but it had been five years in the coming. Friends and family were always going to be amongst the first customers, they were also going to be the least likely to give damning criticism, especially after being given a copy free gratis. It was the public interest I had to attract, which is why the first book signing was arranged at the Bangor public library, I was also lucky enough to have a TV crew agree to cover the launch. Unfortunately rain stopped play, Aberystwyth flooded and the cameras decided that made better news than a local author’s debut publication. (Photo: Llyn Brenin towards Nant Gwynant, Nr Capel Careg)

I must be honest the number of books sold was a bit of a disappointment, at all three venues. You have to start somewhere though, more important were those rare moments where a real connection was made. In the library a random passer-by was asked to pose for a photo with me, and what a strange occurrence. Sitting down she asked what the book was about, so I explained about my motorbike ride through the Americas, the mileage, the basic route. Only when turning a book over did she notice the photo of Cai and me, she asked about who I did the journey with. That was the moment I had to be totally open and honest, “that’s my son, he lost his life in an accident at the very beginning of the journey”. At which point she dropped her own bombshell, having lost her brother recently she’d come in the library looking for something on bereavement, to help her to deal with her loss. So it wasn’t necessarily about the number of sales, if only one person in Lhotse’s situation found inspiration in my words it made all the writing and publishing worthwhile. (Photo: Book launch, with Lhotse - Bangor Library)

 Definitely mixed blessings are felt about settling into being home again. I felt at odds with my bike, appreciated having some private space but felt not quite fully at ease in someone else’s house, and was keen on promoting the book though somehow wished some high flying benefactor could have pushed sales straight into bookstores. I got used to the bike, and now fling it around with gay abandon. Accommodation, I can’t fault the generosity of a friend who allows me to use his empty house, and yet I haven’t settled into it the way I had last time at home. I’ve not seen that much of friends, my decision not theirs, the dynamics have changed, between many of them rather than with me. On a personal level I’m middling, emotionally neither high nor low, though I have my moments. Maybe the biggest change is the decision to make my next trip abroad a longer-term move. I’m not happy in the UK, the world at large may not offer guaranteed happiness but the atmosphere in this part of the world is so negative. (Photo: My slightly battered BMW - Back safely in North Wales)

 

Welcome home weary traveller!

At last, the official release of the long awaited book. It will be available to buy from 1st June 2012, !

ISBN: 978-0-9572645-0-2 

Distributors website link: YPD Books

Cost: £9.99 + P&P

Book signing venues:

Bangor Public Library - Saturday 9th June, 9.30 - 13.00

Cafe Caban, Bryn Refail, Nr Llanberis - Sunday 10th June, 10.00 - 15.00

Blue Sky Cafe, High St, Bangor - Monday 11th June, 10.00 - 15.00

 It will be available from any book supplier, so ordering can be done at your local bookstore or the large town centre chainstore. Of course by ordering it from a store you'll save P&P, but it will take a while for the order to go through. I'm urging people to buy it from the on-line distributor simply because I cover more of my costs this way. Having self published it's my own money invested in the book, and the retail suppliers take such a large cut of the cover price it can actually mean I lose money on every book sold through them. What a shame, I'd much rather put money their way and see high street shops remain open. Unfortunately I have to try and protect my own investment on this one, I've put heart and soul into the production of this book and would like to recoup some of the financial side of the endeavour. (Photo: Nant Ffrancon, from Ogwen Cottage - North Wales)

So things happen fast once the ball starts rolling. My focus since getting home has been on seeing the book onto the printing press, delays getting over jet lag and getting my bike back on the road were inevitable though. But it's pleasant spending time with family again, I'm also aware of how important they see this too, that's reassuring. In all honesty though I've been really bad for making myself accessible for the majority of friends and family, not intentionally, it's just the way it happens. After eleven months away it does feel strange being back, if only it was winter I could legitimately hibernate. No chance of that, the sun is and everyone's gearing up for festivals and holidays. Typically British, expectations are high and people reach new highs in religious fervour, preying for nice weather. Let's face facts, sunshine or a lack of it can be make or break for any outdoor gig in Britain. If we got to grips with this concept of a water festivities we'd not have a problem. We have no shortage of water in North Wales, it's the perfect type of festival for here. The fist week back it rained virtually every day, I felt glad to be in the garage working on the bike rather than out in the elements riding it. Normally it doesn't faze me, i ride whatever the weather, not this time though. You couldn't really call it cold, but neither could you kid yourself it was warm. I wore multiple thermal layers, and needed waterproofs for the first two weeks of being back. That's a thing of the past now though, the sun is shining and everyone's happy, summer is here. (Photo: Bryn Bella bridges - Tregarth, North Wales)

Before leaving Asia I was unbearably keen to be back on the bike, so it came as a shock to find myself deliberating over how positive the experience actually was. The first time I rode it again the BMW felt top heavy and cumbersome, the overall impression was of riding an unresponsive, wallowing brute. It took some getting used to, whereas I generally adapt quickly to different vehicles, and only improved after many minor tweaks to the tyres and suspension. A slow puncture didn't help, nor the realisation of how sensitive the BMW is to incorrect tyre pressures. There's a vast improvement now they're adjusted within the narrow parameters of operation. I thought it was me, too long on flyweight little machines, but it had been set for carrying a heavy load, the weight distribution of the two axles was all wrong, and didn't it just show. How could I have manhandled that lumbering hulk across the Gobi, was there any surprise I'd reached my limits? (Photo: Penrhyn Quarry - Bethesda, North Wales)

 All the birds are nesting and the hedgerows are thickened nicely. Sitting in a friends garden I identified seven different types of birdsong, basking in the sun, with my eyes closed it was heaven, one of the loveliest welcomes imaginable for my return. We may not have any big game but there sure is plenty of nature. There are buzzards soaring high rather than vultures or eagles, they still look as marvellous though. Our mountains may not reach the lofty heights of the Himalayas, but they never fail to impress. Riding my favourite short circuit through the hills takes me over Pen y Pass and back along Nant Ffrancon, a glorious ride by any standard. Wet roads hindered progress a touch, a fidgety front end ensured a lot more caution than normal. Maybe it's just a sign of getting wiser with age, if it is I'd better worry, I might be growing up at long last. (Photo: Busy bees - Newborough, Anglesey)

A proclivity for isolation was outweighed by the excitement of finally being published. Nothing was going to get in the way of promoting it's release. when the proofbound copy was ready I didn't hesitate, within the hour I set off for the four hour journey to York to pick it up. I haven't read it though, which I do mean to. How stupid of me to think I'd be inured to the emotional effect it might have. It will always be an emotional jolt for me to relive those moments, they are more manageable though. The overall affect is positive, worries about how good my story telling is have largely been overshadowed by praise from the few people who have read it, whether in part or as a completed work. Holding the one and only copy in my hands was a magic moment in itself, there was no denying my sense of achievement. It could have rained all the way back home without dampening my spirits, and just to prove my point it did just that. I may have been knackered when I finally arrived back in North Wales at nearly mid-night, but it was with a contented sigh that I lowered my head on the pillow and fell swiftly asleep. (Photo: Malltreath railway bridge - Anglesey, North Wales)

Topping off the trip

If comparing a double bus ride, a total of over sixteen hours, with some I’ve done in the past, it isn’t so drastic. But when boarding the bus for the second leg of the jaunt, I knew it wasn’t going to be the easiest of journeys. Sprawled across the whole two seats was the fattest bucket of lard on the bus, why, oh why, was I the one having to share a seat with her? Not only could her ungainly bulk defy the laws of physics and fit into a single seat, she also had two bags wedged between her and the window, leaving me with the thinnest of margin to park my rather slim backside on. But even I’m not that slim! Anyway, I believe it setting the standard before misconceptions can take over. So I politely gestured for her to move over so I could sit down, and she politely did, all of an inch or two. Then I had nearly a third of a seat to luxuriate in, no way, I persisted and gained another couple of inches. Unfortunately with a large roll of flab still taking up much of my valuable space she set her face in an expression that read quite clearly, that’s your lot buddy. (Photo: Porking down the beach - Kgwe Saung, Myanmar)

I’d hate people to think I have an unreasonable bias against obese people, if someone chooses to gain so much they become unhealthily ungainly that is their privilege. But when it proves to be to the detriment of others, especially me, I get niggled about it. I wouldn’t relent, therefore the whole six hours was pretty much a fight for seat space. It didn’t matter that I showed clearly that she was half over my seating space, however often I tried she kept a gap of a few inches between here and the window at all times, wedging her knee into the back of the chair in front to ensure I couldn’t lever her over. Was I unreasonable? I don’t think so, with my arse numb from the metal bar that bordered the outer edge of my seat, it was very uncomfortable. I wasn’t a happy bunny, and didn’t handle the situation too well. Not that I got angry, not openly anyway, but inside I seethed for six hours while maintaining the pressure against her flabby thigh. Wasn’t I ever glad when we arrived at our destination! She was the first and only obnoxious Burmese person I had the displeasure of meeting, in many ways it surprised me, almost without fail they go out of their way to please visitors.  (Photo: One of many beautiful sunsets - Kgwe Saung, Myanmar)

Being weary of public transport that episode could easily have put me into a foul mood, but it didn’t. Relieved with an end to my purgatory, I gratefully sank into the first trishaw offered. Myanmar is the first country I’ve carried a guidebook with me, so I knew exactly where I was headed, a quiet beach resort with good quality luxury rooms. Just the place to relax for my last week of a long, and sometimes arduous, journey. I didn’t baulk at paying $40 for a near palatial beach fronted room. And what a beach, all thirteen miles of it. Waves rolled onto the shore, constant breakers to hurl myself into, which I wasted no time in doing so. With temperatures around 40^o the water was certainly the place to be, and I love playing in crashing waves anyway. It looked like I’d made the correct choice, lonely planet’s choice next door certainly had cheaper options, but the whole compound was more cramped, with smaller bungalows squeezed in tighter than I’d been with blubber guts on the bus.  (Photo: Never ending sand - Kgwe Saung, Myanmar)

As with all the other Asian countries I’ve visited this time round, domestic tourism is thriving. Myanmar may well be one of the poorest countries on this continent but they have a very prosperous sector of society. With an average salary of less than $100 pm room prices in the bigger resorts were staggeringly high, at hundreds of dollars per night. Bearing that in mind I didn’t expect to find them so well frequented, but the wealthy do like to flaunt their wealth. Between Yangon and the coast there’s nothing but small scale farming, rush built shacks house extended families, dressed in threadbare, dirty caste offs. Agricultural wages are very low, wherever possible family members will travel long distances for the chance at working in the tourist industry. The seasons work in their favour, high season on the coast is a slack working period in the countryside. For those lucky enough to gain a position in the resorts, it requires living apart from their families. Talking to most guys this is a great hardship, the family is still very important here, they’ll make incredibly long journeys to spend a few days with their wives and kids.  (Photo: Fun as the sun goes down on me - Kgwe Saung, Myanmar)

My last week in Myanmar, and the last of this trip, was pretty much about lazing around. The sun was too strong to linger for long in the open, most days I spent an hour at most topping up my tan. For hours I’d sit in the shade, catching a balmy sea breeze, while reading books and watching the world go by. Not that there was a lot of it passing by, the highlight of each day had to be the glorious sunsets. Little else happened, except for the tide going in and out. In itself that’s nothing unusual, but they weren’t to be misjudged. At low tide it’s possible to paddle over to a small island where a makeshift set up sells basic meals. If you misjudged the excursion, it got a touch wetter than you’d banked on. You couldn’t judge the oncoming waves either, because they came from two directions, from each side of the island. And there was the risk of getting run over by at low tide too, The holidaying Yangonites have a habit of joyriding along the newly exposed hard sand. You’d get some young guys posing as they rode along, simple stunts to attract admiring looks, pleased as punch for being such daredevils. It brought back memories of my own antics as a teenager on my first bike, and caused reflection on Cai and his joy of the simple pleasures of bike riding.  (Photo: Another magnificent display - Kgwe Saung, Myanmar)

Generally I didn’t mingle very much, I was content left to my own devices. It was a time of contemplation, after eleven months returning home is a big event. The process wasn’t wracked with emotion, I’m pleased to say. In fact the strongest emotion I had was jealousy. Jealous of the couples wandering happily along the shoreline, splashing in the water together, they made me want some companionship. It made me wish I had someone to share my experiences with. I’m not feeling particularly lonely, it’s not that I’m desperate to jump into a relationship. It lead me to realise that I no longer feel frightened to delve into the realms of emotional involvement. After the loss and emotional upheaval of recent years that underlying fear has stayed with me, I’ve been unable to shake it. It’s the effect bereavement had on me, magnifying a reluctance for emotional commitment. Basically I was frightened to hold anything precious in my heart, frightened to lose it again. I now feel more wholesome, maybe I’m ready to risk loving again.  (Photo: Back to the deprivations of Bangkok)

Biking Burma style

Once the water festival was over my main concern was to finalise the process of publishing my book: America – Through a veil of tears. There’d been little or no internet access during the festivities, everywhere was closed down for a week. With relief the pdf was waiting for me, all I needed do was to work through listing all the relevant corrections. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve read my own book, but I still found plenty of small mistakes. It wasn’t about rewriting at this stage, the whole book had been typeset for final printing, this was my last chance for getting it perfect. So holing myself up for two days I taxed my brain, and strained my eyes late into the night to get it done. A couple more photos were needed, which proved difficult to upload, by some miracle I actually managed, for the first time since arriving in Burma. I’m buggered if I could do it again for blog photos, amazingly the super slow and unreliable internet connection pulled out all the stops and for a once only opportunity went in my favour. Fortune truly was smiling on my literary attempts. I even got the cover design through and approved that, if I must say myself, it's looking good! (Photo: Typical rural homestead - Northern Myanmar)

As for Mandalay, I’ve largely ignored it. A shame that may be, but I’ve seen too many cities, too many temples, and treated it simply as sorting out the admin of my current life. From Mandalay Hill there are superb views over the whole city, so I was worth a laboriously long haul to the temple at the top. I cheated though, a local guy wanted to escort me up there, so the hour long trek up the hill was managed in 15 minutes on the back of his bike. Sunset from the highest viewpoint around, isn’t that a wonderful way to see a city. Heavy cloud cover spoilt it a touch, but I’m glad I made the effort, it’s my sole concession to sightseeing while here. I’ve made more effort mixing with some of the locals, they appreciated my dancing in the streets, loved me joining in wholeheartedly with dousing all and sundry. The people are an integral part of visiting other countries, I may not have been fortunate enough to be invited into private homes, to share family life with Burmese nationals, but joining in with their celebrations was great fun. (Photo: When you're too poor for a motorcycle - On the Road to Hsipaw, Northern Myanmar)

For my last time on this journey I arranged a motorcycle, a chance to travel independently. Prices are high here, $12.50 a day to hire a poxy little step thru, a glorified moped. As with most of Asia these are what the people rely on most heavily for daily transport. Though there are a few Japanese 125cc trail bikes, they aren’t available to hire, or not that I could obtain. I had to make the most of availability, so I arranged a week’s hire at preferable rates. My plan was simple, to do a circuitous route; north-east from Mandalay to Hsipaw, swing south then west to Inle Lake, and back up to the city. I must admit to being dubious about taking such a machine over the distances involved, but the engine wasn’t that different than what I used to ride the whole of Vietnam, Cambodia and southern Laos. A set of spare clothes was all I took, I had no rain protection, or any for my own safety either. Reckless or not, I rode in shorts and T-shirt, but I at least wore proper shoes, rather than flip-flops. (Photo: Local longhouse - Hsipaw area, Northern Myanmar)

Departure from the city was almost on the dot of 9am, I wanted to give myself plenty of time. The first leg being to Hsipaw I was faced with a journey time of 7hrs, of course with various stops and photo shoots it could prove to be a lot longer. My faith in the bike was minimal, so much so that at first I wouldn’t even fill the tank full, in case I broke down. Mandalay is not too bad as far as city traffic goes, it must be one of the calmest I’ve experienced, if only they’d add the occasional road to give some indication which roads led where. It’s good for showing where tourist sites are, but bugger all else. There again, whereabouts in the UK do road signs offer translations into a foreign language, even for tourist sites? It isn’t hard though, stop and ask, with people as friendly and helpful as the Burmese it’s never a problem. I had to resort to this a few times, but pretty soon I’d left the city far behind and the open road lay in front. (Mountain trail to Namhsan - Northern Myanmar)

For some distance from the urban conurbation the roadside played host to wealth of opportunists, a string of apparently makeshift huts lined the way. Black-market fuel was the dominant product on offer, with fuel rationing this is often the only way to obtain what is becoming a rather expensive commodity, by Asian standards anyway. Snack bars and noodle stores make for the bulk of other business interests. Whole families live in woven bamboo shelters, little bigger than your average garden shed, I’m talking smaller than 3 x 2 metres here. More room is given to lean-to shelters, shade to entice the hungry and weary travellers. They aren’t living in squalor though, I was encouraged to see tidy areas around their living space, though I’m sure hidden from sight are ugly piles of domestic refuse. Burma is one of the worst places I’ve seen for rural waste tips, every hamlet and village is liberally festooned with discarded plastic bags. With a greedy and corrupt Junta as their dictatorship for so long no effort for waste disposal has ever been made. As with countries in this part of the world, it’s an ever present problem. (Photo: The long and winding road - Namhsan, Northern Myanmar)

Pyin oo lwin is supposed to be two hours at most from the city. By the time I passed through it felt I’d been on the road for most the day, without a watch or working speedo it’s very hard to judge time. Thankfully reaching this old colonial hill station was a marked relief, the temperature in significantly less than hot and muggy Mandalay, it wasn’t quite cool enough to add a layer, but it was refreshing. The long and painfully slow climb to get there was draining, the temperature soared, unless I had air brushing past me I was bathed in sweat. No wonder the English used it as a summer retreat, it proved tempting to stop and luxuriate in the coolness. But no I was on a mission to reach a certain destination that day, and reach it I would. On reaching the Goktiel Gorge, where the road plummets through a rapid succession of precipitous switchback, the unbearable heat was back. It was more comfortable riding, it wicked away the sweat, to stop was to melt into the semi-liquid tarmac. I’m only glad traffic wasn’t a problem, the only potentially hazardous part was the trucks and buses on the steep switchbacks. They swing as wide as possible, on every turn, though once I got used to this I began to whip past on the inside of the bend, whichever side of the road it was. (Photo: Mountain top temples - Namhsan area, Northern Myanmar)

I chose Hsipaw for its proximity to mountain villages that retain the same look and traditions as yesteryear. Close to Pyin many of the abodes were wooden framed, with adobe bricks filling between the frame members, they looked like the smaller versions of the Tudor housing we’re so used to in the UK. Even there styles are mixed with the more traditional local styles and materials. Woven bamboo is the most common materials for walls, though thatching seems to depend on the available vegetation. Out on the western plains they used fan shaped palm leaves, most common on this ride was what looked like a very broad leaved grass, which I actually think is the leaves from sugar can. It stands to reason, use what’s readily available, especially if it’s for free. Construction only really changed once past Hsipaw, heading up into the mountains on a very rough and dirty track. At higher altitudes more houses were made of teak, again it was cooler up there, no doubt the whether can become quite inclement at times. However old world these villages are claimed to be though, apart from slightly grubbier and obviously less wealthy there is very little difference between them and the more modern Burmese. Gone are the facial tattoos and distinctive dress, the only thing I really noticed in one area was the wearing of canvas fatigue boots and football socks. I think the football socks are a modern replacement for the decorated leggings quite common with many indigenous peoples around the globe. (Photo: Bamboo raft, it's child's play - Nr Hsipaw, Northern Myanmar)

Any hope of a circuitous route was dispelled on reaching Hsipaw, which is why I took the trouble of the long ride into the mountains. All roads on from Hsipaw are closed due to insurgency, various factions are busy fighting the Burmese army. Not that is mattered, I stayed a few days in Namhsan, a high mountain market town. The folks there don’t get that many foreigners, a trickle is all. Spending my time riding abysmal trails was great fun, only when I came down with cronic diarrhoea were my exploits forestalled. One day of bedrest and a gutful of medication enabled me to make the return trip. I don’t like retracing my footsteps, but it had to be done. Unable to make Inle Lake without returning to Mandalay put me off. I made a snap decision, my last few days in Burma was to be relaxing on a beach within easy reach of Rangoon. I have to fly out in a week, and I deserve a little R&R before returning once more to the UK. (Photo: Stuck in colonial times - Pyin oo lwin, Myanmar)

Oh foolish man, what was I thinking? In too much of a hurry in the city I went out on the bike without a crash helmet, I’d noticed many people doing the same before. But of course that was during the water festival, when anything goes. With dripping wet dreads I simply wanted to blow-dry them. I only got two blocks before the police pulled me over. Amazing, they looked at my documents and let me go. Where in the supposed civilised world could I have gotten away with such flouting of the law? I felt so stupid, the people weren’t actually admiring my flowing dreads, no doubt they were thinking what a prat I was.

Fun and frolics amongst the temples.

Cities have worn me out too often, each leg of a journey necessitates being stuck in another transit point. And yes, as you’ve probably guessed, these are generally in the city. How many times must I relax in a beautiful place only to have the blissful tranquillity ripped asunder by arriving in yet another huge urban monstrosity? Isn’t this why I love the practicalities of independent travel? Of course it is! So once again I creep ever closer to the end of one journey with a deep determination not to succumb to another journey that relies on the foibles of the various transport services. Leaving Rangoon was a nightmare, it was bound to be, hordes of people were desperate to vacate the city before Thingya, the Water Festival. Absolute chaos ensued, it took hours in gridlocked traffic to reach the bus terminal, and then it took the bus three hours to get through the traffic and reach open highway. By the time we actually got moving it was past 9pm, though being three hours late wasn’t to be complained about. Arriving at our destination would be 6am, rather than 3am, and I know which I’d prefer. (Photo: First view of Temples - Bagan, Myanmar)

Bagan, an area renowned for it’s prevalence of Buddhist Stupas, or temples, an arid zone of seering heat and blinding sun. I’m not quite sure why I chose this place in preference to other destinations, truth be told I’ve seen enough shrines and temples to last a life time. I wanted to head towards the northern regions of Burma, a chance to see life out in the sticks. There isn’t really much apart from the temples around Bagan, I’m told there used to be a thriving community, especially in Old Bagan. Trouble is the government moved them all out into a new city, they wanted to have the areas around the temples clear, so it didn’t spoil the scene for the steady flow of tourists who make their unholy pilgrimage to the place. Naung u is another town, just north of the main concentration of temples, and at least there is a good mix of Burmese and foreigners. It houses the budget end of the tourist market, the cheap and cheerful guesthouses. But when I say cheap and cheerful I’m talking prices up to $20 a night, getting much for less than $15 isn’t easy. (Photo: Across the Northern plain - Bagan, Myanmar)

I must be honest, apart from the first few minutes on arrival, there are very few people touting for business. You can walk around unmolested, if you want to arrange transport you’ll need to find out where to go, it doesn’t come looking for you. Which is nice, I get fed up with constantly apologising because I don’t want whatever service is on offer. When I walked around the market, eyes followed me wherever I went. I certainly wasn’t the only tourist there, but there weren’t that many seen walking about. The domain of tourists is the main road and what’s referred to as restaurant row, after that they’re to be found amongst the numerous temples. And they are numerous, the temples that is. They’re spread over an enormous area, too far and too many to cover in only a day or two. The main sites see plenty of tourists, mainly domestic or Thai tourists, who far outnumber the westerner visitors. I wouldn’t say there were hordes of visitors either, even though coach parties are seen, is simply bad luck to catch a place while there’s such a group. If you wait a few minutes they’ll be gone and you can have the place to yourself, almost. (Photo: A monks' day out to the temples - Bagan, Myanmar)

Taking the easy option I booked a horse and cart to transport me around, the area is too vast to contemplate walking, and I was too lazy to cycle. The choice was sound though, my driver proved to be a good guide, providing a wealth of information as to the origins of various temples. With over 2,000 individual structures some guidance is invaluable, he had a good understanding of which ones gave decent views across the extensive plains. No doubt many we visited were the easier ones to access, the most popular amongst tourists. But it wasn’t necessarily for individual glory I appreciated the tour, it was the overall effect that left me stunned. Wherever you look, from whichever angle, the Stupas litter the landscape. Despite spending many hours that day hopping from one temple to another I never failed to be amazed at their sheer number. I may have been privileged to see some spectacular sites in the past, but few as wide ranging as this, or as complete. (Photo: Sunset view of across the temples - Bagan, Myanmar)

Ancient cities are widespread over Asia, huge complexes abound, but Bagan stands apart from them all. There is no single complex, no definitive central structure, just thousands of individual shrines from neat and compact to soaring giants. The diversity of shape, design is staggering. Most are constructed of compacted red brick, though many are coated with lime plaster, often adorned with gold leaf. There’s plenty of the archetypical bell shaped Stupa, many more suggest more worldly design. Some are easily liken to temples found on the Indian subcontinent, others more reminiscent of Mayan temples. Built over hundreds of years there is little uniformity, though duplicates are often to be seen built in small clusters. Multi-storeyed monstrosities give ample opportunity to climb to dizzying heights, though compact buildings can often provide access to the upper reaches through backbreaking passages and tight winding staircases. As big as small castles, at times they consist of nothing more than a couple of small chambers housing diminutive Buddha statues. (Photo: New but still traditional - Old Bagan, Myanmar)

After two days of being out amongst the temples I was worn out, hot and bothered I couldn’t face exposing myself to the debilitating heat. And that is when the water festival began! Not on the official date, a day earlier, like our own celebratory festivals, many people are just too keen and enthusiastic to wait. So as I walked along restaurant row I was somewhat surprised to see groups of kids lining the roadside, buckets in hand, a look of mischievous glee on their faces. The first group looked unsure as I approached, but only for a brief moment. They were restrained though, approaching sheepishly and carefully pouring half a bucketful down one side. That’s all it took, once seeing me wet the others were much more enthusiastic. Which was just the start. Next day every corner of every street, and plenty of places in between, sported groups of kids with an unlimited supply of water to soak every passer-by. Water wagons were wheeled round to top up their supplies, ensuring the fun would not abate for the briefest of moments. (Photo: High jinks to start the water festival - Bagan, Myanmar)

Water festivals are part of the Buddhist calendar, shared by most Buddhist countries in Asia. Any other place it’s a day of celebration, no holds barred jubilation. Unlike other countries they celebrate for a whole week in Myanmar, perhaps they need to extra release of tension, or maybe they are just more fun loving. No-one is sacred, though monks are rarely targeted, and anyone can join in the fun. Passing motorcycles are the prime targets, I think because they present more fun in trying to score a direct hit. The youngsters ride round, up and down the streets, presenting themselves as targets, rejoicing in the dousing they receive. But to my observations, the ultimate joy is soaking a foreigner. Often unsure of the reaction they’ll hesitate before letting fly, but it won’t stop them. Embracing the moment gives them immense pleasure, and lets face it, if you can’t embrace the local celebrations you’ve no right to be there in the first place. (Photo: Small only in stature, Water festival showdown - Bagan, Myanmar)

After three days of dripping wet fun in Bagan I decided I’d better get on with seeing other parts of Myanmar, so booked a ticket for Mandalay. Celebrations are reputed to be wilder, and wider spread, in the big city; how right they are. Not even the train journey there made us exempt. Pulling into stations, or slowing down near towns, inevitably saw a flurry of activity as passengers spotted locals waiting to hurl water through the windows. At one place they actually lined up with hoses on both sides of the train, it was like going through a chicken run of pounding water jets. It made me laugh to see the panic on the faces of other passengers. Of course loads of us had our cameras out to record the countryside scenes, and the local populace. A cry of warning would often go out, shutters would slam shut, most often too late. One window at least would remain open long enough, keeping the water out was nigh on impossible. Once reaching Mandalay it was complete chaos, taxis weren’t running to the hotels, the only choice was by motorcycle taxi. By some miracle we managed to make it with only one minor dousing. (Photo: Amongst the revellers - Bagan, Myanmar)

Having dumped my stuff in my room the first port of call was somewhere to feed myself. Not being far to the most convenient restaurant, it was still too far to remain dry. Four times I got drenched in only two hundred metres, at least I’d learnt the knack of only wearing beachwear. Being already wet I thought I may as well have a walk around and join in the festivities. The palace and fort form a hub to the city centre, they’re surrounded by a two hundred foot moat. Absolute mayhem surrounded all four sides to the complex. Numerous high capacity pumps drew water from the moat, every road was lined by fire hoses washing down every person and vehicle that passed. Jeeps, motorbikes and trucks full of people waited in turn to drive past a series of stages, lined with hoses. As the only foreigner in sight I quickly became the focus of attention, the word would go down the line, the jets of water homing in on me. My progress was met with hearty welcomes and much pumping of hands. The crowd got so dense it became impossible to get any further, and I’d only managed to get halfway along one side of the palace quadrant. Eventually I turned back and joined a group of guys opposite the hotel, in the rather meek use of buckets to soak people, rather than fire hoses. I got overly inebriated, and had a great time. I failed to understand the few tourists who took great exception to getting wet, it wasn’t a way to gain respect form the locals, and they ignored your pleas to remain dry anyway. A few times I joined in the fun, which seemed to mean so much to the local revellers. I’d like to think they had something special to celebrate this year, after the recent election, but I’m lead to believe it’s as manic every single year. (Photo: And the fun goes on - Bagan, Myanmar)