137-139 CYCLE TOURING MYANMAR (3) - LINDA 2018

 A SLOW JOURNEY THROUGH A TIMELESS LAND

137 THAILAND (17.1), 138 MYANMAR (3), 139 THAILAND (18)

1,531 Km – 36 Days

12 September – 17 October 2018

MAP

PHOTOS 

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VOICEOVER

FLIP-BOOK

Prelude

Myanmar revealed itself slowly: in the soft morning chanting of monks, in the gold‑tipped temples rising out of dusty plains, in the quiet rhythm of men pedalling sidecars and women balancing baskets with effortless grace. It was a place where ancient monasteries leaned into the present, fishermen rowed with one leg as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and the Irrawaddy River stitched the country together like a long, thoughtful thread.

Cycling through Myanmar wasn’t just travel — it was immersion. The heat pressed down, the hills rose up, and the road occasionally vanished altogether, but the country always offered something in return: a smile, a stupa, a sunrise, a moment of unexpected beauty. It was a place that asked you to slow down, look closely, and let yourself be quietly astonished.

 

THAILAND

 

Arrival in Bangkok 

Linda arrived in Bangkok looking exactly like someone who had just endured a 27‑hour flight from Fort Lauderdale: slightly crumpled, faintly confused, and powered almost entirely by caffeine. After a few beers and a rapid‑fire catch‑up on everything that had happened since January, she turned in.

By morning, we headed to the familiar Gecko Bar for breakfast—because nothing says “welcome back to Thailand” quite like eating eggs next to a wall fan that sounds like it’s reconsidering its life choices.

The canal ferry was, as always, the most entertaining way to get around Bangkok. It’s fast, cheap, and gives you the thrilling sensation that you might be flung into the water at any moment. We hopped on one to fetch my laptop from Pantip Plaza, a place where you can buy anything from a motherboard to a suspiciously cheap drone that almost certainly won’t survive takeoff.

Bangkok, being Bangkok, offered more to see than any sane person could manage, and the river ferry made exploring easy. It whisked us straight to the Temple of Dawn, which looked serene and ancient in that “I’ve seen centuries of chaos and I’m still standing” way temples do. One last job remained: collecting my Myanmar visa. We hailed a taxi and plunged into Bangkok traffic, which is less “traffic” and more “a philosophical exercise in patience.” Miraculously, the cab delivered us to the embassy just in time.

That evening, wandering the backstreets of Banglamphu, we encountered Edward (Ted) Jones Whitehead, author of Down Below. At 95, he was astonishingly spry—one of those old seadogs who seems held together entirely by stubbornness and nicotine. He produced a packet of cigarettes with the flourish of a magician, revealing a rabbit, and enjoyed a beer with the enthusiasm of someone who has absolutely no intention of slowing down. Meeting him felt like stumbling into a living footnote from a maritime adventure novel.

 

Breakfast was a bowl of noodle soup, eaten with the solemn reverence of someone who knows they’ll be hungry again in exactly 45 minutes. Then it was off to the supermarket to stock up on bits and bobs—those mysterious travel essentials you never remember buying but somehow always need.

After collecting the laundry, Linda went off exploring while I headed to Chinatown in search of a cup water heater. Chinatown, with its labyrinth of stalls, offered everything from food to fluffy teddy bears to jewellery that may or may not have been designed for humans. Navigating it required pushing, shoving, and occasionally apologising to someone’s elbow. The real challenge was locating the correct market section. After enough wrong turns to qualify as a scenic tour, I finally found the electrical appliance area. Unsure if I’d ever locate it again, I bought two heaters out of sheer self‑preservation.

My bicycle was still at the shop, and a walk over revealed a broken spoke—naturally discovered only after I’d mentally planned the next day’s departure. It would be ready tomorrow. Later, Linda and I squeezed onto the back of a motorbike taxi, which shot through traffic like it had something to prove, depositing us on Khao San Road just as the rain began.

 

The next morning, our plan to catch a bus to the Myanmar border evaporated when the bike shop announced my bicycle wouldn’t be ready until 11 a.m. Bangkok has a way of rearranging your schedule, whether you like it or not. After a leisurely start, we walked to Gecko Bar for breakfast—again—because routine is comforting and the coffee is strong enough to wake the dead.

Linda went off to visit the Golden Mount, and I returned to the guesthouse to await the bicycle delivery. Once our errands were finally done, we explored more of old Bangkok. The old man selling second‑hand false teeth and bridges was still there, his display noticeably diminished. I swear the teeth were disappearing one by one. (I kid you not.) The amulet market was equally fascinating, offering everything from innocent Buddha necklaces to items that looked suspiciously like props from a low‑budget voodoo film.

By evening, we were enjoying Chang beers on the roof terrace when a massive storm rolled in. We made a dash to a nearby restaurant, arriving just as the sky unleashed a dramatic, theatrical downpour. Thunder cracked, lightning flashed, and we sat watching the spectacle while eating dinner. By the time we finished, the storm had passed, leaving us to slosh through puddles without a single drop landing on us.

 

A Bus Ride to Mae Sot

The next day a short cycle took us to the bus terminus. Being Sunday morning, traffic was mercifully light. The bus to Mae Sot turned out to be surprisingly comfortable—though seven hours is still seven hours, no matter how cushy the seat.

Mae Sot itself was a scruffy border town with the kind of “questionable trade” atmosphere that makes you wonder what exactly is being transported across the border and whether any of it is legal.

The First Hotel was a gem, boasting an imposing Burmese teak staircase and ceiling carvings so intricate they made us question our own life achievements. It was the sort of building that makes you think, “I should really learn more about woodworking.”

Dinner was at the now‑famous Khrua Canadian restaurant. Dave, the Canadian owner, had been living in Thailand for twenty years and ran a wildly successful establishment serving Western food to farangs craving something familiar. We left with full bellies and returned to our accommodation to prepare for crossing into Myanmar the next morning. 

 

MYANMAR

 

Crossing Into Myanmar and the Ride to Kawkareik, Myanmar (55 km)

A short cycle took us to the Thai–Myanmar border via the Friendship Bridge, which spans the Moei River and looks exactly like the sort of place where officials might ask you to empty your pockets for no discernible reason. Once across into Myawaddy, we found ourselves in a scene that could best be described as “enthusiastically chaotic.” Dust swirled, tuk‑tuks buzzed, bicycle rickshaws wobbled, and trucks belched their way through the melee.

We needed new SIM cards and to change a few dollars—quite the challenge considering neither Linda nor I spoke a syllable of Burmese. Still, through a combination of pointing, smiling, and looking helpless, we managed. The Myanmar Kyat exchanged at 1,000 to the dollar, which meant I suddenly possessed a wallet thick enough to stun a small animal. I bought a new one specifically to hold the mountain of notes.

Together with minivans, buses, and what appeared to be the entire motorbike population of Myanmar, we cycled out of Myawaddy. The road over the mountain was steep but rewarded us with spectacular views. Mercifully, the weather was cloudy, sparing us from being roasted alive.

Once over the high point, we zoomed downhill into Kawkareik, where the Smile World Guest House offered rooms at the exorbitant rate of $20. The place was a dump, and the only one smiling was the owner—presumably at the thought of our money.

A walk into town revealed a beautiful Hindu temple and a lovely Buddhist one, but almost no food stalls. At the only open restaurant, the staff asked “Myanmar?” with great curiosity. We nodded, unsure what we had just agreed to. Eventually, a feast arrived: rice and an army of small bowls filled with mysterious dishes. Even with heroic effort, it was impossible to finish everything.

 

The Potholed Road to Hpa‑An (92 km)

Leaving our luxurious $20 palace, our first mission was to find breakfast. Roadside stalls offered little beyond fruit, which Linda bought. I opted for a bag of fried snacks—samosas, puri, and deep‑fried dough—essentially a portable heart attack. I was confident it contained enough calories to sustain me for a week.

To say the road was slow, bumpy, and potholed would be an understatement. We bounced along past rice fields where workers laboured gracefully and fishermen cast nets with enviable skill. Buses and trucks crawled along the narrow road, forcing us to snake around muddy holes like two determined slalom cyclists.

Towards the end of the day, the route deteriorated further, becoming either muddy or dusty depending on which section of road had given up hope most recently. Still, the scenery was sublime, and roadside stalls sold an impressive array of dried and fried fish—none of which looked remotely edible, but all of which were fascinating.

The humidity and poor road conditions made it an exhausting ride. With great relief, Hpa‑An finally appeared, offering accommodation that was substantially better than the previous night’s “Smile World” experience.

 

First Impressions of Mawlamyine (65 km)

An early morning walk through the market felt like stepping into a Kipling novel. Men with tanned faces and bamboo hats pedalled sidecars with flip‑flop‑powered feet. Others shuffled past with heavy bags of rice slung over their backs. Boy monks collected food, and women with painted faces sold fruit and vegetables. It was wonderfully atmospheric—and slightly surreal.

The ride to Mawlamyine was short and blessedly smoother than the previous day. A detour took us to the surreal Kyauk Ka Lat Pagoda, which balances precariously atop a limestone pinnacle in the middle of a manmade lake. It looked like something a bored god might have stacked for fun.

We continued past optimistic fishermen employing every imaginable method to catch dinner. The most successful were men snorkelling in rice paddies, spearing fish with bamboo contraptions that looked like they’d been invented on the spot.

We pedalled past rural hamlets where bare‑bum children played beside the highway and chickens pecked industriously at the dirt. Eventually, the road ended abruptly at a river. Fortunately, a tiny wooden boat appeared, ferried us across, and deposited us on a minor road leading to Mawlamyine—formerly Moulmein, famous for its pagoda‑adorned ridge.

The Sandalwood Hotel became our home for the night. After offloading our gear, we wandered separately. I strolled along the waterfront past crumbling colonial buildings and through the chaotic market, feeling as though I’d slipped back to 1826. Later, I climbed to the Kyaik‑Thanlan Pagoda, erected in 875 A.D. and said to house a relic of Buddha's hair. Afterwards, I met Linda, and we walked to the Mahamuni Pagoda before heading to the waterfront in search of dinner.

 

Mawlamyine

Mawlamyine was fascinating enough to warrant a full day. A morning walk through the market revealed the importance of chewing paan and using traditional makeup. While ancient societies worldwide have used face paint, few still apply it daily with such dedication. Nearly every woman—and quite a few men—wore it proudly. I found it delightful that both genders still wore the traditional sarong.

A tea house offered an excellent vantage point for watching life unfold. The clientele consisted mostly of longyi‑clad men with red, paan‑stained teeth, sipping sweet milk tea and chatting or reading the paper.

Later, we visited the enormous reclining Buddha located about 20 kilometres south of town—a structure so large it looked like it might roll over and crush a small village if startled.

The evening was spent strolling along the promenade and drinking beer at a local joint. Not a bad way to end the day.

 

Across the Tenasserim Plains to Thaton (70 km) 

Breakfast was included in the room rate, which always feels like winning a small lottery, even when the breakfast itself is only marginally edible. Once fortified, we headed toward Thaton, cycling past a parade of temples and golden stupa‑topped mountaintops that looked as though someone had sprinkled gold leaf across the landscape with reckless enthusiasm.

A short detour took us to a nearby waterfall—naturally with a stupa perched at the top, because Myanmar never misses an opportunity to place a religious monument somewhere precarious. After trudging up the stairs and snapping a few photos of the plains below, we returned to the bikes.

The ride to Thaton was blissfully flat, running across the Tenasserim plains. It was the sort of cycling day that makes you briefly believe you’re fitter than you actually are. We arrived early and checked into a basic guesthouse that was perfectly adequate, provided one didn’t look too closely at anything.

There wasn’t much to do in Thaton beyond walking to the Shwe Sar Yan Pagoda. It wasn’t the most spectacular Burmese temple, but it was pleasant enough and didn’t require climbing a mountain, which was a bonus. Our stroll back took us past a roadside restaurant with tables on the pavement—a perfect vantage point for watching Thaton’s daily life unfold while eating supper and trying not to get run over.

 

The Road to Kyaikto and the Golden Rock (70 km)

A good road led us to Kyaikto, where the conveniently located Happy Guest House lured us in with its promise of convenience rather than happiness. After offloading the bikes, showering, and grabbing lunch, Linda and I set off toward the famous Golden Rock.

Reaching the Golden Rock—also known as Kyaiktiyo Pagoda—required hailing a motorbike taxi to the base of the mountain, where enormous trucks waited to haul visitors up the steep pass. Each truck held about forty people, all packed in like produce being transported to market. Once full, the truck roared up the mountain with the reckless confidence of a vehicle that had never heard of brakes. Due to the gradient, no other vehicles were allowed up the pass, which was reassuring until you were actually on the truck.

At the top, a small community and three hotels clung to the mountainside. Fog rolled in with theatrical timing, and within minutes we could barely see each other. Still, we made our way to the Golden Rock, which balanced precariously on the cliff edge like a boulder attempting a circus trick.

The descent was by bus, no less terrifying, rattling down the mountain as though eager to reach the bottom before its bolts gave out.

 

Rural Detours and Lost Paths to Bago (119 km)

Breakfast was a lavish affair of fried noodles and egg—exactly the sort of fuel one needs before cycling 119 kilometres. Rural roads carried us past tiny settlements where time appeared to have paused sometime around 1953. Eventually, our path narrowed to a footpath and then ended altogether, forcing us to backtrack to the main road. This added several bonus kilometres to the day, which was not the kind of surprise one hopes for.

Upon reaching Bago, Linda located the Amara Gold Hotel, which was more than adequate and featured outdoor rooms that made loading and offloading the bikes wonderfully easy. After the day we’d had, this felt like luxury.  

Into the Old Capital

From Bago to Yangon, there were no rural routes, so we stuck to the motorway. As usual, the road was busy, and the closer we got to Yangon, the more the traffic resembled a slow‑moving stampede. Miraculously, we arrived unscathed.

Yangon is an ancient city founded at least a thousand years ago by the Mon people. According to legend, the Shwedagon Pagoda—its most famous landmark—was founded during the time of the Buddha. The city has since grown around it like a particularly enthusiastic vine.

Yangon is endlessly fascinating. Buddhist monks walk barefoot through the streets, men wear traditional longyi, and bicycle rickshaws remain a popular mode of transport. Colonial‑era buildings crumble elegantly, and the riverside location adds a certain charm that makes lingering irresistible.

The Sakura Tower, with its rooftop bar and restaurant, offered a perfect spot for a drink and a few photos of the city. Supper was at the aptly named Vista Bar, which provided a magnificent view of the beautifully lit Shwedagon Pagoda—glowing like a golden lighthouse guiding weary travellers toward dinner. 

The following day was spent in Yangon, a city with so many things to see and do that one could easily lose an entire week without noticing. We wandered, explored, stared at things, and generally behaved like two people with absolutely no idea where they were going but enjoying themselves anyway.

 

Leaving Yangon Behind - Okkan (101 km)

Getting out of Yangon was, once again, a nightmare. There was no alternative route—just the main road, which offered all the charm of cycling through a congested parking lot. Eventually, however, the city spat us out into the countryside, exactly where we wanted to be. Suddenly, we were back among familiar rice fields, lone monks, and fishermen who looked as though they had been part of the scenery for centuries.

Men in lungis pedalled bicycles with sidecars under bamboo hats, and women with painted faces sold wares from woven baskets balanced on their heads with the grace of circus performers. Parents squatted outside schools waiting to collect their little ones, and as always, the path led past Buddhist temples—some modest, others so lavish they looked like they’d been designed by someone with a gold‑leaf addiction.

Rudimentary houses and roadside stalls lined the way. Kids under umbrellas trudged home from school, and forgotten graveyards appeared at random intervals, adding a slightly gothic touch to the afternoon.

Lunch was a light affair from a roadside stall, and shortly afterwards, we rolled into Okkan, which offered surprisingly comfortable lodging. The staff were incredibly accommodating, and I had the distinct impression that not many foreigners chose Okkan as their holiday destination.

 

Easy Miles to Gyobingauk (93 km)

After breakfast, we pedalled on to Gyobingauk. The ride was effortless, mostly past rice paddies and temples, with occasional teeny hamlets and roadside stalls thrown in for variety. Gyobingauk itself didn’t offer much beyond a place to sleep, but its location halfway between Okkan and Pyay made it a convenient stopover. Sometimes practicality wins over excitement.

 

Along the Irrawaddy to Pyay (90 km)

The road to Pyay was flat and in good condition, making for easy pedalling. The area was rural, dotted with people fishing with rudimentary nets and paying respects at temples. Pyay welcomed us with the upmarket Hotel Irrawaddy, perched right on the river. A generous discount gave us a double room for $25—a bargain compared to other places and a welcome upgrade from the “functional but forgettable” lodgings of previous nights.

 

Sunrise Over Shwesandaw

There is something undeniably romantic about Myanmar. Perhaps it’s the vibrant colours, the hazy sunrises and sunsets, the women with painted faces, or the men in conical hats pedalling bicycles with sidecars. Maybe it’s the combination of all these things, woven together into a tapestry of gentle chaos.

Waking to the chanting of monks drifting across from the immensely impressive Shwesandaw Paya, one couldn’t help but fall a little in love with the place. Perched atop a central hill, Pyay’s Shwesandaw Paya is slightly taller than Yangon’s Shwedagon and dates from 589 BC—an age that makes even the oldest European cathedrals look like recent DIY projects.

 

Following the River to Aunglan (75 km)

We left Pyay as lady monks collected food, looking far more cheerful than their male counterparts. The road was rough but flat, leading us past beautiful scenes of rice fields under blue skies and colourful temples. Halfway through the day, the vegetation changed dramatically, becoming reminiscent of the Pampas in Argentina. Like the Pampas, this was cattle‑farming country.

Men on oxcarts greeted us cheerfully, while women in conical hats worked the fields with enviable efficiency. The road followed the Irrawaddy River, sometimes running flush beside it and at other times veering inland. Eventually, Aunglan signalled the end of the day’s ride.

 

Heat, Hills, and Hard Riding to Magway (140 km)

The stretch between Aunglan and Magway turned into one of those long, slow, soul‑testing cycling days when you begin to question all your life choices, including the one that put you on a bicycle in Myanmar in the first place. The road was bumpy, the hills were steep, and the heat was so oppressive it felt like cycling inside a malfunctioning oven.

Still, we churned our way up each hill with the grim determination of two people who had already come too far to quit. By the time we crawled into Magway, we were so exhausted we could have slept on a pile of gravel and called it comfortable.

 

A Long Glide to Chauk (120 km)

With legs that felt like they’d been replaced with damp noodles, we set off for Chauk. The first 90 kilometres were a gentle uphill, the kind that slowly drains your will to live, but the final stretch rewarded us with a steady downhill glide into town. Chauk offered a brand‑new establishment for $30, and we couldn’t have been happier. After the previous days’ trials, it felt like checking into the Ritz.

 

Into the Temple Plains of Bagan (45 km)

A short, effortless ride along a rural road led us to Bagan. The approach was lined with ancient temples, each one demanding at least one photograph, and possibly two. It was impossible not to stop and stare—Bagan has that effect on even the most jaded traveller.

 

Days Among the Pagodas

Bagan is said to have been the capital of the first Myanmar Empire, perched on the bank of the Ayeyarwady River and spread across 42 square kilometres. Built around 849 AD, it rose to prominence under King Anawrahta, who unified Burma under Theravada Buddhism. Over the next 250 years, rulers and wealthy citizens constructed more than 10,000 religious monuments. In 1287, the Mongols swept through and destroyed nearly all of them—because that’s what Mongols did.

Today, over 2,200 temples and pagodas remain, and I’m not exaggerating when I say they are everywhere. The people of Bagan live and work among these ruins; cattle graze between ancient stupas, kids play in dusty roads, and locals worship at temples older than most countries.

Bagan is magical—especially at sunrise and sunset, when the light turns everything gold and the whole plain looks like a dream someone forgot to wake up from.

Eventually, it was time to move on. A boat trip up the Irrawaddy River connected Bagan with Mandalay, sparing us a two‑day bicycle ride along a rough road. The boat also offered the chance to enjoy the mighty Irrawaddy, the country’s backbone and one of the most atmospheric rivers in Asia.

 

Mandalay — Monasteries and Gold Leaf

Gold leaf production is an ancient industry in Myanmar, and wandering the streets of Mandalay, I stumbled upon an alley where rhythmic pounding echoed like a giant heartbeat. Inside, muscled gold‑beaters hammered small packages with enormous hammers. I later learned that refined gold is liquefied, flattened, sandwiched between bamboo paper, and pounded for 30 minutes with 6‑lb hammers until it becomes the delicate gold leaf worshippers apply at pagodas. It’s a process that looks equal parts artistic and mildly dangerous.

Mandalay seemed to have an ancient monastery around every corner. Beautiful wooden buildings dating to the 1800s stood quietly, as though waiting for someone to admire them. The Shwenandaw Monastery was first—one of the most significant examples of traditional 19th‑century wooden architecture. Carved from teak, it was originally part of the Mandalay Royal Palace. When the capital moved, the building was dismantled, transported, and rebuilt as part of the new all‑teak palace in 1857. The amount of effort involved was staggering.

Equally impressive was the adjacent Kuthodaw Pagoda, situated on a 5.2‑hectare site and containing the entire Theravāda Buddhist scripture carved on 729 marble stelae—known as the “World’s Biggest Book.” Created between 1860 and 1868 by King Mindon, it is now included on UNESCO’s Memory of the World register. It’s hard not to feel humbled by a book you could literally walk through.

The last stop was the Shwe In Bin Monastery, built in 1895 by Chinese merchants. At the time of my visit, 35 monks lived there, and their chanting drifted through the grounds like a soundtrack to a very peaceful film.

At the puppet factory, I was astounded by the workers’ skill. Every puppet and every piece of clothing was handmade, and I could have spent hours watching them work. It was craftsmanship at its finest.

My final stop was the U Bein Bridge, said to be the world’s longest teak footbridge. Spanning Taungthaman Lake, it was wildly popular with tourists—though I didn’t see any other Caucasians exploring the area. The bridge and the fishermen would have made spectacular sunset photos, but sadly, I was too early. Timing, as always, is everything.

 

Storms on the Road to Meiktila (142 km)

From Mandalay, the plan was simple: cycle a leisurely 76 kilometres to Kume, check into one of the two guesthouses we’d confirmed the night before, and enjoy a relaxed afternoon. Naturally, Myanmar had other ideas.

We began with a stop at the U Bein Bridge, because one cannot leave Mandalay without paying homage to the world’s longest teak footbridge. The ride afterwards was effortless—one of those pleasant stretches where you briefly believe you’re a highly competent cyclist rather than someone who routinely forgets where they put their sunscreen.

Upon reaching Kume, however, both guesthouses suddenly announced they did not accept foreigners. This was delivered with the serene finality of people who had absolutely no intention of changing their minds. There was nothing to do but continue to Meiktila—another 75 kilometres away.

Fortunately, we were well‑rested, and the cycling was easy, at least until dark clouds gathered overhead with ominous enthusiasm. A loud crack of thunder signalled the beginning of a torrential downpour. A frantic scramble followed as we stuffed electronics into bags, after which we pedalled on with rain hammering down like an overzealous percussion section.

Eventually, the storm drifted off, leaving behind a mild tailwind that made the rest of the ride surprisingly pleasant. Seventeen kilometres from Meiktila, Linda suddenly pulled off the road. I wondered what catastrophe had occurred, but then realised she’d spotted a guesthouse. Rooms were $10, complete with air‑conditioning and hot showers. We couldn’t have been happier if they’d offered champagne and foot massages.

 

Southbound bus to Inle Lake

That evening, we discussed the route ahead and concluded that the main road offered very little of interest. Taking a bus to Inle Lake and spending our final days in Myanmar somewhere scenic sounded infinitely more appealing than cycling past another 200 kilometres of roadside dust.

A short ride took us to the Meiktila bus station, where minivans ran to Nyaung Shwe, the gateway to Inle Lake. Judging by the condition of our minivan, I doubted it would survive the steep mountain pass. It looked like a vehicle held together by hope and string. Miraculously, it made it—though we did stop twice for quick repair jobs that involved tools I’m fairly sure were not designed for automotive use.

The driver deposited us directly outside Inle Inn, which offered extremely comfortable accommodation for $18. By then it was late, leaving just enough time for a quick meal at the Indian restaurant before collapsing into bed.

 

Inle Lake, Nyaung Shwe - Fishermen at Dawn

I was up early, having arranged a boat to take me out on the lake for sunrise and, hopefully, a glimpse of the iconic fishermen. These “Leg‑Rowing Fishermen” of Inle Lake are famous for steering their boats with one leg. They stand on one leg, wrap the other around an oar, and somehow manage to fish with one free hand. It’s a manoeuvre that looks equal parts graceful and mildly impossible.

The sunrise was a disappointment—completely overcast, as though the sky had decided to take the morning off. Still, photographing the fishermen was great fun, even if doing so from a moving boat in low light felt like trying to take pictures during a minor earthquake.

 

Inle Lake - Festival Days on the Lake

We lingered around Inle Lake not only because it was wonderfully laid‑back—though it absolutely was—but also to experience the Phaung Daw U Pagoda Festival, one of Myanmar’s most famous celebrations. It lasts 18 days, which is impressive for any festival, especially one involving five Buddha images so thoroughly coated in gold leaf that they now resemble small, shiny dumplings rather than anything recognisably human.

A large ceremonial boat was constructed for the occasion, complete with a Golden Hintha (Hamsa) Bird figurehead that looked like it had been designed by someone with a flair for theatrical bird‑themed architecture. The Buddha images were placed on this barge and towed around the lake from village to village over the full 18 days. The towing was done by the leg‑rowers of Inle Lake, dressed in shiny, colourful costumes and rowing with one leg as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

Myanmar is home to around 135 ethnic tribes, and I learned that one of the oldest is the Padaung long‑neck tribe. They’ve managed to preserve many unique customs, including wearing stacks of brass rings around their necks. Legend has it that a tribe leader once dreamt a tiger would attack the community and break their necks, so he ordered all children to wear protective necklaces. The practice supposedly dates back to the 11th century. Contrary to popular belief, the neck isn’t actually stretched—the weight of the rings pushes the shoulders down, creating the illusion of a longer neck. These days, most rings are decorative and removable, which must make laundry day considerably easier.

 

The Long Bus Ride to the Border - Inle Lake to Myawaddy

We’d had so much fun at Inle Lake that we suddenly realised we needed to rush to the border before our visas expired. Tickets were arranged on the night bus, rumoured to be a direct service to the border. Rumours, as it turned out, were optimistic.

The coach left shortly after 16:00 and made it a grand total of 30 kilometres before grinding to a halt. Everyone watched with great anticipation as the driver produced a toolbox. After an hour of tinkering, the verdict was delivered: the bus was “kaput.” A replacement coach was summoned, and we all piled aboard like refugees from a mechanical disaster.

The ride was long and came without a toilet. If someone needed to use the bathroom, they simply asked the driver to stop, and the entire bus emptied out to “do the necessary” in the nearest available shrubbery. It was well past midday by the time we finally reached Myawaddy.

Linda and I unpacked the bicycles and pedalled to the Immigration Office, where we were stamped out of Myanmar. After waving the country goodbye, we headed to Thai immigration for our entry stamps and then returned to the First Hotel in Mae Sot. A meal and a beer were precisely what the doctor ordered.

 

Night Bus to Bangkok

We emerged at leisure and decided to spend the day in Mae Sot before taking the night bus to Bangkok. This gave us time to relax, wander around, and replace my mobile phone, which had reached the stage of technological decrepitude where even turning it on felt like an act of cruelty.

The ride to the bus stop was in the dark—a terrifying experience involving shadows, potholes, and the occasional stray dog with questionable intentions. The bus left at 20:00 and arrived at Bangkok’s bus station at 04:30. It was still pitch dark, but instead of waiting sensibly for daylight, we saddled up and headed into the city via a busy road. Reasonable people would have had a cup of coffee first. We, however, are not reasonable people. Miraculously, we made it to our guesthouse in one piece.

 

Farewell to the Road

I couldn’t sleep, despite having not slept all night. Eventually, I gave up and took a walk around the Khao San Road area before cycling to Bok‑Bok Bike for a service. Linda packed her bags for her midday flight to the Philippines, and just like that, another enjoyable ride in Southeast Asia came to an end.

 

 

Epilogue

Leaving Myanmar felt like stepping out of a vivid dream — one filled with painted faces, golden pagodas, and the steady hum of life along the Irrawaddy. Even as the bus rattled toward the border, the country lingered: monks at dawn, fishermen balancing on narrow boats, children waving from dusty roads.

Myanmar had been exhausting, exhilarating, and endlessly surprising. The roads tested us, the heat humbled us, and the distances stretched on, but the country gave back far more than it took. Back in Bangkok, with the city roaring around us, it was impossible not to feel a tug of nostalgia for the quiet mornings, the ancient temples, and the gentle chaos of the road.

It was a journey that left behind a simple truth: the world is always larger and lovelier than we remember — until we go out and meet it again.