We last left you hanging, as it were dear reader, on a sheer precipice of anticipation. Do the plucky couple make it to the safety of dear old Rangoon or are they waylaid by bandits on the coach trail round the desolate plains of western Mon State? Au contraire mon ami, we survive and my negligently late entry of record now appears.

Bago. Departing from Mawlamyine we hit Bago, a dusty and industrious former capital of some ancient empire or other which sadly did not excite and all I have to relate of this time was an anecdote. Peering over the railing of a small bridge spanning a rubbish-choked culvert (which no doubt delivers great benefit during the monsoon) we saw wonders performed as the dried-up football field for a horde of children. Woe betide the player who overshoots and lands his ball in the greenish, greyish slime trickling either side. The 2 hour train ride to Yangon was an experience in cattle class, an on-board policeman unceremoniously evicted some off-duty policemen and a few ladies and seated us together. The monk who was squatting on our reserved seat, was left in glorious isolation as he contemplated his smartphone. Monks occupy an honoured place in everyday life, VIP seats in buses and dispensors of wisdom. Steel shutters raised, we rattled our way to Yangon along the picture-perfect countryside, every square inch tilled this close to Yangon, the lack of cold storage for produce meaning time-to-market is key. Hawkers selling skewers of BBQ’d baby chicks and vague and frightening bags of uninterminable contents waded along the packed standing commuters.

Yangon (the city formerly known as Rangoon). Blasting into the furnace as we entered the commercial capital (and former country capital) of Yangon and its welcoming embrace of 37 degrees. The city is a grid, logical and easily navigable. The city is a ethnic mishmash with Indians, Chinese, western expats and the grand swathe of Myanmar ethic diversity. Glorious traffic jams of cars were noticeable as they have blanket-banned scooters and motorcycles. Sweating our way along the wide boulevards, we stumbled towards the shining 325ft stupa which dominates Yangon, the Shwedagon Paya (pagoda). Shwedagon is a golden Buddhist temple which rises above the flat city and the most important temple in the country. It is covered in 27 tonnes of gold and jewels (5,448 diamonds, 2,317 rubies, sapphires and other gems, 1,065 golden bells and a single 76 carat diamond at the top), belted by a ring of 64 smaller golden stupas which made for an impressive view as we emerged from the covered walkway into the blazing sun. Many smaller pagodas on the hilltop play host to dozing pilgrims, chanting monks and families stuffing cash into donation boxes in order to cast off karma for themselves and their families. We followed this with a visit to the National Museum where I share the description of the LP, ‘appallingly labelled and lit’, despite this it still showcased the historical grandeur of the old monarchies and the deep and diverse history in this land.

Weakening, we elected to treat ourselves to food which we knew we would like. Dinner with a local friend of a friend took us to the best Thai food we had eaten on our whole trip (including Thailand!), Green Gallery, and a cafe of stunning coffee and food artisanship, Easy, hosted us for a half day. Then onto a night bus to the north and cooler climes.

Inle Lake (Nyaungshwe). The lake is roughly in the middle of the country and is a delight of people living completely enmeshed and dependent on a shallow lake filled with fish and encircled with marshland. We arrived at 6am and immediately booked a day-long boat trip in a carved, wooden dart powered by two children steering a behemoth of an engine. They churned us at full speed towards a fisherman performing an acrobatic feat balancing one foot on the boat, one leg wrapped around his paddle and holding aloft a conical bamboo fishing net. Despite the beauty and the ‘classic’ nature of the iconic photograph, my hand was stayed by the cheapening effect of the row of boats before us lining up to stop, glide alongside as the fisherman showed us some flapping fish (a sort of carp) and asking for money. Grafting fisherman vs. performance fisherman. Does the viewer at home know the difference? More highlights included our Japanese companion with 120 countries under his belt and honking laugh, jumping cat monastery sans jumping cats, whole villages built on stilts joined by flimsy threads of bamboo bridges, whole vegetable gardens floating on marsh weeds, bobbin gently in our wake, narrow creeks grooved into the mud reminiscent of a journey to the heart of darkness in Apocalypse Now and our eventual destination. Inthein Paya is a stunning cascade of ancient stupas erupting from a small hill. We wandered in the heat amongst these monuments to piety, the occasional tree bursting out of the top, ruined and crumbling bricks and the occasional restored and freshly mortared devotedly with the help of an e.g. family Schwartz from Germany.

Kalaw and a trek. Embarking on the cultural mission of our journey, we trekked over two nights from Inle to Kalaw through farmland and gentlest rolling countryside. Guided by a physics student earning money for his university degree (US$500 per year) who also luckily had four languages under his belt, we were led into a dry land studded with the occasional tree, villagers toting slingshots (for snakes, three villagers killed in past few years), ochre-stained earth which feeds the whole country. Shan State is the most fertile region of Myanmar and grows ginger, onions, potatoes, chillis, mustard seed, eggplants, pumpkin, tomatoes … all of which we sampled that evening in the home of a villager. There was no electricity and the primitive conditions allowed us to more closely observe their lives as ruled by heavy chores; up at cockerels crow, ladling water to wash by hand, pounding wheat in mortars, threshing grains with reed pans, cooking with kindling cut and carried from deep in the countryside, bullocks harnessed to wooden carts hauling produce, furrows in the hard sunbaked fields prepared for rice season by hacking sharp hoes. All the time, development was apparent. The occasional house finished in homemade cement blocks, one lonely tractor, sun panels providing enough to charge a car battery for two bulbs and 5 smartphones, proud family portraits with children in academic robes and progress/it’s all worthwhile. I hope they can find a solution to the very apparent slash-and-burn approach to agriculture though as it seemed the scarcity of trees was not being increased by replanting. So long as they depend on wood to heat and cook I guess it will continue.

Kalaw itself was noticeably cooler and an old British ‘hill station’ meaning somewhere the British escaped to when the heat got too much in the cities. Delicious Nepali dinner, coincidental meeting of S.’s colleague in the market and a day of blogging and study in the Sprouting Seeds cafe where westerners go to chew time when they are waiting for a nightbus.

Title note: Burmese Days, George Orwell