With the monk no doubt making his own way to a different temple, I left the station and set out for the huge golden stupa of Shwedagon Paya, getting lost a mere hundred million times. After ogling at just the outside for five minutes, I began the climb to the inside. Halfway up I was stopped by a tiny Burmese lady who asked me for the entrance fee (I must admit that I was quite grateful for this interruption as it allowed me to stop and let my lungs stop rasping without doing that far too recognisable ‘Ooooh this unidentifiable heap of junk looks pretty interesting, let’s stop and contemplate it for 8 minutes, wheeeeeze, wheeeeeeeeeze [looks cautiously around to ensure nobody has figured out that I couldn’t care less about that haggard looking pointy stone, but I just want to stop so that that I don’t end up dying on the steps of a temple where four Burmese men half the size of me will have to labour in carrying me to the bottom of the stairs where I will no doubt be sold for noodle soup ingredients, the consumers of which will complain and demand a refund because there were too many chewy bits] ’. I asked how much the ticket was and the woman suddenly stopped – I thought she was trying to think of the highest number that she thought I would pay (cynical? Moi?), but after a couple of seconds she just let rip with the most almighty belch before nonchalantly telling me five dollars. Through fits of giggles, the root of which the woman simply couldn’t fathom, I handed her over the pristine notes and continued with the climb.
At the top, the stairs opened out to reveal a huge gold pagoda in the centre of the courtyard. I arrived just as the sun was setting and the effect was really rather stupa-endous (ha). I walked around the pagoda watching the sun’s rays gradually turn from yellow to red as they bounced off the golden surfaces and women chatted with each other whilst simultaneously sweeping the floor before they stepped. Though this seemed pretty pointless from my perspective, as they were plonking the brooms down so hard that any creatures that might have avoided being trodden on would have been unable to escape the wrath of the brooms and would have undoubtedly have been smashed flat into the shiny sacred ground.
With sadness that I would likely never bump into the buddhiful (not sure if this pun works too well, but it is now done, so deal with it) monk again, I dejectedly boarded a bus which would take me over night in the silver light on the road to Mandalay, HEY (if you don’t get this reference then I’m afraid we can no longer be friends…and let’s be honest, I probably didn’t like you before anyway). Five hours into the journey the bus stopped for a toilet break in the middle of nowhere. I practically teleported myself outside, but alas there were no bushes. Unable to contemplate the idea of another five hours without a toilet break, I ran behind the bus, checked there were no cars coming, and simply pretended that the exhaust fumes blowing into my face were some form of luxurious steam bath. Unfortunately I soon noticed headlights rounding the corner and two cars got the enchantment of seeing their lights reflecting off my shiny white bottom. Coincidentally, screaming does not make it any easier to pull your trousers up…
(I’ve just realised quite how many stories about my wee I have related to you over the past ten months. Sowee! HAHAHA).
Once we’d got to Mandalay, McBeige and I took a local bus to Amarapura where it was a short stroll to the world’s longest teak bridge. We arrived at 8.30am before any of the tourist buses or hawkers had arrived. This allowed us a very serene 30 minutes of watching monks peacefully wandering over the bridge whilst children sat fishing below.
Anyone who has had the misfortune of experiencing McBeige and I collectively will verify, serenity is not something that lasts long when we’re together, and we had taken all of five steps before we both simultaneously spun round in confusion having heard someone singing Shakira. We spent the following 29 minutes skipping along the bridge with two small Burmese boys, all repeatedly singing the only line of the song that anyone actually knows – the rest is just warbling and bum wriggling right? Yay! Let’s take our clothes off whilst we sing about how much we hate being objectified. Good one Shakira…