Bagan, Myanmar

March in mainland Southeast Asia featured hot and dry weather. Mind you, the thick air hadn't completely dried up; the humidity still managed to drench clothing daily in a combination of sweat and sunscreen. The insane monsoons came less frequently and everything looked like it was on the verge of dying. If you stayed out in the heat long enough, you'd share nature's sentiments.

Renting bikes seemed like a good idea since Bagan was a historic temple wonderland. It trumped Angkor Wat, Cambodia's revered temples, nearly lost to the ugly hands of development and commercialization, in my opinion. In Bagan, transportation options ranged from rickshaws,  to horse-drawn buggies to bikes. The independence of the latter appealed to us the most, so Mariano, Bryan and I took off on rental bikes.

In a matter of minutes, the town thinned out and for kilometres, the brown and red hues of the earth and temples filled the landscape. The sight of the first modest temple along our path made us squeeze the brakes and hop off. What a gem! Only minutes outside the town, we had already struck temple hunting gold. Not to mention, we could see others on the flat horizon. Shutters clicked as Mariano and I explored the different angles of the temple to capture the stupa, the arches, the doorways and Buddha statues.

Bryan entertained our over-enthusiasm for the moment but wouldn't let us stop again until an impressively sized temple came upon us. We had devoured our appetizer and needed to maintain our appetites.  Bryan soon made the call that a nearby climbable temple would fit the bill just nicely.

The absence of other travellers gave us the confidence to leave our bikes unlocked. We carried our shoes up the steps to the top of the temple, where the altitude graced us with an unforgettable view. Hundreds of temples dotted the landscape, their pointed domes reaching up to the skies. Green trees patched in a few areas of the dry landscape.

A man climbed the stairs after us to sell paintings. Mariano and I declined and kept our distance while Bryan had a full-on conversation with him about the historic aspects of the temple. Bryan insisted that he still didn't plan to buy anything as he had done from the beginning. His frankness made me smile as I'm sure I'd be too polite and end up buying a painting.

"They're nice and all, but I don't want or need one," Bryan told us on our way back to our bikes.

The hot noon sun beamed down on our necks and backs, so we stopped for lunch. The enthusiastic owners offered us beer and Burmese cigarettes called cheroots in addition to the meal. The guys found them strong while women I travelled with later found them less potent. I didn't make a habit of smoking tobacco so I declined.

As we tackled the home stretch to our guesthouse, Bryan's back tire kept going flat. It came to a point with no more shops or people to lend their pumps. That tire had been ridden to the point where the rim had warped. We stopped outside a large temple none of us had the energy to visit. 

Bryan urged us to continue onward without him. Although we protested, his argument that there was no sense in the three of us waiting out in the heat when two-thirds of our bikes still functioned. We felt a little bad, stranding him in a flat endless stretch of desert and a relatively truck-free highway, but there didn't seem to be another option beyond us all getting heatstroke.

After an hour of nonstop cycling in direct sunlight where the term heat wave actually came to life, we arrived at the guesthouse, exhausted. The woman at the front informed us that the dorm, which we had reserved and waited on, wasn't available. However, we could share a double room for the same price. We looked at each other and shrugged. It would just be a more intimate version of the dorms, with a good looking Italian photojournalist.

I only had a slight concern as I had been to Italy before and had been clucked (or whatever you call that sound) at, hollered at and hit on by an assortment of Italian men. I hoped that the fact that I was often mistaken for a sixteen-year-old might serve a deterrent, even though it really hadn't been thus far in Asia.  

At this leg of my trip, I was still erring on the side of caution with regard to my safety. There were stories in the news about public gang sexual assaults and murders of women on this side of the world. My friend's father would send her updates urging her not to travel alone, but she did anyway. If I remember correctly, the victim's husband had been on the bus to witness the whole account, so being alone had nothing to do with it. Still, the news had a few of us taking off to travel solo on edge.

My response in Myanmar was to avoid exposing my shoulders or anything above my knees outside my guesthouses. I also found it more respectful and better to avoid sunburns. There was no need to become a lobster and the butt of the locals' jokes. Until this point, I relied on my baggiest and most unflattering clothes to give me a plain, less approachable vibe to avoid excessive male attention. But now, I decided I'd forgo caution against male relative strangers for convenience and to save an extra $5 US a night. The things I did for money.  

I still worried about our buddy out in the heat. Mariano shared my concerns, and we rented out a local's truck to tour the area. We did this after talking to the owners of the rented bikes who were not at all surprised the bike had broken down. My credo for Burmese bike rentals was 'Don't rent unless you're willing to walk it back'. An hour later, we didn't manage to find our Irish friend, but we did get a less exhausting, albeit pricier, tour of the temples.

Later that night, we all found each other, including the lost Irishman and German cousins who had arrived with us last night on the bus. It started off as a candlelit supper between Mariano and me at a place Bryan had recommended earlier today until the Germans showed up, laughing at our intimate set up, and joined us.

I found it a bit ridiculous; sharing a room had turned Mariano and me into a couple, apparently. The feeling was especially present when other couples would see us leaving our room together and asked how our trip was going as if we hadn't just met days ago. Returning the pleasantries, we'd reply "good" as we locked our door and left together.

We didn't see Bryan until we returned to the guesthouse. Moments later, we were out the door in search of more drinks. I had run back to the washroom, and finding everyone gone, I lagged a little at the guesthouse. After asking a few friendly locals where a group of foreigners had gone, I stayed and chatted with a Burmese jack of all trades, who worked in Mandalay, and his visiting Asian American friend.

If I ever needed anything in Mandalay, he insisted I call him at the number on the business card he handed me. His friend was shocked he had business cards. After asking for one and being met with a refusal, he deduced they were only for 'the ladies'. Somehow I doubt that the Burmese businessman would have appreciated helping me out at 4 a.m. when I finally did arrive there later in my trip.

The businessman insisted on walking me all the way to the restaurant something he dubbed too dangerous for a woman to do alone in the dark. He was local, so I took his word for it even though it seemed unnecessary. I could actually see the restaurant from where we initially stood outside the guesthouse. The group I was meeting raised their eyebrows, laughing when I arrived with a random Burmese chaperone who left moments later. Only in Myanmar.

The goal of the night, which I felt mildly bad about but partook in nonetheless, was to see just how long we could keep this bar open. Everything in Myanmar I had seen so far closed very early. By 9 or 10 p.m., most places had shut their doors and locked their rather high gates. We had this place open until nearly 1 a.m. serving us, and only us, peanuts and beer. We were convinced that if we kept ordering, they would continue to serve us as it was money coming in. They were probably staying up to watch the European football game Bryan was waiting for, which started around 3 a.m.

Returning to the guesthouse, down the street which was now a ghost town, we found the gate was closed and locked. The German girls climbed over the fence quite effortlessly and stood, looking at me from the other side. The Italian encouraged me to climb. I threw my flip flops through the iron gate and stuck my feet between the bars, using my upper body to get over the eight-foot fence.

The Italian caught me when my inebriated reflexes refused to cooperate. He helped push me up a little higher so I could get up and straddle the top. I had enough sober cells left to take care not to stab myself in the lady parts with the pointy iron stakes. That would have really hindered my biking plans for the following day. The women called out "jump" so I slowly lowered myself. I was caught by the Germans, nearly taking them out in the process.  We got everyone over without waking the guesthouse.

Mission accomplished. 

A/N: If you're interested in seeing more of Bagan, check out the external link for my Bagan Flickr album. It's an absolutely stunning area that I highly recommend (the castle in my profile picture hails from that area). Thank you again for reading. If you have the time to vote and comment, please do. I love to hear from readers :)