Arc'Teryx Freeride Academy, St Anton am Arlberg, February 2023

The second annual Arc’Teryx Academy took place in St Anton am Arlberg on the 2nd to the 5th of February, and I was a very willing participant as the Arc’Teryx community here in St Anton has become an integral part of my life (all year round) propelling me to try new things and build a better and healthier me.

“Hello, I’m Harry, the Bergführer” said the man standing at my kitchen door as I lamented over my burnt banana bread. He had a calm demeanour, with gentle eyes which gave an impression that he had seen a lot but was phased by little.

“Why hello Harry the Bergführer! Welcome”. And so, the much anticipated Arc’teryx Freeride Academy weekend had begun.

Sure, the weekend held the promise of a variety of clinics, products to try, and giveaways, but strongly underlying Arc’Teryx is the theme of community, and they provide the platform to push your personal limits whilst in the proximity of like minded people (while of course looking classy in their gear).

Last year I enrolled in the “Ladies Freeride Day” in the academy, with the intention of making my first foray in to the tantalising world of off-piste, but things were still awry from Covid, the snow conditions were questionable, and when the day presented itself with flat light, I was forced  to make a measured retreat and hold out for a year.

“Harry the Bergführer” and I sat in the kitchen to have a coffee, and it took him a good ten minutes to work out that I could not speak German properly, which flattered me as it normally takes one sentence before someone switches to English. Throughout our festival of Ginglish (a hybrid of German and English), we got to know each other a little, he had a look at the programme, and let me know that I would be doing my “Ski Touring For Beginners” the next day with Alex, with whom he would be sharing a room. 

“Harry the Bergführer” and Alex’s moustache

The next morning, I woke up at 0700 in my sub-human pre-coffee state, and opened my bedroom door to head down to breakfast and alleviate the coffee situation, when I almost had a collision at the bottom of the stairs with a man I could only assume was Alex. I was immediately perplexed trying to guess this spritely individual’s age. Was he a younger man who had partied too much, or an older one with a bit of the “Peter Pan” syndrome going on? To be fair, the whispers of what I think was an attempted moustache did have a big part to play in the ambiguity of his vintage.

As we arrived in the kitchen, “Harry The Bergführer” introduced me as the “Chefin”(“boss lady” around these parts)  and I articulated that this was only the case at breakfast and launched into a nervous ramble about how I was a bit special, particularly when it came to ski touring as I could not work out the bindings.

After breakfast,  I took the bus and was  still filled with the stomach churning that I had woken up with, a feeling I get every time I challenge myself in a new way, but it is never something that a few 80’s anthems on my EarPods can’t fix. I am not “Simply the Best” but Tina Turner makes me feel like I am.

St. Anton had a crackle about it, possibly because of the fresh powder that had been forecast a few weeks before. To an extent, the “dump of the season” had been anticlimactic, but there was enough for it to constitute powder days and have weekenders swarming to the slopes. In the epicentre of all of the weekend chaos was the Academy Village, a series of well organised tents with clear directions. Obviously the first priority was to register, and I then headed to the meeting point where Alex was standing with two very lovely ladies. Coco, who was our French Arc’teryx pro, and Lisa, a journalist from “The Pill” magazine. Both were wide eyed, gorgeous, open, and friendly, making me feel at ease. 

I went off to change my boots at my locker, and the area was filled with the urgency of people wanting to get on the slope. As I sidled through, there were two people in a frenzy yelling at the staff who were renting them their equipment, and I thought to myself how lucky I was to be getting away from all of that today. After my boots, I went back to the meeting point where we resumed our relaxed banter. Alex said that we were still waiting for three more people, and as if on queue a lovely German lady (who was raised in the UK) joined us, and I was feeling that it was going to be a wonderful day. We waited another 5-10 minutes before Alex decided that the other two were not coming, so we picked up our touring skis ready to start our adventure. But the last two did rock up in a fluster, and it was none other than the ones that had been yelling at the staff in the ski hire. They immediately started complaining rather than apologising for being 20 minutes late.

Coco and Lisa managed to placate them, and it was relaxed enough as we headed to Galzig Bahn. The queue was nothing like I had seen in my 12 years of living here, and I suggested that we just get the bus (or a taxi) straight to Verwall where the tour was taking place and skip the practice run. This suggestion was met with agreement by all (almost) but it set the wild cards off again as they had purchased a day ticket, and insisted on going and waiting in the long line for a refund.  It was 1030 by the time we finally arrived at Wagner Hutte in Verwall where the tour was to begin. After a check of everyone’s bindings (as all are different) and our skins were on –“skinning up” now has a whole new meaning for me – we set off gently along the road.

Touring requires a certain rhythm and a foreign skill set. Reverberating through my head were the tips I had received on the few previous occasions when I had toured up pistes, the main one being, “pretend that you are a ballerina drawing lines in the sand with your toes” and the other being “stay upright and use the legs.” As there was no incline, I found myself sampling the movements and getting into the aforementioned rhythm. We then stopped briefly in a clearing for some avalanche safety training before we started our ascent.

As we made fresh tracks, the sun was peeking through the trees like first sunlight through the curtains in the morning, and I felt moments of calmness : it was a poetic contrast to the crowds in St. Anton, and we only stopped occasionally to either slurp some water or tea, remove a layer, or take photos. Some were merrily chatting, but I was just happy to be away from the house, the crowds and my responsibilities for a few hours.

Once we had moved up through the forest, the majestic Patteriol (3056m) came into view. For some reason this mountain reminds me of Lisa Simpson’s hair, and I almost  avoided verbalising this as the mercurial mountains around me in both the Verwall Gruppe and Lechtaler group garner such a level of respect that, after exploring in summer, I am now more inclined to address them formally and tip my hat.

As we headed up “Wild Ebene”, the terrain got steep enough that scissor turns –– official name “kick turns!”–– were required and the weather concurrently moved in. The snow was no longer twinkling but morphing into an ominous flat grey. My legs were starting to burn, and the rhythm I had established became more of a trudge with my skis leaving the ground a little too often and I felt more like an awkward giraffe than a ballerina. The lady in our “wildcard pair” started to get somewhat stressed, and at one point became completely overwhelmed by those kicking scissor things. She could not get her ski around with confidence, and lay floundering in the snow whilst having a conniption for what seemed like five minutes. I asked if I could help and she grunted, yelled, and may as well have put her hand dramatically to her brow and said, “Leave me and save the others”. Coco and Lisa gently talked to her, as the four of us were behind the others, and we resumed. Alex was understanding and waited patiently up the top.

We then had a break, and I imagine on a clear day,  this would be the moment of exhilaration, achievement and a chance to absorb the surroundings. After changing our boots and bindings to “ski” mode, Alex  asked Coco to lead the way down, and she did so with the most elegant turns. As the slope was exposed, the cold weather had taken an immediate effect on the quality of the snow rendering it crusty and heavy. They say that when you ski tour, you “earn your turns”, but I feel that I had been overcharged for these ones as the 5km tour relegated me to a snowplough on the descent. There was also a slight snow shortage when we came back through the forest meaning I had a run in with a few rocks.

We eventually arrived back at Wagner Hütte, where I wolfed down some Knödels (Austrian dumplings) and a coffee before the bus back to St. Anton, which of course our wild cards almost missed from faffing.

Following some downtime, I got ready for the “Arc’Teryx Film Tour”. Even  though I was weary, I was determined to make the most of the social aspect of the weekend also. The Arlbergsaal was full of eager people in beanies ready to see 5-7 short films, and each one delivered. The films had a common thread of pushing personal limits in wild adventures of soul searching. The last one struck a chord as it questioned the source of creativity, and this is a question I have often pondered. For me, creativity can be found in the most obscure and surprising places, but I am yet to discover a finite recipe, nor am I sure I ever will, but one base ingredient is a dance outside one’s comfort zone . I transitioned into my slumber that evening with these thoughts in my mind.

The next day I was due to partake in the “Atomic” clinic, where you try the equipment starting with piste skis and eventually moving onto “fat skis' ' for powder. I came down to breakfast where “Harry the Bergführer '' was donning glasses and studiously eating his breakfast. I went to the balcony and saw that it had been raining, prompting me to almost lose my nerve about powder skiing. Inching dangerously close to pulling out of  my clinic,  a plethora of well worn excuses came trippingly out of my mouth, starting with how the flat light caused stress on the screws in my ankle, but “Harry the Bergführer” was having none of it, and he patiently waited for the bullsheisse to finish tumbling out. Then, possibly for my benefit, he opened the balcony door, got down on his hands and knees and did a snow analysis. I would not have been surprised if he had pulled out a stethoscope, provided a diagnosis, and a prescription of “harden up” tablets. He did deduce that it had, indeed, been raining and that I should indeed, logically go out.

The procedure was the same as the morning before, checking in and then heading to the group at the Atomic Tent. Two lovely brothers were sorting the skis, and as I was partaking in the official clinic, I was given priority for skis. The initial idea was that we start with piste skis and then slowly transition step by step to fat skis. However, given the snow conditions and the fact that we had a pro Arc’Teryx skier with us, Matthew, our genuinely enthusiastic guide made an executive decision to go straight to the core of the day with fat skis.

Mathew,’s smile rarely left his face

With our Arc’Teryx athlete, Craig

We started with a run underneath the Galzigbahn, then we went up again and turned left coming down Maienwasen. I was slowly starting to get the feel of the skis, which were a confronting contrast to the heavy racing skis designed for piste skiing that I normally wore: these were more malleable, and my confidence steadily increased. We then did another run down to the right, and after we had come down to the lifts again we saw three helicopters flying up to the mountains, including a police helicopter that had all the skiers (not just in our group) speculating. Again I was reminded of the seriousness of the adventure I was partaking in.

Off piste skiing has a very different feeling to it than “poodling” around on piste. There seems to be a network of communication akin to Formula One racing where information on conditions and incidents is constantly coming in via teammates and the pit crew. By the end of the next gondola up Nasserein, it had been determined that there had been an avalanche in the gully, and the details were starting to come through.

My “fat skis”

On days like this there was no stopping for lunch. Matt’s full-tilt attitude had not dissipated, so we stopped briefly –more like a fat ski drive by– for a panini at Hex cafe, and anyone who wanted to try different skis could, then it was straight up Rendl. I had never ventured to the off-piste area of Rendl before, but during this run, the sun was lowering behind the mountain, and we were getting the very last of its light. It was here that I had my moment, or the moment that I had only heard about. My confidence and rhythm came together and I felt like I was floating. Even though it was brief, the exhilaration and the taste of the “soul crack” will forever be etched in my mind. 

After the open magical slope, we once again came down through the trees and again the snow conditions were scratchy,  but, having grown up in Australia, this was a  medium I was confident with. 

When we got to the bottom of Rendl, I was starting to feel lethargic, and was mentally toeing the lines of my limits. Was it a sensible time to call it a day, or should I push through one more run? We then took the chairlift up again, and on the way, one of our group received some devastating news regarding a friend in an avalanche. in a different Austrian ski resort. This made everything a little too real for me, I was rattled and excused myself: I had pushed it hard enough, and was calling it a day.

I went back to the Arc’Teryx village, where people were sipping on delicious warm beverages, and then went home to reflect on the weekend. Would I do it again? I can say yes, without flinching. What’s next? Hopefully a ski tour to a summit that I have done in the summertime with an overnight stay in a hut. 

Do I know what the source of creativity is? Still no, but I am willing  to spend my life trying to find out. 

The Man of the Market - A Yangon Short Story

PANZUNDAUNG MARKETS, YANGON 2017

Sauntered? Swaggered? Sidled? 

Nope, none of these come even close to an iota of his approach. It was as though this old tiger got a whiff of foreigner from the other side of the market, catapulted himself over roaming chickens, stray dogs, and merchants to get to me in order to both ask me some very pressing questions, and practice his English.  

This is not the man of that market, but surely of another.

It was 0730 on a weekday morning, and peak hour at the Panzundaung Markets on the edge of Downtown Yangon. Located on the first bend of the Panzundaung Creek, it’s a hive of activity — even by Yangon standards — and adding an extra chaotic layer are the boats spluttering back and forth from No. 3 Ward in the searing heat or torrential rain: it tends to be one, the other, or both. Even after all this time I still get lost in these markets, but there is a routine once I find my starting point which is my flower lady. She has the best lilies, and in peak season they come in a kaleidoscope of colours: reds, oranges, yellows and pinks. Saying that, I always buy too few as I feel disloyal to my other flower lady on Maha Bandula Road who practices my Burmese with me, so I also pay her bi-weekly visits. Neither of them know about the other: there is no need to learn how to articulate that in Burmese. 

Following that, I go and get a cup of tea in one of the sheds where groups of old men play games with beer bottle caps, and it is quite a serious business. If they are not playing then they are reading papers and arguing about the contents with great passion. As soon as you get in there you are deprived of circulating air, and the sweat starts pouring as though you had entered a European sauna. Although mildly uncomfortable and not aesthetically gratifying, it is one on the feelings that is always at the forefront of my mind when I am away from Yangon and dreaming. You may be wondering why I get the flowers first? Well, it is my attempt to “blend in” as much as one can in my situation, and allude to going about my daily business as normal. I then go for breakfast at a stand perched on the edge of the sidecar thoroughfare as not only are their noodles delicious, but it is the perfect place to watch this world go by.

On this particular morning in 2017,  I was quietly trying to learn about noodles — if “quietly” is such a thing given that I am a 6’ white woman with a booming yet husky voice, well  out of the tourist area, wearing a tailor made Longyi (off the rack do not fit me for a plethora of reasons), and trying to learn Burmese — whilst attempting to order them . It had become quite interactive and A-Ma was helping me by waiting patiently for me to read the Burmese word and was then lifting up the corresponding noodles from big barrels which would surely be empty in the next few hours. Many people were coming and going, mostly getting bags of takeaway as they were laden with all sorts of ingredients, and this was the last stop before heading home from work. However, many lingered, and even though they pretended to not be interested, their shyness gradually dissipated and  the furtive sideways glances gave way eventually to sweetness and giggles. After a purposefully prolonged dance, I ordered my soup and she went about making it with the dexterity that comes from the volumes she prepares daily: as if in one fluid movement, the noodles, followed by the broth and the dried fish cut with blunt scissors, were prepared and in front of me. 

Almost out of breath, he arrived at the same time as the soup, wearing a wonderfully bright Hawaiian shirt atop a well worn Longyi: he had obviously made quite the effort, and it was reinforced by a whiff of an unfamiliar cologne which hit me squarely on my snout. His two remaining front teeth were a testament to his love for the Betel Quid, but instead of having the parcel circulating on his gums, he was munching on what appeared to be a cookie. 

“Where is your husband”? he partly demanded, as this knowledge is often imperative for Burmese men of a certain vintage. 

“Oh, I don’t have a husband”. 

Simultaneously perplexed and flabbergasted. 

“But who is going to look after you when you’re old”? 

“I have no need for a husband, and I like to look after myself”. 

Pure shock, then a small monologue — doused in pride —  about how he had a son in Singapore who was going to look after him when he was old. He then declared, to me and all the ladies, with a double layer of suaveness and community spirit which is rife in Myanmar,  that he was going to have to buy me breakfast as he was very worried that I didn’t have a husband. 

Whilst this was all going on, something quite frightful happened. You see, I have mentioned that I had my fresh soup, and that he had two teeth and was munching a cookie right?  Well, as he was talking at me, I saw, as if in slow motion, I saw a morsel of the cookie project itself out of his mouth and into the air, and then watched it land in my soup with a small gerplonk. That left me in a bit of a predicament as I did not want to offend the beautiful lady that had been helping me, nor did I think my exotic eating habits could stretch that far. So whilst he was moderately gently educating me on the merits of having a husband and children, I was trying to navigate the situation without offending anyone. 

Eventually he left (after so nicely paying for my breakfast) and I went through my books and found out how to ask to take it away. Whilst searching for this my eyes skipped over “Long time no see” in my notes. 

A certain amount of time passed, anywhere between three and five minutes is my guess, but who knows as the cookie projectile itself seemed to last about 15 seconds. My noodles were ready to go, I had my fresh lilies in hand, and I was about to stand up when he approached again with what appeared to be even more surprised at my lack of having a husband. It was as though he had gone away, thought about it, shaken his head, taken the last bite on his cookie (as his hands were now empty), and simply decided that it could not be true. 

Upon his return, I said, “Ma Twe Da Jabi Naw” and every single delightful lady in my proximity, young and old could not hold back the laughter. I am not as sure now as I was then that it was my attempt at sarcasm which elicited this reaction, as since that occasion, a strong majority of the time, when I say, “long time no see” the reaction is often puzzlement as they have just seen me the day before. Whether it was the sarcasm, or my rudimentary attempts at Burmese, it will always remain a mystery, but they were definitely laughing at something.  

He then said, “I still can’t believe you don’t have a lover”. 

“Oh, I never said that. I have no shortage of lovers”, and with that got up, took my now redundant breakfast and thirsty lilies, politely bade farewell, and left him gasping for words and grabbing for a Betel Quid. 

Innkeeper's Tales - Part 1

Transparent Showers, Nosy Neighbours, and Shots of Schnapps: My Adventures Running an Austrian AirBnb

The Innkeeper's Tales is an ongoing series wherein we cajole the charming characters behind hotels we love to give us a peek under the covers and behind the curtains of their adventures in hospitality. Natasha Hecher was already a regular Fathom contributor when life took a turn and she ended up running her mother's Austrian AirBnb.

Somewhere in the throes of my globetrotting 30s, I resolved that children and tangibles were not for me, as my character (and dreams) were more aligned to a whimsical and possession-free existence.

But the universe had other ideas, and here I am, somewhere in the vicinity of 38 (again), living my mother’s dream of curating and running a 300-year-old guest house in Pettneu am Alberg in Tirol, Austria.

My life consists of stray cats breaking in, hedgehogs living in the garden, an underground Yahtzee ring, a plethora of strapping young men calling me Auntie Tashie (as I bake them fresh pies made with apples from the tree in the garden, while wearing a pink button-up sweater, just to complete the fantasy), an elderly neighbour who watches way too much porn, and a parade of travellers coming through, bringing their worlds to me.

My transition to badass lady boss has been an adventure in itself. As I type, I’m sitting on my mother’s throne in the kitchen, reminiscing about the last four years, no distractions except for occasional gusts of wind, a humming dishwasher, and Janis Joplin on the speaker stoking that badass fire.

The last conversation I had with my mother in late 2017 – after I had just declared that I was giving up my existence as a Jägermeister-guzzling waitress in the Alps to become a writer in a third-world country – revolved around my aspirations. She was wondering what direction my life was heading in, and I said I was unsure, but with experience in banking, stand-up comedy, travel writing, waitressing, and 43 countries traveled, I assured her that as long as I was always moving forward, I was content.

Six weeks later and two weeks after her funeral, my first guest arrived, and my past experiences converged into this unexpected direction. “This” being a warm and inviting house that smells of lemongrass and sandalwood, an inn full of quirks, stories, and (I like to wish) a happy blend of my mother’s and my visions, as well as our family history of ski racing.

It is a life’s work in progress.

That first guest was a German lady of Japanese-American heritage who arrived with her son and gave me two stars for accuracy as she “didn’t think it would be this nice.” In my defence, the shell of the listing had only gone up twelve minutes before she booked, when I had not even had time to grieve.

My mother’s living room, a space which was opened up this year, but still not a space that i can spend time in.

At first, the anxiety I experienced every time I got notification of a new review was almost crippling, as it is highly confronting walking around your home knowing that people are judging you. (A task that should be left to the neighbours looking out their windows in a tiny Alpine village.)

Waking up in a bad mood is not an option, so I have taken steps to assure that I don’t, like making a photo wall on the the staircase devoted to people and moments I love, to remind me of what I am doing, why I am doing it, and who I am doing it for. (I also wear a leopard-print onesie as a breakfast uniform to distract from my tired face.) Apparently these tactics work, as here I am, some 200+ terrific reviews later, only three of them a mere three stars.

To circumvent any surprises from either side, I invest almost too much time and energy vetting my guests in an attempt to ensure that they are a good fit for the house. After seven years working the Alpine après-ski scene, the last thing I want is drunk and disrespectful buffoons clomping around the house giving me attitude. I also have to delicately ascertain who they are traveling with as well as their heights, as many of the rooms have transparent showers, and some of them have slightly… Let's call them “constricted” space.

On one occasion I had a couple from Australia, my home country. At breakfast her first morning, the woman informed me she was a little uncomfortable with the transparent shower. (I was taken slightly aback, as she was traveling with her boyfriend, who I presume had already seen her goodies.) I apologised profusely and said that although this was standard in old Tirolean houses, I could give them a room with a separate shower. Later in the day, after moving rooms, she came down and said that they were heading to the Wellness, the local town sauna. Part of me wanted to warn her that it was a naked setting, and she would be seeing many more wing-wangs than she would through a transparent shower in her room upstairs, but, well, that was out of my jurisdiction, and I was just too amused.

“Have fun,” I replied.

After my extensive vetting, every new guest feels like my first. I await their arrival, upon which I offer them a tea, a coffee, or a schnapps while they check in. This appears to be optimal hospitality, but it really helps give me a small window onto their character. Perhaps it is the way I say it, as I do lower my voice slightly and add some cheekiness with the offer. If they take the schnapps and come into the kitchen for a chat, it is a fair indication that they are wanting to be social. If they decline all offers and make it a brief check in, they are likely to be more reserved.

My longest check-in took four hours.

This initial ritual escalated quickly into letting them know about the forbidden words around the inn. They include “Trump,” “Hitler,” “Mexit,” “Brexit,” “Covid,” and “schnapps,” which I threw in for fun. If any of these blasphemous words are uttered, a schnapps must be consumed. Naturally, this has on occasion backfired, and I often have guests arrive home, poke their head around the kitchen door, and say in a low, mischievous voice, “did someone say schnapps?” as their hand reaches from behind, offering a fresh bottle of the sweet, sweet liquid. Little wonder I have given up drinking in winter. (Mostly.)

When guests check in, I inform them that they are welcome to be as social or as private as they like — after all, it is their holiday — but that I am always available for recommendations, a cup of tea, or a round of Yahtzee. I check on their dietary requirements, as I make breakfast fresh every morning — usually muesli with Greek yogurt and berries followed by fresh farm eggs scrambled with mountain cheese, cream, and chives. The traditional breakfast around here is cheese and meats, but I am a firm believer in hot breakfast.

My approach to the house comes from my personal experiences, from places that have tickled me around the world. I have always found that the hostel atmosphere with a private room is most aligned to my nature, so it is what I do here.

Gauging people’s personal tastes is almost an art form. Some like a raucous apres-ski; others are total teetotallers. The strong majority of my guests have been incredible, and very often we part with a teary goodbye, aware that our special interaction was a moment in time, unlikely to be repeated as time passes and communication eventually becomes relegated to Facebook likes of their wedding photos and soon-to-come munchkins.

This is one reason why return guests give me the warm and fuzzies. I would have had a lot more of them were it not for the difficult last few years (I won’t say the word, as that would require a schnapps).

As far as validation goes, return guests are wonderful, but return helpers are on a whole new level. The helpers can be transient for a few weeks or they can stay for the season. I pay them a minimum salary and offer them lodging and food. They come in different forms. Maiju was a Finnish house guest who I asked to please come back forever — and she did for a season before traveling overland from Finland to Thailand. Gabby is a lawyer I knew from my Zurich banking days, who is now in Athens running a women’s centers for Syrian refugees. Sadeja is a beautiful German lass I met in a hostel in Mandalay. Currently I have Rens, a young Dutch man who tirelessly works two other jobs as well as being a very good handyman.

I give them different names, such as “minions” and “retrievers” (a story in itself), but they are so much more. Technically, they are here to help me with breakfast, rooms, and snow shoveling, but in reality they are so much more – my support system, my respite, and my friends.

The days are busy during the winter season, which runs from December to April with many ebbs and flows. Sometimes guests will come home and ask what I did all day. My eyes cheekily light up, and I say, “I just sat here, and it was amazing. I watched the house clean itself, the emails get answered, the shopping get done, the administration get sorted , and the check-ins checked in. And in the end, my legs just took themselves to the gym. All very magic flute-esque.”

It probably goes without saying that because something always goes wrong in an old house, I have been forced to acquire a new skill set. In the beginning, if a light went out or the heating spluttered, I would panic, but now I know where the fuses are and who to call. I can even change a lightbulb.

It can be challenging living in a village where tradition is in abundance, and the familiarity is one-sided. I have been required to come around to their way of thinking, even though on occasions I have a different aspect. If I had known four years ago that I simply had to be efficient in snow shovelling and have pretty flowers out in summer, I would have saved myself a lot of time. Thankfully I have all but mastered the local dialect (almost like learning the Queen’s English and then moving to the Scottish Highlands) and am now able to sit at the regulars tables at the local restaurants without feeling like an imposter. But it is hard work, and although not my consciously chosen vocation, it does have its unique and unexpected joys.

Stay tuned for the adventures of the broken plumbing and the missing Mexicans.

A Toe Dip Into The New World of Travel (Covid)

1st Movement

Vivace 

At this moment, the birthplace of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart lies a mere 100 meters away from me in the Old Town (Altstadt) of Salzburg, Austria. Whilst I scribe on parchment by candlelight,  it makes sense to listen to some of his works. Should it be a Sonata or a Requiem? Probably both. 

Kinda like my fluctuating moods during isolation… If I could be bothered to put on a bra then we had the sonata, and wine for breakfast in a leopard-print onesie? the requiem. Constantly flipping between C major and D Minor. 

Travelling during this time feels much the same, aside from my choice of attire. 

It is a cautious expedition before the borders open – targeting destinations on a “list” that I had previously dismissed due to the tourism overflow – when else does one get the opportunity to explore places in such a manner? The empty streets leave much time for alternate tones whilst pondering the new face of travel.  

My backpack was ready to go some months ago (a trilling restlessness - often referred to as Fernweh), as not only was I in isolation alone for 7 weeks, but as a creature of habit, as soon as the ski season has finished, and the last guest checked out, the door to my Pension is locked and off I go a wandering until December. Even though the ski season ended abruptly this season with a frightening en mass evacuation, the yearning crept up. To keep my sanity amongst the chaos, I dreamt of past and future adventures whilst I simultaneously explored the nuances of my well hidden introvert.  

Once hotels started opening I boarded that train with gusto. It was close to empty, with the conductors keeping a safe distance. The sign specified that facemasks were to be worn on public transport and in public areas at all times, but the dining cars were apparently still open. How does one eat whilst wearing a facemask? Not a desireable ensemble. 

I began with Innsbruck – a place I am acutely familiar with – and I stayed at “Stage 12” . As I walked in and looked to the right, the bar appeared to be busy, but it was mannequins. A clever way to adhere to social distancing. After such a long quarantine they looked very attractive and were a nice alternative to talking to the tree in my backyard. I called my mannequin Klaus, or Matthias or something: can’t remember as we got pretty tipsy. 

I’m not going to give you a blow by blow description, but  the next day I did go to the hairdresser for a blow dry and possibly another treatment which subtly assists my insistence that I am a natural blonde.  Wearing a mask for three hours was just not the same: there was no delicate Prosecco drinking, just formal interaction with no gossip (I am not sure why I said “just” as there is nothing normal about not having a gossip with your hairdresser). There was a sense of trepidation, from both the clients and the stylists, and both the former and latter often smiled from a distance and said, “Sheisse Corona”. No shit. 

Following this was the a few days of catching up with friends at the Kitzbühel Golf Club, but this is more aptly demonstrated with a sophisticated picture. And yes, there were people playing golf: watching them tee-off from “Steakhouse Kaps” was a spectator sport in itself. The high-society that encapsulates the “Glitz of Kitz”  was in good form and seemed somewhat relieved to be naturally blonde again, and for this there was glass tinkling and golf claps all round. 

My next intended destination was to be Hallstatt, the most instagrammed spot in Austria, but as the forecast was for rain I decided to save that until the weekend. My amended travel plans saw me heading to Salzburg on a once again quiet train. 

2nd Movement

Moderato 

This brings us back to the present where perhaps being in the proximity of such unbridled genius has simultaneously replenished some brain cells culled off at the golf club and also inspired me to write. Splurging on a decadent hotel may also play a part. My internal negotiation system resolved that it seems reasonable as it does not look like I will need it for International flights in the immediate future. 

I have never been here before, and yearned to see it quiet, and that it is. 

The squares are empty, but I can imagine they are normally filled with buskers, musicians and not only the culture of Mozart but Mozart’s Balls being force fed to you. No I’m not being dirty, a very kitsch confection that is purveyed in abundance are called “Mozartkugeln” and they are in the front window of all of the closed souvenir stores. 

Only a few souls in black jackets going from baroque to romantic on drizzly cobblestoned streets, plus me, a lone tourist. 

At my hotel they are admirable in all distancing precautions. There is of course disinfectant as you arrive, and all people are required to wear facemasks whilst also maintaining the required physical distance. In my room also a sign assuring you that it has been duly sanitised. I had a conversation with my “receptionist” Ulrika, but she is really much more than a receptionist. She can only be described as a saucy middle aged minx, who is the ultimate advocate for Wolford Stockings, and a consummate professional with hilarious dry humour: you really need to drag out the “r” in her name with a feisty growl. 

Some points she made chimed so very true. Whilst she was happy to be open again and have her vocation (as well as income) back in order, there is a sense of trepidation as no-one is wanting anything more to go wrong. What if something does, and what if it is traced back to the hotel? We’ve all been asking ourselves these questions about the “whats”, “ifs” and “hows” for some months, but we’re still in the middle of it. In the hotel’s case at minimum their carefully cultivated reputation could be gone as quickly as our freedoms were some months ago. It is also themes I have pondered over the months as a guest house “bad ass lady boss” in the Austrian Alps. Even though my Winter Season is still a safe distance away it is close enough for me to worry. 

With all this overthinking, I decided to partake in some retail therapy, but I can’t say it helped (even though it was the first day of the mid-year sales) as shopping also has intricate and perplexing issues. Why is one permitted to go into a store, try on clothes, yet socialdistance even when you are both touching hangers? What if someone touches their face again as they are in the change room? Why am I wearing a mask, when I am breathing on the merchandise as I pull it over my head? It is a peculiar dichotomy, and not something that I have reached a comfortable relationship with. 

Following dinner in an empty restaurant I got a small aperitif from the mini bar and sat on the tiny bench outside Mozart’s birthplace to siphon for myself an essence of genius; much more appealing to me than the fountain of youth. 

I wonder what my next movements will be? 

3rd Movement 

Allegretto  

There is a small possibility that I didn’t note the public holiday and sunshine forecast for the weekend, and the fanfare has picked up considerably. I called in the cavalry as a friend of mine was celebrating her birthday and feeling slightly melancholy having been enclosed in the valley with the same people and the same faces for so long. By lunchtime she had arrived. 

The last two days we’ve been exploring the streets, with much laughter and delicious food: after all, it is white asparagus season here. During our long lunch (which just happened to be at our hotel in Goldgasse), we had a particularly wonderful server who donned a “sophisticated” clear plastic mask, allowing us to see her beautiful smile. 

In most touristy European destinations, you can normally find the focus on not only the Historical Centre but also the bridges weighed down by kitschy declarations of love such as proposals and padlocks. Not my thing,  but I gotta say, a lone busker, harmonised with an acceptable sunset on the near empty Markarsteg was quite poignant and I may have temporarily exercised some empathy. 

Gradually there are more buskers appearing. Naturally I try and spare some change, but not for the guy playing “My Heart Will Go On” next to a fountain on his violin. There is no space for such negativity in my life. 

We also met a fellow traveller whilst having a tasty beverage in the main square. Her and her partner did not work out during this time and broke up. She took her belongings and her dog (a samoyed), and they piled into her small hatchback: kudos to that straight shooting,  “Auf Wiedersehen”. 

My friend has now left, and there are some tendrils of trepidation creeping in. The borders are open and there is an influx of people:  I am sure it is not a patch on the normal situation but many have no consideration for social distancing. Kids everywhere eating ice-creams and putting their sticky paws on everything: no shiny surface or window seems safe. And, well, some bars are packed with flirting in full force: I was good with my mannequin thanks. 

In my opinion, the opening of the borders and being here has crossed a few of the lines I drew for myself in regards to caution. Travelling in Northern Myanmar solo for 5 weeks and being on the back of a drunk 12 year old kid’s motorbike is one thing….. But in Covid exploration terms this feels slightly reckless. 

4th Movement 

Diminuendo

Alas my reader, my final movement of this “amateur chord flipping composition” finds me in the confines of my kitchen having made a stealthy retreat. I must accentuate that it’s not Salzburg, It’s me. Seeing the  Salzburg that I wished for was a unique experience, but there’s a but…. 

Perhaps I would have marched on, had it not been for the 10 days of rain forecast and my mental overstimulation. I felt secure in this decision after I arrived in The Arlberg on my overcrowded train bound for Zurich. In more ways than one I left in one world and came back in another, and I feel that I got to walk a very rare bridge leading to the beginning of the “new normal”. 

Now that I am not feeling so flat and my washing is done, more about backtracking on the backpacking. For years I have been expanding my comfort zone through travel and new experiences, but I have also trusted my instincts. Being in self isolation alone for such a long time – aside from a few geriatric neighbours waving from their balconies – and not being able to travel was out of my comfort zone in itself. I became used to solitude, the mountains surrounding me and the walks within them: best to go up and down those paths a little more for now. Overnight stays in huts, 3 day “wanders” in the Alps, supporting local businesses and maybe the occasional mid-week ventures further afield. 

A different me in a different world. 

This is by no means the fine, just a little less allegro and a little more andante.

Ca-Tash-Trophy - The year of May 2020

Here we are in the year of May 2020, and I am slowly pretending to adapt to a new way of life….

The 2019/ 2020 ski season is a distant memory as it appears even the snow was evacuated when that covert virus arrived. Restrictions are slowly starting to ease, and a while ago St Anton came out of quarantine after 40 days: naturally I was amused by this and cracked a joke to my bin about it being like a non-denominational Lent where the ski bums had to give up Jägermeister for 40 days. We found it hilarious.

Since the last blog post I have been quite lax with my writing as the purpose of this website was to share travel stories and photographs: not talk about what I had for breakfast. Sadly though, the universe is working against us all, and I am left with no choice but to tell you about not only what I am having for breakfast, but also other activities I have undertaken to distract myself from sporadic panic attacks fuelled by impending doom.

WHAT I’M HAVING FOR BREAKFAST

I cannot commentate on the aforementioned digressions with a straight face. There was going to be a flowery diatribe about how much I was missing travelling, and how I woke up one morning yearning for breakfast in one of my favourite cafes on Bondi Beach: I may have even started to conjure prose about the sidewalks and fresh sea breeze. Full disclosure: I cannot remember one single time I had breakfast at Bondi Beach when I wan’t either hungover, or still going from the night before.

During this whole fiasco, I have made poached eggs once: at 2pm in the afternoon (and that was only because I could not be assed to put a bra on to go to the supermarket). .

Yay me. I put some eggs in water. For the recipe, just google, “How do I make poached eggs”.

WHO ISN’T BAKING BANANA BREAD?

My newsfeed is filled with baking success stories, and I thought participation was key, because “we’re all. in this together”. Quite serendipitously I always have wonderfully ripe bananas: why was I the last person to find out that if you put avocados next to bananas it hastens the ripening process?

So using a dodgy oven with inaccurate settings and some apparatus you apparently use to make soups I made a lot of banana bread, and pretty much gave it away in hope of receiving something delicious in this new bartering system we got going on. Yep, my banana bread garnered me pies, cakes, face masks and so forth.

Even better, some of my neighbours (the family behind) seem to not mind it, and their young son kindly calls me “Nachbarin mit Banana Brot”. “Famale neighbour with banana bread” is so much better than “Crazy lady who sits in backyard staring at trees” - but I am not sure it is more apt.

Anyway, banana bread factory has been on a brief hiatus since that time last week when I put too much baking powder in, and the oven was left looking like a ´Gremlin had been nuked in the microwave.

Gave that one to my young neighbour.

AN OUTING WITH MY BIN

In the beginning a fair chunk of my time was spent incessantly scrolling through my news feed. At first the memes were funny, but after 3 weeks very few were even eliciting a mild guffaw. Aside from the “Bin Isolation Outing” group on Facebook. I mean, you can take the girl out of Australia.

One of my cousins suggested that this was right up my, ahem, driveway, so, again in solidarity I made a pun filled contribution.

I think that the weirdest part of this was that I was walking up the mountain with a bin, and no one I passed flinched. I am not sure if this is indicative of the Tirolean character or mine: I think I’ll go with the former on this one.

Told my bin about how I was feeling a little lonely at times from the social distancing, and he was like, “I so bin there”

She can’t….

But I, Trash, Can.

CLIMB EVERY MOUNTAIN

Naturally I have been doing boast posts about how “blessed’” and “fortunate” I am, and it feels so good to be able to “reach out” and other buzz words. I often get comments on my social media referencing The Sound of Music. I just thought I would clear this up. Most Austrians do not even know what The Sound of Music is, and have never heard of most of the songs.

Me on the other hand? Well, I’m half Australian and i go to town on it. I was talking to one friend whilst I was up the mountain and she even made me do a twirl, Maria style, and I happily obliged. Even threw in a few extras because I have no shame.

Again, no comments from the locals that saw me doing it. Peculiar.

Speaking of locals who have seen me “doing it” (and by that I am referring to my social distancing up the mountain) my neighbour who was mentioned in the last post (not the one hosting involuntary watch parties but his sister who has a tendency to squawk and gossip). She is always, ahem, enthusiastically inquisitive regarding my activities, and is never shy to vocalise her approval or disdain.

When I first started running the guest house, she was wonderfully helpful with tips on snow shovelling, and praised me for getting up to make breakfast for my guests at 0700 every morning. From that day forth I rose daily at 0630 to turn on the lights of the kitchen before going back to bed.

Being in a small village as a foreigner at the least is incredibly challenging, so it brings me great delight to report that my neighbour has seen me up the mountain on a multitude of occasions. As long as she sees me then the whole village is bound to know that I am staying fit and healthy.

A NEW STUDY

Now here’s a funny story. Ish. Kind of. Yeah, you’re right, it’s not great.

Everyone has a room which serves as a receptacle for rubbish/ dry stores/ etc. Mine is next to the kitchen, and in general the door stays closed.

I went one afternoon to simply clean the windows as I had banned myself from Netflix until sun down, which in hindsight was a bloody stoopid idea as it was around the time of daylight savings and the days are getting longer and longer.

Anyway, in summary, this also escalated and I learnt how to use a vacuum cleaner.

Please don’t ask where all of the clutter from the room went.

BURMESE STUDY

Somewhere around this time, i hit a wall…. I am pretty sure it can be traced back to missing Myanmar and the other half of my life. Perennially at this time if the year I am posting from an airport somewhere about how hilarious those Germans are when boarding a plane (I call the flight from Frankfurt to Bangkok the “Sex Tourist Express”).

But alas, not this year, but I decided that this was not an excuse to become lax with my studies. Luckily enough, when I hit the wall it was not a physical thing, so I actually had a wall spare. Why wouldn’t I build a map of my Burmese study on it? It was the only logical solution.

A work in progress.

And then the restrictions ended

First came family

It was a little confronting when the restrictions started lifting as I had become quite accustomed to my one man circus. When a sleepover with my nephew and niece was proposed, I am not sure who was more excited:: them or my sister…. Let’s call it a draw.

So the little munchkins were my first guests since March, and they were highly demanding: I don’t think that I would have received more than three stars from them on Air BnB as I had no soap and shower gel to offer them, then the stir fry got sent back as it had green stuff in it, and finally the bed were not deemed comfortable and the only remedy for this was to come and sleep in with Aunty Tashie.

The next day, I had another friend over with her two munchkins, and cheesy toast got sent back.

I think in the future that I will continue to host guests with a different vintage.: they are slightly easier to give schnapps to.

Apple Blossoms and Prosecco

My initial company after the lift of restrictions was definitely a G-rated affair full of bedtime stories, leopard print onesies and declarations of love.

Actually the garden party a few days later was not entirely dissimilar, but through a different lens. It all began in a civilised manner, with glass tinkling and flower arrangements. It’s all hear-say from there, but at some point, we may or may not have been dancing in the kitchen to “Proud Mary” when my neighbour joined in with jiving from his balcony and offered us table dancing jobs next season.

Venturing out into the real world

Whilst I am doing my very best to maintain a positive demeanour, there is no denying that this loss basic freedoms has taken a toll, which is why yesterday i jumped at the opportunity to take a day trip to Innsbruck, just over an hour away.

I am not sure what I expected from the “new” real world, but for a place I ´have been a million times it certainly seemed fresh and new.

Ca-Tash-Trophy (Pettneu, Day 9)

I feel like such an asshole.

Seriously, if you knew a shit storm (no toilet paper panic buying pun intended) that would effect most people in the world was on the way, where would you choose to be holed up?

Sure, a self sufficient tropical island would be up there, but frankly, my current situation is preferable. Perhaps this should be called, “Greetings from my White Privilege Summer Camp”.

I am currently under lockdown in a small village called Pettneu in the Austrian Alps, just outside of St Anton am Arlberg. I am not sure of the population here, but definitely not large enough to constitute panic buying:

On Friday the 13th (no you can’t make that up), the ski season came to a very abrupt halt. I hear that it was mayhem and panic: must have been frightening for them. For the last nine days I have watched it all unfold from the comfort of the kitchen whilst eating delicious Tirolean meats and cheeses.

Rather than trying to articulate in a coherent story, I am just going to go ahead and outline why I am not freaking the out in point form (and there may be an insinuation that if I was freaking out that would be overly indulgent, considering that basically everyone but me has every right to freak the out).

THE TIROLEAN GOVERNMENT MOVED EFFICIENTLY

So I am going to try my best to avoid profanities from here on in (just for sport as there is none of that to watch either). Basically, the Tirolean Government articulated perfectly the severity of the situation, and there was no more messing around.

There has been precise and articulate communication on a daily basis, and any queries answered down to the intricate nuances of social distancing (I just wish i had a dog).

I hope that I have understood all the information correctly as google translate is not always 100%. On the upside, when I sent the illegal workers from my basement out into the cold of the night they never came back.

I didn’t have to go anywhere

I was already “home” when the storm rolled in, and for the last 9 days I have watched everyone’s lives been thrown into turmoil. Scrambles to get home, life savings gone just to do so and basic uncertainty. Tirol is totally tourism based, so there are many seasonal workers who are wither stuck, broke or both. The enormity and impact on everyone’s lives is unfathomable. Luckily for me, my only immediate family is holed up in St Anton baking bread. Totally unrelated, I have been thinking about divorce statistics when all of this is over.

I live in a small village with nice neighbours

I am out of the hub of St Anton, which has been under different conditions to us. In St Anton, there are tourists and workers under quarantine, and when these conditions change to match the rest of Tirol there will be many people trying to work out a way to get home and cross borders.

Here, I have accepted my solitude with open arms. To be honest, normally in May it is this quiet, and well, after 10 Winter seasons I hate people by March anyway. My neighbour feels the same: says he’s got schnapps and peace and quiet: life’s basic essentials. I concur.

Ah, the serenity.

The neighbours on the other side of me alleviate the need for a TV… A borderline geriatric brother and sister whose simple affectionate morning greeting makes it sound like World War III is beginning. Yes. I see the irony.

Adding to this, his balcony is opposite my back kitchen window, so we greet each other when out smoking. Double bonus: he has an epic porn collection, so I can watch too from my kitchen window 20 meters away whilst adhering to social distancing specifications (I don’t think he knows it’s a “Watch Party” though).

No Panic Buying

Normally at this time of the year I have no problem with the word “panic” as it is “Panic Shag” time and that my friends, is a real local pandemic: there is none of that this year in Pettneu.

Frankly, there is no panic anywhere, so it is with disdain and slight amusement that i observe Muppets and Muggles of the world go bonkers for toilet paper and hand sanitiser.

If there is any panic buying at all in this town it would be, as a friend Andrew pointed out, the supermarket panic stocking toilet paper. My daily outing to the supermarket involves hand sanitiser, friendly greetings, and total appreciation for the front line warriors.

Yes, we tip them and give them flowers instead of hurling profanities at them.

Almost TeeTotalling Tash

For that last year or so I have been transitioning from being a booze soaked cougar to, well, um, something different (a work in progress). Rather than practicing mindfulness I have been practicing awesomeness, and hitting the gym, not the bottle.

I have let my evil twin off the bus on a few occasions, but last time i saw her was somewhere in Innsbruck, and, well, considering that was most likely the route that Covid 19 took from Italy to Austria, I am guessing that that the beer swilling, nail biting, chain smoking version of me was in the path of destruction.

She did make a special guest appearance for the first few days of this Apocalypse, but as she does not hold an Austrian passport I sent her out into the dark to fend for herself.

Channeling Sporty Spice

So, last year in Winter I guzzled and gulped in ginormous proportions , which left me with a glutinous grimace. Yep, I achieved the trifecta of muffin top, camel toe and VPL. I took drastic and strict measures after the season to change that, and dropped 10kg through kickboxing.

I was feeling so fit when I came back that i decided to start training for the Weisse Rausch: a kamikaze ski race boasting a mix of balls, craziness and endurance. You know, bucket list thing. So all season, I have been eating healthily, going to the gym and skiing at every available opportunity.

I thought I was training for a ski race, not the apocalypse, but hey whatever gets you out in the backyard doing squats and lunges with 2 cans of home brand baked beans.

“Plank this” is what I like to say to the pandemic.

So in summary…

I’m a closet introvert.

Who would have thunk it?

Part 1: My Cousin's Wedding

Doe and Tina had been invited to their cousin's wedding in Kufstein, the second largest city in Tirol, right on the German border. This cousin was from their mother's side, also boasting an Australian mother and an Austrian father, however Christina and her sister Elizabeth had grown up bilingual in Austria. Christina was marrying a transplant surgeon, who, to be frank, made Dr McDreamy look like Doctor McBoringly Pasty.

They had first received a "save the date" months earlier with a beautiful picture of the future bride and groom in traditional Austrian dress somewhere on a mountain top. Doe's immediate thought was that it was "Sound of music" esque, however she knew not to say that out loud, as few Austrians knew what the Sound of Music was, and if they did they abhorred it as they saw it as a gross Americanisation of their culture. That did not stop Doe though, as she had always obsessively loved the movie. To such an extent, that when they were younger, Doe and her friend Zoe had been plopped in front of the tv to watch it whilst their parents went out. The parents had thought that this was perfectly safe, but they were wrong, as Zoe and Doe had yearned so much to be part of the Von Trapp family that they had gone to the kitchen, found some knives, and taken to the tv screen with them in an attempt to break through to this awesome Austrian world. The parents had returned to find a nearly destroyed TV, and two distraught 5 year olds who had failed to morph into that awesome world. Suffice to say, they were banned from seeing each other for the next two months. Thus, when she saw the "Save the Date card" she kept these thoughts to herself.

Tina and Doe decided to go as their mother was still in Australia and could not attend, but their presence was not going to be in the fashion that Doe had always assumed it would, as spinster sisters puffing away on cigarettes in the corner, not unlike Patty and Selma. Tina by this point was 7 months pregnant. Due to this, they had decided to go a day earlier, as Tina got quite lethargic quite quickly, and needed to rest beforehand. The town was beautiful, surrounded by mountains with the opaquely turquoise Inn River running through it, and a fairy tale like castle atop the town.  The first thing that struck Doe as they were walking through the town was the abundance of Lederhosen and Dirndls. Doe had got used to them being worn for specific occasions, but in this town there appeared to be no rhyme or reason. For a moment Doe thought that perhaps everyone at the wedding might be wearing a dirndl, and maybe she was going to be highly conspicuous, especially in the black dress that she had decided to wear. Did people even wear black to weddings here? Tina and Doe had no idea what everyone would be wearing, and decided that the only way to counteract the black dress was to put some pink flowers in her hair.

They spent all morning primping and preening, all the while their mother was suffering from "extreme fear of missing out", and was continuously on skype, the telephone and if she could have attained any other means of communication, she would have. Doe was almost expecting a carrier pigeon to deliver a message saying, "Look after your sister, act demure, try and speak German, say yes please and no thank you, and don't drink". See, as Doe had not been drinking for so long, normally that would have not needed to have been said, but three days earlier, Doe had drunk 3 beers at the first darts competition for September in St Anton, and her mother had called her at 11pm. Doe had no choice but to answer the phone, and her mother had asked if she had been drinking which Doe had denied, then promptly called Tina, who had stated that it was quite clear from Doe's voice that she had been drinking. Then unfortunately, Tricia had called her back again, but due to the three beers, Doe was under the impression that Tricia did not suspect a thing. As Tina was a terrible liar, and Doe was aware that she had no Skype until the morning, Doe was compelled to send Tina a message, saying, "Act stealthy, mum does not suspect for a second that I have been drinking", and promptly sent it to her mother. Genius. It was so stupid that her mother could not help but laugh. For two days.

They left the hotel room and walked down the hall. Half way down the hall there was a middle aged couple. He was wearing an immaculate charcoal suit, and his wife was wearing a cream skirt suit with matching stockings and hat. They would have fitted in perfectly at  the royal wedding a few months earlier. Tina and Doe had looked at each other, wondering once again if they were dressed inappropriately. The severely pregnant sister had an excuse, but Doe was suddenly wondering if she was supposed to be wearing sleeves, a different colour, a dirndl, or  any other alternative to a black dress, and was also wondering if the sunglasses on her head were appropriate. Thankfully, by the time they got to the church, any fears had been alleviated, as the congregation consisted of all ages, and all styles. Any of the aforementioned would have worked, and  Doe was relieved that she was not the only one in a black dress.

They had assumed that they would told where to sit when they entered the Church, however this was not the case, so they chose to sit as far up the back as they possibly could, and found themselves amongst people with the same idea: mainly non German speakers and those with children. They fitted in perfectly there, as they could kind of speak German, and well, clearly there was a baby on the way. As the ceremony started, Doe noticed seats for the bride and groom in front of the alter, and thought that she was going to have to strap in for a long service. It was a hot day, the stockings she was wearing (stockings in German are called "strumpfhosen", which Doe felt was a much more legitimate name for pantyhose) were chafing, and she felt anything but demure. She was still under the misconception that it was going to be an extremely civilized wedding, all finished by 11pm.

It was not long before she realised, that once again she was wrong with her assumptions.

First, the pageboy made her smile. He was throwing the rose petals as he came down the aisle with such forceful concentration that Doe almost got clucky. Then the family, and then the resplendent bride. If Doe was wearing such a beautiful dress, she was sure that she would have beads of sweat trickling down her decolletage, and chances were  the wedding dress would have found some way to ride up into her knickers and no one would have told her. Not this one. She walked down the aisle as though she had done it a million times before. Her smile was not forced, she was relaxed, and beautiful. As the service progressed, even though she did not understand a lot, the priest was passionate, and it did not go too long. There was only one hymn sung, but nobody up the back could find the page. They were all looking over each others shoulders, and it was only at the end of the hymn that Doe and Tina realized that they were actually on the right page. No one in the congregation seemed to know when to sit, when to kneel, or when to stand. At points, half were standing, some where kneeling, and the rest were half way between. This served to make Doe aware that it was an eclectic mix of people, and it extracted any uncomfortable formality from the service. Even though Doe was a non practicing Catholic, she declined to go up for communion, as even at the best of times, she could never work out whether it was left over right hand, or right over left hand, had no Idea whether she should she should say cheers for the wine, and how they would tell you in German that it was, "The body of christ". It was all too much, so it was one of those rare occasions that she sat still.

At the end of the service, they were given some direction by the best man, Peter, the Groom's brother, who resembled James Franco, to go outside. Which they did, to watch the new Mr and Mrs Schneeburger be outside for the first time as a married couple. Whilst they were waiting Doe overheard the pageboy ask, "Wo ist die Prinzessen" (where is the princess). It was more than apt, considering that not only did the bride look like a princess, but the reception was to be held at the castle above. Doe still had her mothers words reverberating in her head, but her first challenge came at the base of the Venicular (which was the chosen method of transport to ascend to the castle). There was a sign with all of the generic instructions, but accompanying the normality was a rather obscure instruction. "No ascents or descents whilst the Hero's organ is being played". Doe guffawed to herself, wondering who the hell the Hero was, and how commendable his organ was.  Tina looked at her with reproach, then looked around, saw the sign, and even sniggered herself. The situation was only fueled when the other people accompanying them up the vehicular had politely asked is she had ever seen the Heroe's organ being played. Instead of replying as she had wanted to, "no but I'd sure like to, can you buy it in the dirty section of the video store"?, she smiled a mixture of evil and delight, that hopefully came across as friendliness, "No, is it good"?

By this point, Doe had given herself away to enjoying herself. So far it had been perfect, in a non contrived manner. Her fears and apprehension had melted, and for the first time in a long time she had no Gremlins whispering negativity, and was feeling like a welcome part of the occasion. She allowed the situation to wash over her as a pose to swimming upstream. How could you not? Wedding cocktails during sunset at a castle. Due to a short pause at the hotel, Tina and Doe were one of the last to arrive at the cocktail reception but there were still people lined up to talk to the bride and groom who were greeting all of their guests. Her initial thought, was "Jesus!!! They have been smiling for 4 hours now!", even her cheeks were hurting, but their smiles did not come across as forced. On the contrary, even though it was a big wedding, by the affection they greeted every guest with, it was clear that the list could be no smaller.

The first person that Doe and Tina spoke to was Elizabeth, the elder sister of Christina, who Doe bared an uncanny resemblance to. Actually, as Doe was older,  she decided to take the angle of her cousin bearing an uncanny resemblance to her as Elizabeth was prettier younger, and married.  They had not seen each other since their Grandmother's funeral, and boy, was that a great night out. "Hatches, matches, and dispatches"  being the main places that you caught up with family members was not altogether untrue. Elizabeth had married an Australian man, whose family was at the wedding. They chatted, and Doe said to Elizabeth, "How pregnant is my sister!!!" to which Elizabeth had replied, "i know, she looks great. How about you? Oh wait, I know, you are single, because you asked my sister if there were going to be any hot single Doctors here"!. Doe recoiled, and said, "No,no, no. No! No! that was a joke!!!" Elizabeth had replied, with a quite familiar cheeky glint, "really joking? Cause there are you know". "Yes.  Well half joking. Where are they?Jokes. But not really. Well sorta joking. Point them out later". At this point, Doe had almost queried whether the Priest was single, but had refrained. When she had later verbalised this to her sister, Tina had rolled her eyes with amusement and disgust, but with little surprise and said, "Please don't hit on the priest Doe".

Coincidentally, at this moment Tina expressed that she needed to sit down and she chose a corner far far away. Fair enough though, for iff Doe had raucous sister and a medicine ball attached to her stomach, she would also like to take seat. Elizabeth was seated next to Tina and Elizabeth's father in law asked them to please move closer together, which they did as they assumed that a photograph was going to be taken. "Haha, just stay there", he said in a broad Australian accent, but by now Elizabeth and Tina looked slightly puzzled as there was no camera to speak of. "Haha, have you caught it yet?" "Caught what"? "Being pregnant! Haha. I need more grandchildren". Cheeky bugger,  but highly amusing.  Not long after it was time for the bride to throw the bouquet. Doe preferred to steer clear of this ritual, but she had no choice. Not that she needed to worry, there were more than enough single women desperate to catch it. You could always tell the spinsters who were in long term relationships, as they were front and centre, almost frothing and salivating at the mouth in desperate attempt to catch the bouquet whilst delivering a subtle message to their partners. However in this case, their diligence was not to be rewarded as the athletic bride hurled the bouquet over everyone's heads, and it landed succinctly in a baby's pram. "Wonderful" Doe thought. A newborn male child had more of a chance of getting married than she did.

It appeared that the wedding had gone to plan so far, which Doe found surprising, as every wedding she had ever been to, there had been something go wrong. She said this to Elizabeth, who proceeded to tell her that this in fact was not the case. Firstly, when they had been taking wedding photographs before the service, the Bride had been asked to stand up against a machine and pose for a photo, but little did they know that the machine had been freshly oiled (damn Austrian efficiency), and the bride got black oil all over the base of her dress, apparently this did not phase her and they managed to pin the dress and disguise it. Thus, Doe was not surprised to hear that the Bride did not even flinch when she discovered that she had locked her veil in her room, and they could not locate the key. Thus explaining why the Bride was slightly late.

10 years earlier, Doe had been a bridesmaid at a wedding, and the wedding party had also been late, but for an entirely different reason. It was held at Shelly Beach, near Manly in Sydney, and apparently the celebrant had forgotten his batteries for the tape recorder. Thus, the female side of the bridal party had spent an hour and a half in a car park above the beach listening to the limousine driver regale stories of jilted lovers and freaked out brides. Finally when the wedding was set to get under way, the small convoy of cars had started honking as they descended to the ceremony. A rather robust woman who was out for a stroll with her baby had told them, in words significantly less than polite to, "Please stop honking the horns". One of The Bridesmaids had eloquently stated that a wedding was about to progress, to which the rather robust one had replied, once again in a manner unbecoming to a lady that, "she did not really care". She had then proceeded to stick her head in the window, and say (still without a profanity filter), something along the lines of, "You women all look less than attractive, and the colours do not suit any single one of yas". By this point, they were at the bottom of the hill and as the wedding had been delayed so long already,  the congregation had gathered close to the cars, and thus were all well within hearing range as the Maid of Honour alighted from the limousine and told the robust woman, "Ya wanna fucken go? Yeah, I'll fucken glass ya" (in Queen's english this would translate to, "Excuse me robust women, you appear to be offending us and I would not be adverse to donning a bikini in some jelly and then introducing a glass to your already somewhat mangled face), this was much to the delight of the wedding guests, and provided a wonderful talking point during the reception later. It was also at this wedding that as Doe was in a long term relationship, she had been one of the rabid, snarling creatures trying to catch the bouquet. No, this wedding was proceeding somewhat more delicately than the Maid of Honour at the Shelly beach wedding.

Following the cocktails was a multiple course sit down dinner, in a circular room atop the tower. Tina and Doe were seated at a table front and centre to the stage, consisting of a couple (he was from Germany, she was from Australia), and a physiotherapist from Germany, but based in Innsbruck. They spent the first hour playing, "Spot the tune" as the music consisted of all the love songs that you expected to hear at weddings, sans the vocals. They were also wondering how many Doctor's there were present, and how amusing it would be were to someone simulate fainting on the stage later, whilst another asked if there was a, "single Doctor in the house". Doe was delighted when she realized that Sarah, the other Australian at the table was highly likely to partake in this were she given a few more glasses of wine. She was also happy to know that many other people were aware, and also highly amused by the instructions regarding the playing of the Heroe's organ. Naturally, the whole table was the first to the main course Buffet, as they were all familiar enough with each other to find it totally legitimate to blame the pregnant woman on their mad dash. When Tina decided that it was time for bed after the main course, Doe felt that her leash had been taken off, but was still under the assumption that most of the wedding would not be far behind her sister. In the next hour, there were speeches and videos, all charmingly delivered, and even though Doe did not understand much of what was being said, she looked at the other people on the table for cues for laughter.

It appeared that the wedding had gone to plan so far, which Doe found surprising, as every wedding she had ever been to, there had been something go wrong. She said this to Elizabeth, who proceeded to tell her that this in fact was not the case. Firstly, when they had been taking wedding photographs before the service, the Bride had been asked to stand up against a machine and pose for a photo, but little did they know that the machine had been freshly oiled (damn Austrian efficiency), and the bride got black oil all over the base of her dress, apparently this did not phase her and they managed to pin the dress and disguise it. Thus, Doe was not surprised to hear that the Bride did not even flinch when she discovered that she had locked her veil in her room, and they could not locate the key. Thus explaining why the Bride was slightly late.

10 years earlier, Doe had been a bridesmaid at a wedding, and the wedding party had also been late, but for an entirely different reason. It was held at Shelly Beach, near Manly in Sydney, and apparently the celebrant had forgotten his batteries for the tape recorder. Thus, the female side of the bridal party had spent an hour and a half in a car park above the beach listening to the limousine driver regale stories of jilted lovers and freaked out brides. Finally when the wedding was set to get under way, the small convoy of cars had started honking as they descended to the ceremony. A rather robust woman who was out for a stroll with her baby had told them, in words significantly less than polite to, "Please stop honking the horns". One of The Bridesmaids had eloquently stated that a wedding was about to progress, to which the rather robust one had replied, once again in a manner unbecoming to a lady that, "she did not really care". She had then proceeded to stick her head in the window, and say (still without a profanity filter), something along the lines of, "You women all look less than attractive, and the colours do not suit any single one of yas". By this point, they were at the bottom of the hill and as the wedding had been delayed so long already,  the congregation had gathered close to the cars, and thus were all well within hearing range as the Maid of Honour alighted from the limousine and told the robust woman, "Ya wanna fucken go? Yeah, I'll fucken glass ya" (in Queen's english this would translate to, "Excuse me robust women, you appear to be offending us and I would not be adverse to donning a bikini in some jelly and then introducing a glass to your already somewhat mangled face), this was much to the delight of the wedding guests, and provided a wonderful talking point during the reception later. It was also at this wedding that as Doe was in a long term relationship, she had been one of the rabid, snarling creatures trying to catch the bouquet. No, this wedding was proceeding somewhat more delicately than the Maid of Honour at the Shelly beach wedding.

Following the cocktails was a multiple course sit down dinner, in a circular room atop the tower. Tina and Doe were seated at a table front and centre to the stage, consisting of a couple (he was from Germany, she was from Australia), and a physiotherapist from Germany, but based in Innsbruck. They spent the first hour playing, "Spot the tune" as the music consisted of all the love songs that you expected to hear at weddings, sans the vocals. They were also wondering how many Doctor's there were present, and how amusing it would be were to someone simulate fainting on the stage later, whilst another asked if there was a, "single Doctor in the house". Doe was delighted when she realized that Sarah, the other Australian at the table was highly likely to partake in this were she given a few more glasses of wine. She was also happy to know that many other people were aware, and also highly amused by the instructions regarding the playing of the Heroe's organ. Naturally, the whole table was the first to the main course Buffet, as they were all familiar enough with each other to find it totally legitimate to blame the pregnant woman on their mad dash. When Tina decided that it was time for bed after the main course, Doe felt that her leash had been taken off, but was still under the assumption that most of the wedding would not be far behind her sister. In the next hour, there were speeches and videos, all charmingly delivered, and even though Doe did not understand much of what was being said, she looked at the other people on the table for cues for laughter.

Before the waltz the band requested that 10 women put one of their shoes on the stage. Doe initially declined, but as she was front and centre, she had little chance of escape, so she placed her shoe up there. However, a few minutes later she noticed that there were more than 10 shoes there, so she went and retrieved her glass slipper, inadvertently drawing even more attention to herself. She was promptly told to put it back, as the more the merrier. Several men were then instructed to take a shoe, which they did and a man at the next table took Does, but upon realizing that the owner of that shoe was next to him, he said to his table, "too easy" and replaced it back on the table. Doe looked aghast, and said, "how would you know that !!! Has my reputation preceded me!! I am not that easy thank you very much!!". She was hoping that the next person to take her shoe would exercise more decorum. They then instructed all of the shoe giving ladies to stand up on stage whilst their suitors came and found them. Doe was almost tempted to just stay at the table, and forget about the shoe. the awkwardness of walking down from the castle in one shoe was unlikely to trump the awkwardness of her attempting to do a waltz. However, that would leave her sitting at the table, alone, in front of the stage, wearing one shoe, and she had no doubt that this would yet again attract even more attention, so up to the stage she went. Her "suitor" was a rather tall ginger man, and as they greeted each other, she was sure that they were simultaneously relieved by the  appearance of the other as , neither suggested a twinkle of the toes. It was actually a good thing that they danced together, as their effectiveness as extras in the scene only accentuated the dexterous synergy of the bride and groom. Whilst the Groom and Bride twirled and dipped, Doe and Ginger tried to stand upright. Due to trying to concentrate, her German was even more questionable than normal, and it took her the whole song to explain in fragmented German that she felt as though she was at a fun fair in the Dodgem Cars. When the dance ended, most people remained for another dance, but Doe and Ginger both made a hasty retreat to their tables

It was not that Doe had anything against Gingers, in fact she came from a long line of Gingers on her mother's side of the family. She was always thankful that her mother, unlike her siblings, had dodged that ginger bullet. However, she knew that somewhere in her Genetic make up was a rumbling of ginger, and were she to breed with one, it was likely that the result would be an army of children to be referred to later on in life as "Fanta Pants". Her mother had also frequently reiterated this, particularly on the occasion Doe had met Boris Becker. As Doe had always been a huge tennis fan, she had promptly sent a text to her mother informing her that she was in the same room as him, and her mother had replied with a text begging her to try not to drag him to any broom closets, as ginger + recessive ginger invariably led to ginger. Doe had never actually thought too much about the prevalence of ginger in her family, but in the previous Winter had discovered that the blame lay firmly on her 92 year old Grandfather's fetish for ladies of the red hair persuasion. It was in fact her birthday, and as they were all preparing to go for lunch, her mother was talking to her grandfather on Skype, and Doe stopped to say hello, receive birthday greetings and query whether Grandpa had the right address for her as she had not received her birthday card with $20 in it.  Her Grandfather was in the middle of telling her what he had eaten for dinner (most likely steamed fish and grilled vegetables) when her fiery red headed friend Charlotte had walked past in the background. With the sprightliness of a horny 30 year old, her Grandfather had sat up straighter than he had in years, totally forgetting that his eyesight was not what it used to be, and yelled, "Hello Gorgeous" with such enthusiasm, that Charlotte had thought there was another voice in the room, let alone a 92 year old 9000km away. Yes, this whole Ginger thing could be traced back to Grandpa. When Elizabeth had asked her who she had danced with, and Doe had told her, "a nice Ginger, but that was simply not viable", Elizabeth exercised total empathy.

By this stage, even though dessert had not been served, people were "mingling", mostly outside on the steps to the tower whilst smoking. Doe almost did a double take when she saw the Priest, still with his collar, smoking cigarettes and quaffing red wine. For a moment Doe thought that perhaps he were a prop, but then realised as it was likely that it was actually very normal for priests to drink, as they conducted services almost daily, and drunk wine at each one calling it, "the blood of christ", and following on from this thought was the realisation that there would always be some left over at the end of the service, and well, you would not want to waste that. Suddenly Catholicism was clear to her. At this point she met the brother of the groom, who was also disarmingly charming. Doe became aware that he knew exactly who she was, when he asked why her hair was a different colour to her cousin. They chatted, and were he not Austrian, she would have classified it as upper echelon banter. After talking about what appeared to be an inherent over achieving family, Doe felt a need to also compliment him on his brother's marriage into what was also a genetically blessed clan. He concurred, and whilst it would have been advisable to retreat from the conversation at that point, as there was a slight possibility that she had been perceived as someone normal, she just had to take it a step further. So she did. As she was still on her first glass of wine (she could swear to that as she had conveniently turned around every time her glass had been refilled) she said, "How funny would it be if they had ugly dumb children"? and the best man actually found it amusing, which was in hindsight not that surprising, as the recently hitched ones were about as likely as Brad & Angelina to produce socially ignored outcasts.

Inspired by this interaction, Doe felt that there was no time like the present to congratulate her Aunt, and catch up. Doe luckily caught her, and they had a lovely chat, then Doe conveniently turned around to ignore her glass being filled,  and when she turned back her Aunt was gone. Doe was curious as to where, when she heard people clapping and cheering on the dance floor. Doe suddenly forgot about her Aunt as she wanted to see what or who was causing all the attention. A circle had gathered around a rogue dancer, who was tearing up the dance floor to the tune of "Wild Thing", and lo and behold, it was non other than her Aunt. Under normal circumstances, this would have scorched Doe's retinas, but by this time, she was so loved up by the whole mood of the evening, that she found herself almost contemplating hitting the dance floor. Almost, but not quite. It was approximately an hour later when the Bride informed her that it was nearly time for everyone to move downstairs to the after party in the dungeon of the castle. However, she was informed by Elizabeth that they had forgotten to throw the rice earlier, and instructed everyone to wait on the steps for the bride and groom. As all the guests were quite well lubricated by now, when they threw the rice, it was not unlike the page boy earlier in the day: if the rice were tennis balls, people were hitting smashes as a pose to lobs.

Walking down the hill, she attached herself to some American guests who had hosted the groom during his tenure in the US. They were wonderfully wicked gay men, who had flown over for the wedding. Not surprisingly, they too had heard about the Heroe's Organ and were curious as to how tremendous the organ was and where they could find the Hero attached to the organ. They had also been surprised to see the Priest drinking and smoking. They arrived at the next stage of the party, and very few guests seemed to be lacking stamina. . This was the final affirmation that the Bride and Groom had no intention of letting any of their guests go home early, and Doe felt the need to inform the other guests that it was a tradition in Australia that you were not allowed to leave the wedding before the recently hitched (she was not sure if this was true, but it sounded good). Then two things happened concurrently. Firstly, all the guests were given Vodka Redbull upon their arrival. Doe had honestly never thought that a Doctor would be serving this beverage, but it worked as it provided heart palpitations to accompany everyone's beating hearts. The first person that they started chatting to was the priest, who had asked where everyone was staying. He informed them that he was staying at the same hotel in the honeymoon suite, and then with cigarette in one hand, vodka Redbull  in the other, he gesticulated copulation, and Doe said to her new gay companion, "Is it wrong that I am slightly perturbed whilst being slightly aroused", to which he replied, "Not at all, I have always wanted to be closer to God". .

The conversation was flowing as easily and freely as the booze by now, and when Doe saw the groom by himself for a rare moment, she took the opportunity to thank him for a wonderful day. They chatted, and Doe pulled out her best jokes, much to the amusement of the Groom. He told her that she was, "Hilarious" and said, "Why have we not met you before?". Doe informed him that it was no coincidence, and, "had he not noticed that the wedding ring was firmly on his finger before this part of the family was unleashed". Doe was also quite sure that this was not too far from the truth. The next few hours flew by, with Doe talking to anyone and everyone, however, as she did not want to embarrass her cousins, she told them she was a party crasher, stating that she could not get to sleep due to the noise, and had decided to check it out, However, this unravelled, when in a rare moment the Bride was free she introduced Doe to everyone. The rest of Bride and Groom's time was spent crowd surfing on the dance floor. At about 4am, they decided it was time to go home, and the remaining party goers descended back down to the town and reality.

Myanmar Travel 2019/ 2020 FAQ

Over the last 4 years, the changes I have witnessed in Myanmar have occurred at a phenomenal pace, and it shows few signs of abating. Transformation is not just a buzz word, thus, it can be a challenge to obtain current information. I am part of a few Myanmar travel groups on Facebook, and I see that many questions come up again and again so I will try and cover these here, but, often things change on a day to day basis.

Much of the following is relevant especially to Yangon as this is where most people start their trip., and here is a little about what to expect from Yangon. Also, these are all my opinions based on my personal experiences, and many people do have different takes.

Information can also be confusing, Like just recently, when the Myanmar Embassy in Vienna released documentation saying that there are 6 new countries now eligible for Visa on Arrival, including Australia. I am still not sure who is confused here. It surely can’t be me, as being half-Austrian half-Australian I am familiar with the differences.

Best time to travel

Myanmar has 2 seasons, Monsoon and dry. Between the months of July and September, the rains are in full force. Not to say that it is not good to travel, but you are really rolling the dice with the weather, especially in the south of Myanmar. The further north that you go, the drier it is likely to be. Saying that, there are some very beautiful sunsets to be had!

Many say that the best months to travel are between November and March when it is neither scorching nor raining. April and May are incredibly hot.

I have not been here during the northern Winter which is also the peak tourist season, but personally October and November are my favourite months to travel as everything is lusciously green, and there are not many tourists yet, so there is much more room for spontaneity. The Taunggyi Balloon Festival is also on in November, which is a sensational experience.

A really bad time to travel is during Thingyan (which is the Burmese New Year Festival) as there is nothing open and transport is a nightmare. Thingyan occurs for 4-5 days during April, but it affects travel for about a week. There is still transport, but it gets booked out very very quickly, which allows little or no room for spontaneity.

SAFETY

Myanmar is incredibly safe. I have travelled much of the land solo (including Kachin State) and have never run into trouble. The people are kind, generous, helpful and curious. Even though there are many conflict zones, tourists are not allowed anywhere near them. For restricted areas, please see here.

There is very little crime involving tourists, but like any other country always remain alert. If you do have a problem, there are tourist police available.

VISAS

There are two visa options (or three) for entering Myanmar unless you have a waiver. The first is going to an embassy, which can be useful for certain border crossings such as Htee Kee (which I found out the hard way), or you can get an tourist e-visa which has a duration of 28 days. E-visas do not take long and are relatively painless, the official e-visa website is here (you are required to travel within three months of the visa being approved.) They are also pretty strict that you arrive at "the port of entry” stated on your visa.

Here is a detailed link for overland entry possibilities.

Visa on arrival is going to be available for certain countries from October 1st, 2019, but it still costs $50 USD.

In regards to requiring a ticket out of Myanmar, I have never been checked, but that may be case dependant. It is easy enough to buy a cheap bus ticket if need be.

It is likely that you will have your visa checked at the airport where you depart for Myanmar. I have been checked frequently in Europe. Make sure that you have a printed copy, as they stamp that too.

If you overstay your visa, there is a charge of $3 USD per day (after 90 days it becomes $5 a day), and they are pretty relaxed about it compared to neighbouring countries (in the 4 years with multiple overstays I have not had a problem). The overstay office at Yangon Airport is easy to find, and they also allow it at land crossings. It is best not to push it though: although I am not sure at which stage they get suspicious, i wouldn’t stay over a month too long.

Saying that though, your passports and stamps will constantly get checked by both guesthouses and the military whilst you are travelling. In areas where tourists are not such common place, they tend to be more vigilant. I have encountered checks by the military in both Kachin State and on an overnight bus from Yangon to Dawei. If you do find yourself overstaying, I would stay on the well trodden paths.

MONEY

The Burmese currency is the “kyat - MMK” (pronounced “Jet” with a silent t). The situation with accessing money has vastly improved after the last few years, but it is still not perfect. As of today, $1 USD will buy you approx. 1500 kyat. Kyat comes in denominations of 50, 100, 200, 500, 1000, 5000 and 10,000 (being the largest). They do not use coins.

ATM’s charge 6500 kyat for a withdrawal, but ensure that the ATM has the corresponding sign (such as Maestro). Normally the maximum withdrawal is 300,000 Kyat, but there are a few ATM’s which dispense up to 600,000 kyat. For people coming from Europe, I have found N26 to be the perfect travelling account, but have had problems with my Transferwise card.

Changing money at the airport is fine as the exchange rate is great (unlike at most other airports in the world), and there are also many exchange places in town which give the going rate with no commission. It used to be the case in Myanmar that you need to bring only fresh, crisp, undamaged $100 USD bills, and to an extent it is still true. Now however the USD is still used, but you will find yourself using Kyat the majority of the time (and in more remote places such as Chin State, there are no ATM’s nor do they accept USD). You will need USD mostly for guest houses, but even then, they will simply do a currency conversion if you only have Kyat. The money changers also change other currencies. The larger the notes, the better the rate.

It is also now very easy to exchange Euros (same deal with crisp, larger denomination notes). This is easier for those travelling from Europe. In fact, you can get by with no USD at all.

Credit cards are now more widely accepted.

TAXIS

The first taxi you will need is from the airport to your accommodation (in Yangon there is also a bus available which takes you downtown, or your hostel or hotel may pick you up). Depending on the time of the day, you should be able to get a taxi for 8000 Kyat, but at peak times you may need to go up to 10,000. In Yangon there are taxis everywhere, and they base their fares on the time your ride will take, but always negotiate. You should not pay more than 3000 Kyat within the city, and between 1000 - 2000 for a short ride. Grab is also readily available, there is no UBER.

For the adventurous, there is a bus network, and also in downtown Yangon sidecars can be convenient as they are not required to adhere to the one way rules. Plus, it’s fun.

For Grab in Mandalay you can also book a tuk-tuk.

SIM CARDS

I would suggest getting a sim, which is incredibly easy. This is another aspect of Myanmar that has changed a lot in the last 5 years as competition has only recently been permitted. I am not sure on the machinations as to which are the best, but I use Telenor, and I have the app to purchase data pacs. Telenor’s main competitors are Ooredoo and MPT. Apparently Ooredoo is better in remote areas, but I have never had major problems. Burmese use a lot of Facebook, WhatsApp and Viber.

It is worth getting a sim, as the WiFI can still be sketchy, especially when you are out of the major cities.

DRESS CODE

This is inherently a contentious issue. The traditional dress in Myanmar is a “Longyi” which may very loosely be likened to a sarong. The name for men’s is a “paso” and for the women a “htamein”. I am a huge supporter of the traditional dress: for the men it is comfortable and for the women it is delicate and feminine. They come at varying costs, and can be tailored or purchased off the rack (for the less, ahem, buxom women). Longyi shopping can be fun, and even if you choose not to don the local clothing it is worth buying some fabric on your travels as a souvenir Here is an article outlining the female attire. If you do choose to wear it, you are in for a wonderful surprise. They do not see it as cultural appropriation at all, in fact they see it as a sign of respect.

On the other end of the spectrum, many believe that you should be able to wear whatever you want, and please, go ahead. Short shorts, spaghetti straps, braless….. BUT I can assure you that locals are much more receptive and friendly when you are dressed accordingly, especially in rural areas. An exception to this of course is when you are at western bars or hotels, in which case for women I suggest a wrap for your shoulders when going arriving or departing the premises.

I am hoping that it is a given that being dressing appropriately in religious sites is a given….

SHOWING RESPECT

Aside from being polite at all times, when you give or receive anything, especially money, place your left hand on your right arm as below the elbow as you do. Also, if you see locals staring at you, it is most probably out of curiosity, so a smile never goes astray. I find this much easier when I am not wearing sunglasses.

There is also many benefits in learning a few words, such as:

Hello “Min-ga-la.ba” However, there are many ways to say hello. and when the Burmese are speaking to each other, they will asked closed ended questions as a greeting, such as, “Are you good?” and “Are you comfortable?”.

Thank you “Jei—zu-tin-ba-day”(formal, saying, “Thank you very much.”) and Jei-zu-bey (“thanks”.)

That’s OK, no problem, I’m good: “Ya-bah-deh”. This is particularly useful for taxi drivers and merchants.

CONVERSATIONS WITH BURMESE

Again the locals are incredibly curious, and tend to take have a unique approach. Rather than be asked normal (to us) questions such as your name, be expected to be asked where your husband is (or wife), how old you are, why you are not married and your occupation. Then they might get to your name. Expect them to be both concerned and fascinated if you are a female travelling alone.

Never ever bring up religion or politics, and if the one you are conversing with does, safest bet is to tread very lightly.

TAKING PHOTOGRAPHS

Always exercise absolute decorum in this area as many people do not like their photographs being taken, especially the beautiful women with the tattooed faces in Chin State. Always always ask. The way to say this in Burmese is, “Da-pon yai-ma-la”, but symboling what you intend to do will always suffice. I often show my subjects (especially the kids) the photo I have taken.

I am still on a mission to get a polaroid camera so I can give them a copy as a keepsake.

MYANMAR FOOD

Myanmar food is diverse and delicious if you know where to look. A common complaint is that it is too oily, but in this case it is due to refrigeration issues and food preservation. I have only had food poisoning in Myanmar one time, and that was from food at a Western restaurant.

Myanmar food is a huge part of the culture, and if you cannot summon your inner adventurer you are missing out. Noodles, salads, spices, exotic fruits and vegetables… It is an economically viable smorgasbord.

As most people arrive into Yangon, I would highly recommend a street food tour by Anglo-Burmese Marc Shortt of Sa Ba Street Food Tours offers a variety of different tours, all of which give you an in-depth introduction to the culinary delights of this wonderful land which will equip you perfectly for your time in Myanmar.

YANGON TOURS

Aside from Sa Ba Street food mentioned above, there are a few tours in Yangon. Uncharted Horizons is another good one: they take you on half or full day bike trips, and you get to see another side of Yangon.

Adding to this there is also a heritage tour (which I am yet to go on but I intend to). The colonial buildings in Downtown Yangon are one of the things which make this city very special.

COST OF BEER AND CIGARETTES

Heads up, if you are not going to Western bars all the time it is super cheap to get drunk. Whisky and beer are unbelievably cheap, (a long neck of beer is about $1.50, and a glass about .60c. Beer stations are good fun, and the beer is the same price as in a shop.

A packet of cigarettes is in the vicinity of 1000 kyats, so about .70c. You can also smoke pretty much anywhere: it is a degenerate’s dream.

TIPPING/ DONATING/ GIVING MONEY TO BEGGARS

This is a contentious issue. As a general rule, tipping is not expected, with the exception of guides. If you tip at a beer station then they will most likely run after you trying to give it back. However, if you are a regular somewhere, or have had a personalised and wonderful stay somewhere, then tipping is appreciated.

Don’t give money to beggars. Full stop. Beggars target both locals and Westerners, and are mainly to be found in tourist areas. It is generally not a culture.

Getting around Myanmar

Whilst there are flights available, the overnight bus system is sensational. You basically feel like you are in business class on an aeroplane. Between the tourist “hot-spots” I would recommend JJ Express as you cannot go wrong.

Most busses in Yangon leave from the Aung Mingalar Bus Station which is out near the airport. At peak traffic times you will need to allow two hours to get there, and I strongly recommend taking a taxi as they will get you to the correct bus: the station is like a mini city, and very hard to navigate alone.

Busses and planes are a rudimentary way to travel, and if you have limited time, then the best option. BUT I would highly recommend incorporating train and boat travel into your itinerary if you can. Both are unique experiences which allow you to see the landscape and mingle with locals. Overnight trains are not great though, as they are bumpy as hell and bugs are attracted to the light. For detailed train travel, one cannot go past the “Man In Seat 61”.

MOTORBIKES

Aside from Yangon, where they are not permitted, motorbikes are the most prevalent mode of transport in the country. In most destinations you can hire them for a day, and you can also get moto-taxis in many areas. Not expensive at all.

For something a bit more special, try Myanmar Motorbikes.

Bagan is a rare case though where they rent out electric bicycles to see the temples rather than motorbikes.

HOMESTAYS

Homestays are as a general rule not permitted in Myanmar, and the people hosting you will get into trouble. Technically foreigners are required to stay in registered guest houses, and the lenience varies from area to area. On the trek from Kalaw to Inle Lake, you will most likely stay in Homestays through your guide, but he or she will also be there.

Again, it is only a general rule, and there are circumstances where there are exceptions.

TREKKING

The most popular trek in Myanmar is from Kalaw to Inle Lake, and for good reason. It is incredibly touristy for good reason. the scenery is spectacular, and even though you know that there are a multitude of other groups out there, you don’t really see them.

There are an abundance of trekking companies in Kalaw, and the best is to talk to various companies and see which one suits your needs. You will also see many other people walking around doing the same, so you might find a group to go with before you book.

Keep in mind that you need to book your hotel at the other end before you start trekking, as your main backpack will be transferred and waiting for you at the hotel when you arrive.

This is not the only trekking in Myanmar. Chin state and Hsipaw (to start with) also boast fabulous trekking.

Ngwe Saung Beach, Myanmar

Word on the bumpy road to Ngwe Saung, located on the Bay of Bengal, is that it is the perfect way to unwind if you have a few days free at the end of your Myanmar trip. You know, put your feet up in a 5 * hotel and chill. You could do it that way, or…..

For this article it would be very convenient to spout forth a plethora of rudimentary cliches such as, “A hidden gem off the beaten track”, but well, it is not off the beaten track. On the contrary. By Myanmar standards, it is on the beaten track, and easily accessible from Yangon: you are looking at a 5 hour bus trip (unless you go in the middle of the night and have a bat-shit crazy bus driver munching on betel nuts, then you might get there in four). Adding to this, the gems are not hidden – they are right there, in plain sight – and the only way that you could possibly miss them is by confining yourself to your 5* hotel whilst sucking back cocktails and burgers as you discuss how much you love immersing yourself in the Myanmar culture.

So, to avoid the cliches, i am going to paint the picture in photos, ‘cause, as you know, a picture speaks a thousand words. DAMMIT! I did it again.

Part 1: NGWE SAUNG BEACH LIFE (sarcasm detector required)

You can’t even make the beauty of this shit up. If I tried to articulate it in words it would sound like something out of a Mills & Boon novel. So romantic that I held my own hand.

A great place at any time of the day to watch the world go by. Such as….People on their way back to the village after a day’s work. They probably earn about as much in a day as my delicious cold beer that I was slurping in front of them cost.

A renovators dream.

Sometimes it is nice to get your cock out on the beach.

This young guy was just chilling, but I soon put an end to that, as he is also my my beer guy. Child labour is so very underrated.

After giving me my beer, this guy got a little too chit-chatty, so I lent him my camera as unfortunately my crack-pad was still recharging in the hostel.

One of my other past times is making babies cry. Unfortunately this one only cried for the first few days, and then she could not give AF. Need to work harder.

You know what this post needs? A photo of me with some kids. Hopefully this will prove that I am not a total um… grinch.

Needs to go on Tinder, right next to the photo of me with a sedated lion.

I tried to negotiate a ride down the beach, but for reasons unbeknown to me, he could not speak English. That’s ok though because I kept on repeating myself more slowly and loudly until he got my gist.

On a motorbike trip to a fishing village south of Ngwe Saung I saw this family repairing a fishing net with a needle and thread. Don’t fret: I am sure that they went back home afterwards, turned on the air con, ordered some home delivery pizza, and then watched Netflix on the big screen.

A local fishing village. Naturally, all of the boats have passed stringent safety regulations, and all the fisherman operating them have wonderful salary packages including health care.

What fire show?

Hey, totally unrelated, what is the legal age in Myanmar? Asking for a friend.

Oh look! In Myanmar they also have workplace initiatives such as, “Bring your children to work day”. And I made this one cry. Bonus!!

The latest Rowenta DW5080 Micro Steam iron.

Now we’re talking! Off the beaten track.

The surrounding beaches are simply overrun with tourists.

But luckily, this influx of tourists is efficiently handled with solid infrastructure and transport systems.

Why are they taking my dinner for a walk?

But luckily, i got to see all of this from the confines of my 5* hotel, and the double bonus is that I did not have to support the local families and economy.

Part 2

The above facetious diatribe was fuelled by 3 weeks of holier than thou dieting, whilst simultaneously counteracting Monsoon Season with my very own dry season.

Ngwe Saung is a very special place to me as I spent three weeks there in September 2015. My days were spent exploring the surrounding areas, sitting on the beach watching the world go by, and learning a little Burmese (from the aforementioned child labourers).

Ngwe Saung was only set up as a tourist destination in 2000 with the goal of providing an upmarket alternative to Chaung Tha, a beach that is slightly further north which is easily accessible by motorbike. As Ngwe Saung is still a little green, it remains beautifully sincere and authentic. I would use the adage, “Get there before it changes”, but we, the foreigners are the ones who are changing it. This place is not Thailand, and hopefully never will be.

In order to not leave dirty paw prints over this part of Myanmar, just ensure that you treat the locals with respect at all times, and exercise particular decorum when exploring the villages. In regards to beach life, it is worth noting that the Burmese tend to swim in their clothes, and they do not go out past the waves. Whist I am not one to preach about appropriate attire, I can guarantee you that here – like most places in Myanmar– if you dress accordingly and stay modest the locals will be decidedly more receptive to you.

The hotels along the beach are somewhat different, and bikinis are the norm. I am not saying that the 5 star hotels there do not have their merits, but it really is a shame if you spend your entire stay there. You can also stay elsewhere, and visit a 5 star hotel for the day (everyone needs their fix). I chose the Eskala Hotel as, well, if you are going to do it, do it properly. In regards to the dwellings one may choose when they are travelling, it is a case of each to their own. Eskala for me is fine for a day, but frankly I find it somewhat bland and impersonal.

Instead, when I go to Ngwe Saung, I stay in the very affordable Dream House. Funnily enough, the wonderful Michael and Lei Lei used to both work at Eskala, meaning that the service is 5 star at a budget price. When I was there last time, it was a lot smaller and they were they were always doing small renovations and well thought out improvements: it was no surprise that when I went back this year it had expanded significantly in size. Also, not only is breakfast included, but they also have an extensive menu, which you can order from any time of the day.

The village is full of restaurants with delicious and well priced seafood, and my particular favourite is Social House, which is owned by a very lovely family. Saying that, sitting on the beach until the sun goes down is really not negotiable!! You can also rent bikes there (at the guesthouse).

Getting to Ngwe Saung from Yangon is relatively easy. Option one is to go to Hlaing Thar Yar bus station (which is an hour from downtown in a taxi) very early in the morning, or you can take the overnight bus. Well, it is not really overnight as you get in at 0330 at latest. The reason I endorse the second option is that the bus leaves from the main train station in downtown at 2130, meaning that you miss all the traffic as well as having to make the trek out to the other bus station. For this, there is the Asia Dragon Express, whose office is also very central, but you can book tickets over the phone.

With that in mind, I would not really recommend it during the peak Monsoon, but, the tail end of Monsoon for sure as that is where I caught all of those beautiful sunsets.

Where to stay in Mandalay? Ned Kelly Hotel is the clear answer.

I am not normally one to do “hotel” reviews. and I think it is best I iterate before I start that I was in no means compensated for this endorsement. Ok, that is slightly fabricated. I was given a beer on the house in the rooftop bar before I returned to life in Yangon. Or maybe I stole it, ‘cause that’s what Aussies do. Bushranger Style.

But the Ned Kelly is not an Australian Hotel, actually, nor is it a hotel. It is both a beautiful mix of Australian and Irish as well as being a hybrid of a hotel and a hostel.

But potatoes, gold mining, whatever, “to be sure “ it was definitely not a “welcome to the backpacker jungle scenario” like Ostello Bello down the road. Look, I have nothing against beer pong, karaoke and buckets of beer drunk by 23 year olds called Chad and Tiffany who are on their first solo voyage (which they did not have to steal a loaf if bread for). But at my vintage, it may be slightly fair to say that I have missed that fleet, and am a little more, um diverse in my nocturnal activity choice. Especially as many of the guests were young enough to be me when I still had hopes and dreams.

Not to say that there was anything wrong with Ostello Bello (aside from the wristband I was given which served the purpose for returning me home if I was lost and inebriated): the rooms were clean, the staff adorable, and the breakfast digestible.

On the second night, my stay in Mandalay took on a criminal angle. No, I did not steal a cheroot from the front counter, but discovered Ned Kelly. Even better, the friend who introduced me to Ned Kelly is an Irish Barrister working in Myanmar for an NGO training young criminal lawyers, so I followed the cases and even got to go to a court hearing and I must say, the legal system is so outdated that I may as well have been in Australia in colonial times.

Fuelling this theme was the fact that the very congenial French-Canadian manager called Leif had a hipster beard, a trend which I reckon was based on Ned Kelly himself. Fair dinkum.

But issues with an Irish Pub being called Ned Kelly aside, I enjoyed my food and beers up there so much that I asked to see the rooms (even though the hotel was not open yet). They were clean, elegant and comfortable so I decided to stay there when I returned three weeks later from a trip around Kachin State: and I gotta say, boy did I need that hot shower which was provided.

The Ned Kelly is the perfect place for someone like me to be based whilst they discover Mandalay. It is well designed, comfortable, and has excellent common areas which allows one to be as social or private as they like. Not only that, but it has a spacious rooftop bar which is the ideal place to catch up on emails or do some work if you are a digital nomad like myself. Hotels can be too isolating, and hostels leave me wondering if I am a geriatric wanderer.

Having been to many lands in many continents, I have to say that Ned Kelly is in my top 5 places that I have stayed, The decor, the comfort, the hospitality (5 star service at a budget price), and the breakfasts all led me to actually wanting to write something about it. I cannot wait to return later in the year to see more of Mandalay and steal more beers.

Australian Bushranger style.

*All photos in this article were stolen by me without permission.

For more info, click here. or here for website.

Adding to this all of my bookings were made through Unlock Myanmar, who also work with both Ostello Bello and Ned Kelly. Highly recommended.

Yangon to Mandalay by Bus

The thumbnail picture of this ramshackle, broken-down bus in Southern Myanmar is by no means related to or indicative of my luxurious JJ's "Joyous Journey" bus trip from Yangon to Mandalay, but basically the opposite, which saddens me ever so slightly. 

After being based in Myanmar on and off for three years, I have come to find that the dodgier the experience, the more memorable it is. I take boats, trains and buses (in that order) at every available opportunity.

Two years ago I took a bus from Kawthaung to Myeik in Southern Myanmar, and whilst I thought it was the trip from hell at the time, it is a story I have often regaled with just a smattering of embellishment. On that particular bus trip they handed out sick bags to all the passengers on the packed bus. I thought that was hilarious.

But it wasn’t.

As soon as the bus started moving the oddest symphony of regurgitation began. At first I was somewhat amused, but when all 7 people on the back seat were simultaneously hurling to different degrees, I started to feel slightly nauseous myself. Of course this had a knock-on effect, and maybe sixty percent of the bus passengers were not in good shape.

But as soon as the bus stopped the barfing stopped. By stopped I mean the bus broke down in the middle of the highway for two hours. But as soon as it was “repaired” and the engines started, the symphony resumed.

There were also two half hour stops for people to eat and go to the bathroom. At this stage I was still petrified of travelling alone and was repulsed by the toilets. Later in the journey the bus stopped again for a few hours, but they would not let anyone get off the bus. In hindsight, I think that a bridge may have collapsed.

Then there was “bus” guy. Bus guys are awesome. They know who everyone is, where they are getting off, and are always on the phone to pick up passengers on the highway. They are like executive administrations, and they do an admirable job.

Fast forward two years later, and I have come to thoroughly enjoy these journeys. The dodgier the toilets and food stops are the happier I am. 10 points if the bathroom is adjacent to the kitchen.

But JJ’s busses are nothing like this, They are akin to flying business class on a reputable airline. The hostesses are dressed to the nines, there are reclining seats, video screens and they provide a snack when you get on. There are only two toilet stops, and at these it is not compulsory to get off the bus. There is absolutely nothing dodgy about it, and the upside is that you may get a good enough sleep to ensure that the next day is not a total write off.

I booked my bus trips through the wonderful staff at “Unlock Myanmar”

http://www.unlockmyanmar.com/

A eulogy, from a daughter to her mother.

I would like to preface this with three points. 

Tricia always had both cultures in her heart. Thus, we decided to make the service Austrian and Australian. 

The day before the funeral, as I left the crypt which had so many beautiful dedications and  flowers, I shook my head and sighed. Trishy, Trishy, Trishy. Not two seconds later, she dumped snow from the church roof two feet behind me. 

The following is not grammatically correct, it was written for the delivery. 

"Ich bitte um verzeihung. 

Es ist schweirig genug diese werte in Englisch zu artikulieren. Deshalb, mochte ich diese lebenslauf in English wieder geben. 

Vielen dank fur das verstandnis. 

Oh Trishy, Trishy, Trishy. 

Words escape me, which is somewhat rare. Where does one start when talking about something they never expected to end? How does one articulate this beautiful force of nature that we are saying farewell to today? 

We could talk about her youth in Melbourne with her parents (Kevin and Francis) and her siblings Jenny, Brian and Dan. But I was not there, and after valuable reminiscing with family throughout the last week, some information has come to light which has led me to believe that our Tricia was even more mischievous than perviously thought. 

We could talk about when she met our father, Bernti, at a BBQ in Falls creek. But again, I was not there. It is fair to say that we all know how that went, considering that my big sister Tina and I are here now. 

We could also talk about the creation of Bernti's lodge in Thredbo Village, Australia. The beutiful project of our mother (an accountant who just happened to be a beauty queen on the side) and our father, a charismatic Tirolean ski instructor. Bernti's was an extraordinary achievement of Thredbo's hey day, and a hybridisation of the Austrian and Australian cultures, which we are also trying to do here today. 

What we SHOULD talk about is her tireless devotion to our father. When he suffered a debilitating stroke in 1997, she looked after him with love and tenderness 24 hours a day until his death in 2008. During this time she was also fighting against those who foolishly attempted to destroy everything she had built. 

She was a warrior, who throughout this dark time sustained herself with dreams of the Austrian Alps. 

9 years ago her dreams came back to fruition, and the beautiful circle was complete, She returned to Tirol with my sister and once again became that vibrant and avid skier with a guest house. This time around, there was even more happiness, as my sister Tina met the love of her life, Andreas. Together they created two perfect, cheeky grandchildren, Raphael and Allegra. They brought her so much daily joy. 

However, this is not about what she did, but how she did it. 

Everything was done with glamorous gusto. 

She was formidable, fantastic, fearless and fiercely loyal. 

She took no prisoners. 

She called Tina and I her "experiments". She wanted to raise strong women. And that she has. 

As devastating and unexpected as this is, she has given us the strength to continue what she started. 

To say we will miss her is quite the understatement, but the bitter sweet is that she got to go as the ageless beauty she was, and still is. 

Whenever we have fear or doubts, we can just ask ourselves, "What would Tricia do?"

"

Body Imaging by Abby Robinson @ Pansuriya, Yangon

“There’s a really nice eye over there next to the boobs…. No, no, under the knobbly knee. Yep, that’s the one, above the crooked teeth.” 

It was 8pm on Saturday night and I was seated in Pansuriya (a stunning gallery and restaurant located in a colonial building downtown Yangon), trying to explain to an English couple what was going on. After a week of watching this performance and photography installation called “Body Imaging” I was starting to get a picture of the idea (or an idea for a picture), but until I went into the “Doctor’s Office” I would not know for sure. 

Abby Robinson is based in New York, and has the theory that there are only two professions that get close to body parts: doctors and photographers. Abby is a photographer, but claims to be “doctor adjacent” as her sister is a doctor. I concur with “doctor adjacent” as clearly there is no doctor/patient confidentiality agreement, even though people choose to think there is. Through this scenario she creates, people seem compelled to divulge the most extraordinary things: I have heard unique stories from her “clinic” which she has facilitated seven times in cities including New York, Shanghai, Las Vegas, Budapest and now Yangon. 

An area of Pansuriya is cornered off with curtains, and as people sit in the “waiting room” they fill out a form (naturally on a clipboard), and after the requisite waiting period she calls on them, inviting them with doctorly precision (white coat and all) into her “office” for their consultation, during which time they choose which body part they would like photographed. The “patient” gets one copy. 

And the other? 

Adorning a large wall in the gallery are shots of tits, pits, nips, lips, lobes, fingers, knees and toes. I did query about hoo-hahs and ding-dongs, of which there have been many, but only one hoo-hah this week, which Abby agreed to photograph (she has never declined a request), but stated it would not be hung on the wall. 

Watching this unfold in Pansuriya has been an experience, both as a spectator and in my own mind. Seeing people’s choices and being ever so curious as to the inspiration behind them led me to go down some rabbit holes of my own. Was this exercise in interaction? vanity? therapy? memory collection? liberation? demon confrontation? acceptance? memory liberation? demonic vanity? interactive acceptance? 

My conclusion is that it is whatever you individually choose it to be. In my case it was therapeutic acceptance.  

What to Expect From Yangon, Myanmar

Betel Nut Stains on the pavement

When I saw the first stain I thought someone had had a blood nose on the pavement, but learnt that it is a result of mainly the local men sucking betel nuts wrapped in a leaf with other ingredients depending on one’s personal preferences. Lime stone, tobacco, herbs… There are stations everywhere, and not only do these things give you a high, but they give your teeth a wonderful red bloody glow. At first it is quite confronting, but you get used to it. 

Kamikaze Driving

Merrily high on the betel nut, drivers of all vehicles honk. Whether it be in lieu of indicators, rounding a corner, or alerting pedestrians, cyclists and potholes to their presence, it is a constant. Even at night on a bus.

Crossing a road

Ever played Frogger? The only fool proof system I have discovered is to throw caution to the wind, latch onto locals and follow them in. Once you get the hang of it though, you don’t even notice the honking. Just one lane at a time, stand in the middle of the road, be aware that you don’t have right of way, or basically, splat. 

Riding a bus

A chaotic adventure. If you are lucky you will jump on when it is moving as they may not want to miss the green light. But it is ok, there is a guy to help you. Each bus has a “guy” or two who collect the money, yell out the stop names and keep things running in systematic chaos. 

Trains 

Whether it be within Yangon or around the country it is not an experience to be missed. The old English trains go at a snails pace and it is a perfect way to watch Burmese people go around their daily business. The vendors come through selling fruit, drinks, snacks and toys. The Yangon circular train costs 200 Kyat (about 20c) for three hours. Economic to say the least, and not to mention the beauty of the colonial train station. 

Overgrown buildings

Sigh. I can sit on the balcony and watch the buildings all day long. The colonial building are beautifully overgrown: you can imagine a tree growing through the centre of the house. It can’t be good for the structure, but the aesthetics are divinely unique.  

Business names

The business names, especially those of travel agents and guesthouses leave little open to interpretation. Many of both are along the lines “OK”,  “So so”,  “Mediocre”, “It’ll do”, “Why Not”? “Give it a shot”, “Where else ya gonna look”? 

Wiring 

You could almost make a skipping rope out of some of the low hanging wires. 

Stray dogs

I have found the dogs to be docile (their behaviour may be different towards those of marginal character) and they generally chill out during the day. Come night time it is their land. Time to assert some authority, cruise the block and howl just to make their presence known. 

Pavements

Potholes, cracks, loose slabs… It is a whole lot of “oopsy daisy” waiting to happen, especially when you are diligently dodging the dogs and the wires whilst looking at the buildings and schniffing out something to eat. 

Moving vendors (food choices) 

There is such a delicious cross section of food in Myanmar (and especially the big cities) that one’s foraging is never done. Even when you find something aligned to your taste you have to be sure to go at the right time of the day. 

Chairs at tea houses

Like a child’s tea party where you must be somewhat svelte to perch in these tiny seats, normally located in the gutter. 

Child waiters 

It is only apt that at these tea party set ups there are child waiters serving you. Actually, they may not be children: the age of the Myanmar people is impossible to tell. I am almost never right. 

Kissing noises 

If you want service at tea houses and beer stations you need to make two kissing noises into the air, which makes you feel a little rude, but hey, it’s the way that it is done. Just don’t do it when you return to your home land as it may get you in trouble. 

Toilets: the seedier the better

At first I hated the toilets, but after spending so much time in the country when I go to a bathroom in a restaurant I am slightly disappointed if it is a Western design. Even more so when I find that the toilet is not located right next to the food preparation area. 

Toilet paper for everything

Wiping is a given, but also as tissues, napkins, business cards, and tea towels. 

Food containers

People walking along the street will often have one of those ingenious multi compartment metal containers where the rice is separate normally from the curries or other delicious meals that they have in there. They are called tiffins 

Home Delivery Systems

For weeks I wondered what the long pieces of string hanging from the apartment blocks were. Basically, the vendors will go past, you will send down your money on the rope, and then they will attach your food to the clip and you pull it back up. 

Monks

I used to imagine monks being these ultimately serene creatures, but apparently they go about daily life like normal. They eat, they smoke, they talk on their mobiles and watch tv. Sometimes simultaneously. 

Manual Labour

They don’t like to do things the easy way here, or maybe they are unaware of an easier way, but everything seems to be done by hand. Whether it be food preparation, building sites or farming.

Chinlone

The Myanmar males are buffed. Some of this can be attributed to the amount of manual labour, but more so to the national sport of “chinlone” which to me appears to be the love child of hacky sack and volleyball. With a cane ball they will either stand around in a circle or on either side of a net and play for hours. 

Longyis

The way that the burmese dress is so very sophisticated. Especially the women. The wear fitted sarongs with matching tops, and whilst they are fully covered they look feminine, classy and sophisticated. Normally made of cotton they are comfortable, whether it be one that simply ties or is fitted. The men also wear these (called a pasol) and the really dextrous ones tie the knot loosely at the front. Men are constantly readjusting as there is a fear of it falling down. That I would like to see. 

Thanaka

Thanaka is bark of certain trees used as make-up and sunscreen on everyone. Men and babies use it as sunscreen, but women use it as makeup. I felt like a clown when I wore it, but the Myanmar people see it as very beautiful. 

A baby and mother both wearing thanaka. 

Velvet flip flops

Flip-flops. The national shoe. Everyone everywhere wears them. Many of the men wear velvet flip flops, and when the women are dressing up they wear platformed flip flops. I am yet to find some in my size. 

Safe, but metal detectors

As a tourist I have seen no crime in this wonderful land, however you know it exists somewhere as when you go into the movie theatre or cinema you often pass through a metal detector. 

Getting caught in the rain

Being in Myanmar in the rainy season it is bound to happen, and I always make a deliberate b-line for somewhere the locals are huddled. It always provides a beautiful interaction. 

When you adapt and put it all together

The ideal way to experience this country is to learn a few words of Burmese, put yourself in a longyi, thanaka and velvet flip flops and just cruise and interact. The people are kind, generous and boast the most beautiful smiles. 

Anti-Social guest houses

After all this overload you can go back to your guesthouse and not worry about loud music, or irritating guests as the guest houses seem to be designed for little interaction. There may be a small common area at the reception and a balcony for smoking here and there, but after all the stimulation you get from going outside the quiet time is a welcome comfort. 

Enjoy your time!!

Hiking Trolltunga, Norway

It was 0815, and I was lying in a hostel in Bergen, Norway, five days into a September road trip. It was a tiny room of four, the rain was pounding on the skylight, and unique odours were wafting up from the bunks below. Not just regular pedestrian hostel fare of stale booze and socks: these stale socks were something to behold. They belonged to a German man who had been traveling around by bike for 3 weeks – but with all that scenery he had found little time to do laundry – and it was making me feel like a hot shower and my own bed back in Oslo. 

That was just one of the angles I was using to talk myself out of hiking Trolltunga. 

Aside from the exhaustion that results from sleeping in foreign beds with strangers present (and not in a good way), I was worried that I was poorly equipped, did not have a room booked, and was lacking the fitness levels required. All of these doubts were with good foundation. "Trolltunga" (Norwegian for "The Troll’s Tongue”) is located in the Hordaland county of Norway and has been deemed “The Scariest Instagram spot on Earth” by The Huffington Post. Since the age of social media, the amount of people that taking upon the 22km hike (11 km each way) has increased from five hundred a year into the thousands. Not once has it been described as anything less than difficult. 

My inner voices jousted for a good hour, but as they both had valid points, the end result was a well fought draw. We agreed with myself to go by the hiking store, ask a few questions, then get the ferry through The Hardanger Fjord to Rosendal, then jump on the 900 bus to Odda which goes along the  a branch of Hardanger), the largest base for the hike, and take it from there. I was becoming about as blasé about fjords as I was about Churches in Italy: seen one, seen em all (that was The Troll’s Tongue in cheek by the way). 

First stop was the hiking store. I was very close to buying some hiking boots, but was reluctant, as walking with brand new hiking boots could be problematic. I asked the “salesman” whether people hiked up in the shoes I was wearing (Solomon Cross trainers with spikes), and he said they were very common. Then I asked him about lycra leggings with some shell hiking pants, and a fleece with a Haglof's Parka. He seemed to think I was perfectly well equipped, especially after I informed him of my intense daily fitness regime of being a waitress. He told me twelve year old Norwegian kids did this shit for breakfast, and I was like, “Screw you, you blonde, beautiful, fit people. You all look the same to me”. 

The Bergen Wharf, the starting point for my hike. 

Houses on the fjord... People being alone. Together. 

So off I set to the picturesque Bergen Wharf (which happens to be a world heritage site) to get a ferry to take me through Hardanger Fjord, the second longest fjord in Norway. Getting off the ferry were a group of impossibly fit Norwegian girls, wearing the same sneakers as me, I gave myself a smirk and a physical high five for my footwear selection, and started thinking that this was going to be ok (and I also got a whole row to myself on the ferry because of that enthusiastic self high five). I bought my ticket on board, but due to the earlier internal deliberations I had had no time for brekky and a coffee, so I shelled out the requisite fifteen euro for a stale sandwich and filter coffee (I had to ask for milk and sugar as that is not how Norwegians drink it). The scenery was standard (by Norway’s “Once in a Lifetime standards”), but I was particularly taken by the villages on the Fjords. I once heard comedian Arj Barker say that he wanted to buy a whole lot of hermit crabs and make them live together, and that is what Norwegian Fjord villages are like. People, being isolated. Together. 

The view from the boat. 

After the boat ride, I stopped in a village called Rosendal before getting a bus to Odda which took 35 minutes. I was the only person on the bus, and the driver was playing German Folk music. For a second, I was confused as to where I was, but it was a moment. As a solo traveler the pinnacle of quiet time is on a bus, entirely alone, sucking up the scenery, on the road to a challenge. I would love to attempt to describe it, but pictures from the bus window should suffice. 

Taken from the bus window. This is the Sørfjorden, a branch of the Hardanger Fjord. 

When I arrived in Odda, two of my travelling companions from earlier in the week were waiting. Two lovely, sweet, mid-twenties Belgian guys and after seeing them my doubts were gone. They said, “The last thing we wanted to do before we left was have a beer with you”. I wasn’t so alone with my thoughts anymore, which was a pleasant change. 

The town of Odda. 

“Do you think I can do this”? I asked as animated hikers ate pizzas and reflected around me. They had no need to answer, as I knew I wanted to feel like these people tomorrow. Then they verbally guided me through the hike, told me what to look out for, when to stress, and, ultimately, assured me I could do it. As I put them on the bus with heartfelt hugs, the sun disappeared. 

Next was grocery shopping, as there are no “snack bars” along the way (you are kidding right), and it is 22km of hard work, I went a smidgen overboard with my packed lunch thing, buying a whole chicken, two loaves of bread, yoghurt, eggs, salami, cheese, mayonnaise, chocolate, and cookies. To name half of it. I then got a taxi to the apartment which I had found when I arrived. There had been little stress, as I simply went into the tourist office, found a place that suited me, called a number, the lady gave me a code for an apartment in Tyssedal (which is closer to where the hike begins than Odda), told me I was welcome for the few nights and to just leave the money on the table when I was done. Very trusting: don’t think that she even asked my name. I was somewhat inclined to inform her that I was Australian and that we had a tendency to be marginal, but I refrained.

I think the sun had just risen when I woke up, but I wanted to get the first bus just after 730am, so that I could begin my hike by 0800. The boys had told me that it had taken them four hours up, two hours up there and three hours back. So I conservatively guessed I would need five up and five back, with three at the top to catch my breath. They had also told me that the first and last section of the hike were the hardest. There used to be a funicular taking you up the initial steep incline, but only the remnants exist there now, just to mock you. 

So off I powered, all gumption and focus. I had no map or compass, nor was I part of a tour as I had been informed that none of the above were required. Not only did you have a constant stream of people to guide your way, but there were red arrows what seemed like every ten meters. Nearing the top of the first section I started chatting to an American scientist from Pasedina (no, not Leonard or Sheldon), and with an unspoken agreement we became buddies for the day. 

The hike had a total altitude gain of 900 meters, much of which happened in the first one and a half kilometres, but by no means was the rest easy, and I was constantly aware that I would be coming back the same way. I went through glacial potholes, sludge, snow, puddles, mud, past lakes, over sheer rocks, along ridges and a valley of rocks. Each section was distinctly different, and more powerful than the last, but all the while I was slightly distracted wondering If I was even going to walk out onto the tongue, and if I did what was I going to do? There was not a chance that I was going to sit on the edge. Ever. 

I rarely stopped (more training from waitressing as I ate on the run), and we reached “The Tongue” at 1145: it was still relatively quiet so the queue to get your photo taken was only fifteen minutes, but not thirty minutes later, after I had taken my hiking buddies photo, the queue was up to an hour. Many spectated as people went out. There was cheering whilst people did yoga poses, danced the tango, cracked open a beer, held a flag or posed with their significant other, whether it be a tiny pooch or the apparent love of their life (bugger if you broke up huh)? Some people were downright stupid, getting too close to the edge without caution, and I felt that they were not taking this extraordinary nature seriously. Any other country in the world there would be someone monitoring it, and there would definitely be barriers in place, tainting the beauty. 

I still hadn’t decided if I was going to go out on the tongue, after descending a ladder to the waiting area I concluded that much of it was an illusion. It was much wider than I had thought, and had a slight incline so you could not see over the edge. I strode confidently out out and lay on my back, but I was still not afraid, and decided to go and have a look over the edge for a second (with an elegant worm like approach on my stomach). I then retreated, joined my companion, approved the photos and we got ready to walk down. To be honest, even though the scenery at “The Tongue”, overlooking Lake Ringedalsvatnet was incredible, I had seen that many photos of it previously that it was the rest of the hike that had me excited, and the achievement of it all.  I also gotta say, something is taken away from the serenity of hiking when the destination resembles a university mixer. Multiple outfit changes were not uncommon. 

Walking back to Skjeggedal (where the hike begins) the scenery was even more dramatic. Even though it was the same landscape everything was that much more accentuated due to the rapid fading of my energy. There were hills I could not remember, sections seemed longer, and it was that much more slippery. I also noticed that I was not the only one fading. People were stopping more frequently for breaks, and there was none of the banter from earlier in the day. 

With three kilometres to go I was in pain, and realised that there was no way I was going to get down quicker than I came up. My hiking buddy was still going at a fair pace, so I told him to stop waiting for me. “Go ahead without me! There is no point, I am not going to make it. Save yourself” I said as I dabbed my brow and contemplated a cookie. Or more accurately, I didn’t want to feel any pressure to go faster as with my tired legs I needed to be more cautious. Plus, with all the traffic of the day, everything was that much more slippery and difficult. 

The last section was an absolute bitch. I had thought it was bad on the way up, but the pain I was feeling, combined with the muddy ropes and the fading light cause me an hour of hell. I felt like I was in slow motion, and even when I could see the bottom I knew it was another thirty minutes. 

But I made it. My first order of business was to go to the bathroom, because as a chick you cannot just whip your wing-wang out and relieve yourself. Sure, you can go behind a rock, but that was not possible the majority of the time due to the landscape. My next order of business was to take my shoes off. They had served me well, but oh, how I hated them at that moment. The feeling of taking off my trainers was akin to taking off your ski boots at the end of a long day. It felt so damn good. 

Following a cold, hard earned beverage we got the bus back to Odda and went straight for pizza. After nine and a half hours outdoors diligently burning calories, the cheesy goodness of a hot pizza was almost as good as taking off my shoes, and I was no longer exhausted, but animated and proud, just like the hikers before me. 

Yangon, Myanmar (Burma): A Sensory Overload

She came out of nowhere, gently took me by the arm and said, “Dirty”. 

My initial thought was, “You know it sister!”, But then I remembered where I was, and was certain I was to be led out of the market by this wonderfully weathered Burmese woman as I had no place there.  This Yangon market was not for postcards and trinkets, and I doubt they saw many foreigners, let alone towering ones in bright red dresses. She must have read my thoughts, as she pointed to my legs before she started steering me through the market. Under low-hanging makeshift tarpaulins we went, stepping over stray dogs and chickens gone rogue, whilst dodging piles of long forgotten rubbish. I almost tripped over a merchant sitting cross legged on the ground whilst I contemplated why the ravenous dogs chose to let those chooks roam.  

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A woman at the market wearing thanaka

She was right, I was dirty. Not only were my legs were flecked with mud, but my shirt was sticking to my dress, which in turn was sticking to my back (the two layers were not for warmth but for modesty) and even more perspiration was trickling into my eyes, as my sunglasses had been abandoned out of respect. 

She guided me to an oil barrel filled with water in the confines of a shack. Whilst my eyes adjusted she took a small tin bowl and started bathing the back of my legs in a motherly manner. From the cool darkness I could see my American companion looking for me, but I didn’t know what to say, nor did I want to yell out, for fear of fracturing the moment. I only knew that she was finished when she gave me a gentle double tap, like you would to congratulate a mare whose hooves you have just cleaned, and then she stood up, coming up not much further that my ribs. She gave me a warm look, and sent me on my way.  I just wish I had known how to say thank you at that stage. 

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The street outside my hotel 

I had only been in Yangon for a day, maybe two, but I was already learning that this magical place was more about interactions and quirks than the Pagodas and the streets featured heavily in The Lonely Planet. I would love to say this was by my own volition, but did I not have someone immersed in the culture to show me the beauty, it is most likely I would have spent two days on 19th street sitting around in well documented “off the beaten track” restaurants with other travellers having a pissing contest about who was more intrepid. 

Instead I stayed six. And then six more at the end of my trip. Not on 19th street, but on the 9th floor of a hotel on the periphery of downtown looking down onto a chaotic intersection. Long beautiful neglected streets, an abundance of street food and a birds eye view on a hive of chastity. Yes. That’s right I was a solo female traveller overlooking a monastery. So much spirituality. So many questions answered. Monks wear boxer shorts. 

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Monk's washing 

But a woman’s got to eat, and each time I left the room (at first reluctantly) I had an adventure which was an unmitigated attack on one, some, and all of my senses. As soon as I stepped outside I would be blasted with humid air and chaos, which got me to stand back, have a cigarette, readjust and observe. Oddly the chaos brought me comfort. I don’t know if it was because I had just spent five months in the overly pristine and manicured Oslo, or simply that there was so much going on that I had no time to indulge my inner voices, but I felt calm, brave, and compelled to extend the perimeters of my comfort zone. 

I cannot say that pigs innards in broth (pork doto) were the most succulent morsels, but for me prior, adventurous eating in Thailand had consisted of switching (on rare occasion) from chicken Pad Thai to chicken fried rice for fear of food poisoning. The fact that the broth was washed down with a bottle of $1.50 whisky whilst sitting on tiny chairs, in the gutter of a bar (where I was the only woman) with all eyes on me made me feel like a princess. Screw the tiara, this was living. It did not take me long to get up the gumption to not only get the waitresses attention, but to ask to pay, and to hand over the cash which was a three tier ritual (assisted by the whiskey and my companion). First you have to make kissing noises, and not of the half assed Soccer mum variety. Nope, two full smooches into the air is the only way to get the waitress (or waiters) attention. Then when she came over, I requested the bill (shin-mey). I didn’t understand the amount, but handed over the equivalent of five dollars for the whole meal and drinks (which may as well have been a $100 or €100 note). As I delivered it, I placed my left hand gently on my inner elbow, and handed her the money palm up. The waitress did the same manoeuvre to both receive the money and hand me my sufficient change as it is a sign of respect (on both parts). The bemusement and smiles made me hanker for more: it was a novelty for both sides. 

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Shan noodles I ate at the end of a three day trek in Shan State 

The first time I went out for dinner myself, I chose an innocent looking Shan noodle stand that I had seen from my hotel room at night (again with the child’s tea party set up in the gutter) run by children no older than 14. As I approached they gathered together, and started giggling. I pointed to a dish that a local customer was eating, and then gestured nervously to a table where I was going to attempt to sit. They delivered my hot tea and noodles and watched me from a safe distance with much curiosity. Here I was, inches from the kamikaze traffic, sipping hot tea and eating spicy noodles with an audience. Yes, I feel the need to repeat the hot and spicy factor as clearly it was noticeable. A young girl cautiously approached and from a safe distance whilst her brothers and sisters looked on, and politely asked if she could sit. She could actually fit on the tiny seats, and she daintily held out a box of tissues (again with the left arm on the inner elbow) for me to wipe my brow. Over the next five minutes (whilst she handed me tissue after tissue) I managed to express that it was delicious, but I was not used to the food as where I come from it is very cold, and I showed her a photo on my phone of the Austrian Alps. Again I left wishing I could communicate more. 

Like my companion could. 

Learning the language and about the people had given him a strut. As I followed behind him each afternoon in his longyi (which is the traditional dress of the Burmese men) I got to see the reactions of these wonderful people when he spoke to them in Burmese. Women and men would comment on his attire, unaware that he could understand, and he would reply, “La-dey no?” translated as, “Pretty, isn’t it”? and then engage in conversation. Invariably the reaction was undiluted delight, and I wanted in on it. 

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The Betel leaves used to wrap the ingredients 

It started with me asking if I could have a turn. As he strutted I saw some men admiring, so I looked at them, smiled, and said, “La-dey no”? And nailed it. They laughed, and shook their heads as though they could not believe it. They probably couldn’t. Their smiles were huge, red stained toothy smiles. At first I had thought that the red stains were blood, and that there was a serious shortage of dentists in Yangon, but these smiles were too prevalent and unabashed for that. Instead they are the result of chewing –or more accurately sucking and spitting– betel leaves with tobacco and other ingredients inside such as lime paste, tobacco, betel nut and other spices depending on personal taste. It is not just a nicotine fix, but as a taxi driver said to me, “Eat but no sleep. My teeth are walking, my brain is walking, no sleeping”. I did eventually try it, with an elderly nun in a home stay on day two of a three day trek in the Shan State, but I don’t think it was the strong stuff. 

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People wearing traditional dress at Shwedagon Pagoda 

The women held a different kind of admiration for the Westerner in the longyi.  It was not so much, “Check out the white guy rocking the longyi” but more tilted towards, “Oh my!”. As they appreciated, I found myself in turn appreciating their dress. The women also wear longyis made of beautiful silks and cottons which reach the ankles, but on top they wear matching tailored shirts covering the shoulders, often with intricate patterns. Accentuated sophistication without a muffin top, camel toe or VPL in sight. Their make-up is also understated, if they wear any at all, aside from thanaka, which is a fragrant whitish yellow paste doubling as sunscreen. Burmese women are the pinnacle of class, yet they still responded in the same way to a little, “Ladey-no?”. 

The next phrase I learnt was sa-bi-bi-la? which doubles as a colloquial, “hello” as well as asking somebody if they have eaten. It is a little but cute, and to be used when greeting groups of children or people younger than you. They will giggle, and tell you not whether or not they have eaten, which is also the equivalent of saying hello back. Apparently, it is not appropriate to say it in a bar to a rather intoxicated man as he leers at you. Oops. 

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Shwedagon Pagoda 

It was the perfect training ground for what followed. Armed with some phrases that I now said with confidence, I went travelling for two weeks, and whether I was on a slow boat down the Irrawaddy, trekking to Lake Inlay or at a home-stay in the Shan State the reaction was always the same, and by the time I returned to Yangon I had my own prance. This time I did go to the markets, so I too could start donning a longyi, and I did explore the majestic Shwedagon Pagoda, but three months later it is still my senses that have been most impacted. 

The touch of the woman, the taste of the wildly exotic street food, the sight of the beautiful yet neglected buildings, the sound of laughter and the smell of the streets all together create a beautiful symphony in my mind. 

The second part of this adventure will begin next month when I use the crumpled Kyats still tucked neatly in my passport to pay for my taxi from the airport. 

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The sun setting on the beautiful buildings during my last night. 

Myanmar (Burma): Alternative Top 5

Yangon: treat it like more than just a launch pad 

During my travels, so many people I met only stayed in Yangon (the former capital) for one night before moving on. What a shame. I spent six days there, and found it to be the perfect introduction to this beautiful land. I discovered the quirks, tasted the street food, learnt a few words, and adored the city. So much so that I spent six more days there before flying out, bought myself a longyi (traditional dress) and my cab fare is already tucked into my passport for my anticipated return.  Sure, go to the Schwedagon Pagoda, and Bogyoke Market, but more importantly abandon your sunglasses, get lost, taste the street food, always look up, and don't forget to smile. 

One of the views from my hotel room. 

 

Go trekking 

"Would you like to see buffalo swimming"? Would I what!! I could hear the majestic beasts huffing and puffing as they submerged themselves in the water. Months later I can still hear the sound and remember every moment of the hike. I went on two three day treks. One from Kalaw to Inle Lake, and one in Shan State, around Hsipaw. If you can only do one of those I would suggest the Kalaw to Inle Lake, as the scenery is a little more intense, although the latter is more authentic (and challenging). My advice is to make some friends before booking the hike (which is easy to do as so many people are walking around each afternoon trying to find the right trekking company). Ensure that your group is not larger than five, and that your guide speaks English as there is so much you are going to want to ask. I used A1 trekking, and they were amazing. 

As i was eating my breakfast on the third day of the Kalaw to Inle Lake hike. 

Morning fog on the third day from Kalaw to Inle Lake. 

This wonderful lady at our lunch on the first day of the trek in Shan State 

Swimming buffalo !! 

Cutest children ever, standing by the road waiting to say hello to Flurina and I. Pretty adept in swiping the iPhone too :) 

 

Experience a festival 

The Balloon Festival in Taunggyi in November is a once in a lifetime experience. Thousands upon thousands of people watch and revel as hot air balloons are released into the air. 

My Taylor Swift moment 

Upon our arrival, we were approached for a photo, and thought nothing of it. But as we got further into the dance area hysteria ensued. At one stage I had thirty cameras in my face, which I welcomed after a Summer in Scandinavia amongst the world's most beautiful people. One girl stared at us, screamed and started crying with sheer happiness. 

But then it was my turn to start nearly crying with joy when I saw that there was a human powered ferris wheel. It was on my list. Basically, the motor is eight Burmese boys resembling smoking spider monkeys in flip-flops who use the momentum to turn the wheel. 

Take at least one train

The Gokteik Viaduct. 

Many blogs and sites suggest flying within Myanmar, but I beg to differ. Sure, some of the train rides are downright uncomfortable, especially the overnight ones, but you have to pick your battles. My intention was to get the train from Thazi to Kalaw, but that went pear shaped as I was dropped off in Thazi at 4am, did not manage to find the train station five minutes walk away, and ended up on a shuttle instead with what seemed like a twelve year old kamikaze driver (i would advise against such transport). Luckily I got another opportunity to go from Hsipaw to Pyin Oo Lwin.

What better way is there to spend a day on a rickety train with locals watching the scenery, and feasting on 30 cent noodles from the vendors at the stops? 

An added bonus was going over the Gokteik Viaduct which was completed in 1900. Scary as hell, especially when everyone moves to one side to get photos. 

Surprisingly comfortable, 

Take the slow boat from Mandalay to Bagan 

I repeat the slow boat. There are a few options, costing up to forty dollars, but we took the one that can take anywhere between fourteen hours and two days, depending on the water levels. It didn't bother me. 

It departs incredibly early, and as you arrive there are families sleeping. Take a seat, and settle in for the day. No need to bring food, as at every stop there are merchants vying for your business. One woman saw me eyeing off her samosas, and was by my side in no time. Please remember to bargain, as the, "Shuddup and take my money" approach might see you paying triple what the person next to you paid. Did I say might? 

Floating down the Irrawaddy taking in the scenery, seeing a glimpse of every day Myanmar, and the simplicity of these beautiful people going about their business gives you a sense of calm. 

I kinda wish it had taken two days, and the next day at Bagan paled in comparison. 

Oslo: 10 First Impressions

Oslo, Norway 

At the end of April I arrived here in Norge to work for the "Summer", and people wonder how an Australian ended up here.  A long story which I have simply abbreviated to, "The money is good and the men are tall". Even though I have lived in Europe for eight years there were still some initial surprises. And I guess I have not even started learning. 

1. Duty Free at the airport

Normally when I get off a plane I head for baggage claim...... That is not how it is done here. At first I thought it was a 90% off Prada sale by the way those well heeled people abandoned their decorum to fill up their trolleys with "cheap" booze. It was a frenzy, and the queue was bigger than IKEA on a Saturday afternoon. Now I understand: you need a mortgage to go out for a night. 

 

2. Lots and lots of parks and open spaces  

Lush greenery everywhere: every few blocks it seems. Apparently people like to sit in parks and have a few drinks before they go out,  even though it is forbidden to drink in public spaces, law enforcement exercise empathy as it is logical to lather up slightly beforehand so that the 17 Euro it costs for a glass of wine does not sting so bad. So unless you are causing trouble, you are ok. I am yet to experience an afternoon in the park as it is still way too cold. And it is June. Which brings me to the weather.... 

Just one of the many parks in Grunerlokka. 

3. No wonder the weather forecast is always wrong

How one could forecast what the weather is doing in the next five minutes, let alone for the whole week is beyond me. I was going to work the other day, and I looked up at the sky. There were some storm clouds, some normal clouds, a bit of blue sky, some sunshine coming from somewhere and a few drops of rain. All at the same time. How do you dress for that? 

An example of he neurotic weather. 

4. Where are the vikings?´

Ok, so having a Human Resources major I did a lot of studies on Scandinavian countries as their system of paid maternity and paternity puts the rest of the world to shame. But I guess I never really thought of the ramifications of such an egalitarian system. It seems to have given the men vaginas. Manly men are few and far between: it is not as though I was expecting animal hide loin cloths and unruly beards, but nor was I expecting fur collars adorned by men that clearly spend more time in front of the mirror than me. The aforementioned parks are full of these men, with strollers. Groups of them. I can't understand Norwegian, but one gets the impression that they are in deep conversation about sleeping patterns, chafed nipples, and how smart little Frode is.

5. Australians are somewhat exotic

When I am working in Aker Brygge (the tourist area) I find that Norwegians (especially the older ones) are annoyed that I cannot speak Norwegian, but then when they ask where I am from and I tell them Australia, they are immediately interested, more jovial and happy to be served. They regulars even call me Skippy, every time one guy orders a beer he says, "And one for Tony Abbot", and they love to tell me to, "Throw another shrimp on the barbie". For them it never gets old. 

6. The cost of eating out: a burger costs how much? 

I resolved after eating out on my first night that there would be no more of that. A burger and a milkshake nearly set me back 40 Euros (50 USD), and it was not a swanky establishment. Work wise, I still have trouble delivering bills to tables, I feel almost apologetic until I remember that it is "normal" in Norway. Frankly, I don't think I ever will be comfortable spending three days worth of living in Mexico on one rudimentary meal. 

7. Salmon is cheaper than salami

So I figured if I am not going to eat out, I would have find an alternative source for food. Apparently there is a thing called supermarkets for that, so I chose the middle of the road one called Kiwi. When I saw the prices of a loaf of bread, a carton of milk and a pack of salami, tears pricked my eyes. I found myself walking aimlessly around the supermarket thinking this is how Gwyneth Paltrow must have felt when she was on food stamps for those three days. But then I saw the price of fresh salmon. Surely it was a mistake? It was cheaper than my salami! That is the moment I decided I was going to learn to cook everything containing salmon. Like fish cakes. That  is not working out so well for me so far – because I am a terrible cook– but I have no choice but to keep on trying. 

8. Drinking laws: they exist 

I live in Austria, and work in Apres Ski bars, where it is a crime to not get people shitfaced. They may be lying on the floor, but as long as they can semi coherently order more Jagermeister, I oblige. I sometimes even assist by pouring it down their throats. However, it seems I am not in Kansas anymore: the laws in Oslo are strict to the point that the bartender is responsible if someone does not get home safely. I am not sure what "safely" is, but I am guessing that people making bad decisions and choosing to sleep elsewhere does not count. 

9. There is a distinct lack of Starbucks 

Hey I am all for no Starbucks: it is right up there with McDonalds as a symbol of Globalization. I just can't help that notice I have only seen one or two. I don't think it is because a Grande Latte costs about $10, I just don't think it was accepted. Instead they have a chain called "Kaffebrenneriet" which are a lot more colourful. 

10.  lots of spring shenanigans 

colour coded paramedics everywhere

It was my first real day and I was walking through the park. I saw three girls meandering through, looking like paramedics dressed in red overalls. I thought to myself, "Shit! I hope nobody is hurt". Then I narrowed my eyes. Wait a second. They were carrying no equipment, they looked a little drunk, and there was no urgency. Which left me thinking "what the hell was that"? 

It was Norwegian graduation tradition called "Russ". History and Arts wear red, Finance wears blue and Tradesmen wear black. Having to identify your future vocational tendencies at such an early age is too much definition for me. You see red in some "Hipster" suburbs and  blue in the finance district. I wonder if they have mixers? 

Anyway, they cruise around for a month in this gear making trouble, and the big night is the 16th, which means they are placated on the 17th much to the delight of Norwegian society. 

The "Russ" Graduation tradition. By the 17th May they are all looking a little worse for wear. 

constitution day May 17th 

This is the national day of Norway. I did some research, and am yet to ascertain who they got independence from, why, and how. But the Norwegians love love love this day. It is like Oktoberfest, but they drink wine and champagne (starting at breakfast)  Their traditional dress, whilst still a little milk-maidish does not go for all our décolletage enhancement: it is slightly more demure. 

Puerto Escondido (Mexico): Swimming In Phosphoresence

My gumption had abandoned me. Yep. Just as I was about to jump into a dark, murky swamp. As I suffer from a girly fear of all things unseen lurking beneath the surface, I cannot say the timing was great. But no one wants to back out, especially when there is a six year old behind you eager to dive on in. 

    We are on Laguna de Manialtepec, located on the pacific coast of Mexico, twenty minutes drive from Puerto Escondido in the state of Oaxaca. During the rainy season (between May and November), when the lagoon is connected to the ocean, plankton utilize it as a breeding ground as the combination of fresh water, sea water and spring water provide pockets of hot and cold which are optimum conditions. When the plankton are aggravated, enzymes that become luminescent are triggered as a defense mechanism. Humans are not deterred however, as rather than looking scary and sending a warning message, it makes the water look like fluorescent glitter which I gotta say is really really pretty. And sparkly. 

    As I peered over the side of the boat, I discovered that I could now see what was residing beneath. The phosphorescence highlighted all the fish swimming around, reminding me of a trance warehouse party, but instead of glowsticks it was fluro fishies. It was then that I decided I would be ok. See, If there was a crocodile in the lagoon (I had been assured there wasn't, but the name comes from Nahuatl "manine" (lizard) and "tepetl" (place) so I wasn't convinced) I would see it coming. Can you imagine if the last thing you saw was a fluro croc coming towards you? It wouldn't be a fun way to go, but definitely unique. Of course my last word would be "crikey" as apparently that is what us Aussies say all the time. It would be hilarious. So I jumped in (thankfully just before the six year old) and to my horror I could touch the bottom. 

    My natural reflex was to start kicking, which inadvertently aggravated the plankton. Multiply this effect by eight (the number of tourists on the boat) and you have a fluorescent jacuzzi. To avoid touching the bottom again, I took refuge near under the ladder of the small fishing boat for about five minutes and thought, "wow, really pretty, but I'm done now", and started to emerge. But as I pulled myself out, the glittery water cascading over me inspired a change of heart. I was no longer a traveler looking for kicks, I was "Natasha - The Resplendent Swamp Nymph". So I immersed myself again, pulled myself out, and repeated: all the while thinking, "Lady in a swamp. Voila, resplendent swamp nymph". 

    When they told us we had five more minutes, I was prepared to get out, which left me for a moment alone on the boat. I attempted to take some photos, but could not capture the sparking in a manner that would do it justice. Instead I squeezed my bikini top to get the water out, but as it was filled with irate plankton, it was twinkling. So I started humming Jingle Bells in a low voice while I squeezed the what seemed never-ending supply of twinkles out. Because that is what us nymphs do: we sing. 

    These elevated feelings remained with me for the twenty minute boat ride back, and then the fifteen minute car ride, but when I got back to my room and saw my straggly reflection I thought, "Voila, traveler who just got her kicks". 

Tirol, Austria: Nine Wonderful Things To Try During Winter

1)  GO TO THE KRAMPUS PARADE

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(Photo from Reuters /Dominic Ebenbichler)

The season begins  on the 5th of December with a parade in the St Anton pedestrian zone of big hairy beasts on tractors looking for trouble. It could be mistaken for an English stag do looking for the next bar, but in this case the snarling, possessed brutes with the red eyes are looking for bad children to punish for naughtiness with their whips which are made out of freshly cut willow tree branches.

It is an Alpine tradition called Krampus, a perfectly logical yang to Saint Nicholas, and rather than the saccharine gingerbread "ho ho ho" crap with a smiling fat man asking you to sit on his knee, the children who prefer to listen to the voice on their left shoulder are pursued by The Krampalar, who travel on foot or by big chugging tractors.

Children of all ages provoke them and shriek with a mixture of fear and delight whilst spectators look on sipping hot mulled wine (Gluhwein) and eating warm gooey cheesy delights from the market stalls.

2) EAT A SCHNITZEL

A delicious schnitzel in Tirol

In Austria, most things that begin with the letter "s" either taste, feel or sound good. Take Schnitzel for example. Not only is it a national dish, but "schnitzel" is such a sensational word. It can be used as a term of endearment, "oh Schnitzy, you were great last night" (referring to possible fornication, which funnily enough, the Austrian term for is Schnaxeln), when you make a mistake, "I totally schnitzelled it", or you can just eat it.

Where could you go wrong with meat (traditionally veal, pork is also very popular and sometimes chicken) fried in egg, flour and breadcrumbs? It is not for the gluten free, vegetarian, or living life intolerant, but for the rest it is the ultimate comfort food. Normally served with potatoes, lemon, and cranberry sauce (Preiselbeeren) it leaves you so close to full that the only thing you have room for is Strudel. And possibly a Schnaps. Or two. And more skiing.

3) WATCH SOME ALPINE SKI RACING

Of course in this case I was going for Hirscher.

In Austria Ski Racers are Gods, so you should probably familiarise yourself with the machinations of racing. You ready? Got your pen and paper ready to take notes? Ok, here it goes. The guy who gets from the top of the mountain to the bottom quickest wins the race.

There are different disciplines and so forth, but it is easy to catch on. Most importantly, you must ALWAYS go for Austria: I don't care how good looking Felix Neureuther is, he's German, and if you are caught cheering for him in public you will draw ire from the locals. The one and only exception to this rule is Italian Racers from Sud-Tirol, as they are Tirolean, and the locals are first Tirolean and then Austrian. 

If you can go to an actual ski race, the atmosphere is unrivaled.

4) LISTEN TO SOME AUSTRIAN MUSIC

Unfortunately, not all Austrian music is yodeling and Hansi Hinterseer. I know, I know. It should be. If they had living National Treasures in Austria he would be it. This yodeling ex-ski racer dressed in white with those beautifully coiffed locks is the ideal Austrian man. For Grannies.

Almost as cool as Hansi (but not quite) is Parov Stelar.   His wildly creative electro-swing music deserves to be  inducted into the Hall of Awesome.  Even better live.

5) USE TINDER IN SKI RESORT

Ski resorts are just like Tinder in real life, aside form the proportion of men to women. St Anton is referred to as Manton, and the Picadilly Bar is fondly known as Pick-a-willy.

So I was thinking, using Tinder could streamline the whole process. Rather than talking to randoms in the bars and swiping left in person, you could ask all the relevant information about prospective mates from the comfort of your abode, even set up a "Love-Ski" - an Alpine themed date. Then, when you get down to the Schnaxeln part of the night (more likely to be in a boot room than in front of an open fire) put on some Hansi Hinterseer as a mood enhancer.

6) HAVE A SAUNA

You should probably be warned though, the Austrian Sauna culture is something quite special. You go naked, and I am not talking about to the waist. I am talking butt naked: ding-dongs and Muschis (take a guess what that is Austrian slang for) on full display. If you are feeling really brave, you can do a whole day of nakedness, apparently referred to as "Wellness" at the Aqua Dome in Längenfeld.

 

7) WEAR A DIRNDL

Dirndls in Tirol

Dirndls and Lederhosen are traditional Austrian and Bavarian dress, which were not invented for Oktoberfest but for special occasions such as weddings, christenings and drinking. The beauty of a Dirndl is that it can make even the most pedestrian rack look tremendous.

They are well worth investing in, and even though they tend to be very expensive cheaper options are available if you go to a Trachtenwelt.

 

 

 

8) TRY A WILLY AT APRES SKI

No, I am not talking about an Austrian's wing-wang, but knock yourself out. In this case I am referring to Pear Williams Schnaps, which is astoundingly popular during Apres Ski. Basically it is served in a shot glass, with a ball of pear on a plastic cocktail stick that you are to eat afterwards, to soften the taste. Some people toast the pears like a little sword fight (which occasionally progresses to miniature jousting tournament), others just ignore it.

Either way as long as you look everyone in the eye and say, "Prost" (cheers) before you drink all else is forgiven (not looking people in the eye before you drink results in seven years of bad sex). Try and order 6 shots of Williams in German and keep a straight face. "Sechs Willies bitte". Tip for Apres Ski: doing it half assed is not an option.

9) WATCH THE WEISSE RAUSCH

. http://www.arlbergadler.eu The White Thrill 2012 - The first competition of the challenging triathlon -The Arlberg Adler- fascinates St. Anton's winter athletes. The aim is to tame the "monster" Valluga. http://www.arlbergadler.eu

Lycra. Lots of lycra.

The "White Rush" will take place in St Anton am Arlberg on the 18th of April, 2015. This annual skl race, which is part of a unique "triathlon" called the Arlberg Adler normally has 500-700 hundred entrants (strictly limited). Basically there are three different start groups, depending on age and category.

Everyone in that group starts together, and a kamikaze all the way to the bottom ensues, with a little hike in the middle thrown in for good measure. As if this isn't challenging enough, when they get to the bottom of the mountain, exhausted, there is a huge crowd watching and they have to climb over a sizable mound of snow. Then they fall over the finish line half dead but happy to be alive (glass half empty half full thing) and wait for someone to give them a Schnaps.