On November 20th I reach Magway. A boring town, but fortunately with a bikeshop with a fork for my bike. When I try to fit it on the bike it proves to short. Welding the old tube to the fork is no longer possible, but I get hold of a new tube, and someone to weld it to the fork. I have a bike again! The next day I delay departure to halfway the morning because of stomach problems. Still not feeling great I leave for the beach. Three times I am directed in the wrong direction and when on the right road I am stopped by the police, no entrance for foreigners. I head back to Magway, but do not want stay again in the lousy guesthouse. I set up camp a few km east of the town, not after throwing up after which I feel much better.
Just after lunch I ride through a very small hole, this however is to much for Sambi. Again the fork breaks, now outside the frame, which makes me tumble forward over the handlebar. After a while I get up and check my wounds, nothing serious. At the same places as last time, but this time at the left side, I am in balance again. When I drag the bike to the side of the road I decide I have enough of it and I will leave Sambi behind. I take of my backpack, panniers and the tires, they are still good and when everything is packed I stop a pick-up truck to the next town, taungdwingy. I try to check in to a guesthouse but at both I am not allowed to stay. When I am drinking a soda at a cafe thinking of what to do next I am visited by the immigration police. They want to know all about me. The end of the story is that I am not allowed to stay in the town. When I tell them that there are no places available on the busses, they make a phonecall and all of a sudden there is a place. The 12 hour busride is not a nice re-introduction to public transport. The woman next to me vomits half the busride, when doing so, puts her kid on my lap. The people in the chair in front of me, put it back as far as possible, I have no place to rest my head and as ice on the cake halfway during the night a rat climbs into the bottom part of my trousers, he does not stay long though.
In Yangon I go to the White house hotel where I am allowed to use the breakfast, although I only pay for coming night. Here I bump into Hilton. The both of us stay for the full 2 hours that the well assorted buffet is open and eat almost enough for the rest of the day. When I go outside I see Helen get her luggage out of a taxi. After a brief exchange of news I invite her to join dinner with Hilton and me. At the end of the day we end up having drinking beer with the largest part of the group from Bagan. When we enter a bar I am surprised to hear a local band play to my knowledge an Engnlish version of a Dutch song Suzanne of "VOF de Kunst", but maybe it was originally English. The next morning I find a little package at the reception. Helen has brought some bandages and stuff to clean wounds. It gives a good feeling that someone has thought of my health. Then I head to the busstation to take a bus to the beach on advice of a German couple I met at breakfast. The first night I camp on the beach, but in the morning I am told it is not legal. Later that day I rent a little hut at the beach next to Eric, an American I had met in the bus the day before. Although I have to make rhymes for my family for Sinterklaas I do not find the time to do this, instead I do nothing or play football on the beach with a few locals. We win, but most of my wounds are open again and I even have a new one on my shin. Fortunately I have the stuff from Helen.
On the third of December I take the bus back to Yangon. To my surprise Jake, I met him earlier in Tunis and Istanbul, has already arrived, he had told me he would only arrive tomorrow. I manage to fill my days with almost nothing. Every day has the same routine. I have breakfast from 8 till 12 and chat with everybody around, then go out for a while like the market or the famous Shwe Dagon Paya. Have a few snacks, then dinner on the street or in a restaurant and I conclude with a couple of beers. It is nice to take it easy for a while, but I already start missing the bycicle.
Just after lunch I ride through a very small hole, this however is to much for Sambi. Again the fork breaks, now outside the frame, which makes me tumble forward over the handlebar. After a while I get up and check my wounds, nothing serious. At the same places as last time, but this time at the left side, I am in balance again. When I drag the bike to the side of the road I decide I have enough of it and I will leave Sambi behind. I take of my backpack, panniers and the tires, they are still good and when everything is packed I stop a pick-up truck to the next town, taungdwingy. I try to check in to a guesthouse but at both I am not allowed to stay. When I am drinking a soda at a cafe thinking of what to do next I am visited by the immigration police. They want to know all about me. The end of the story is that I am not allowed to stay in the town. When I tell them that there are no places available on the busses, they make a phonecall and all of a sudden there is a place. The 12 hour busride is not a nice re-introduction to public transport. The woman next to me vomits half the busride, when doing so, puts her kid on my lap. The people in the chair in front of me, put it back as far as possible, I have no place to rest my head and as ice on the cake halfway during the night a rat climbs into the bottom part of my trousers, he does not stay long though.
In Yangon I go to the White house hotel where I am allowed to use the breakfast, although I only pay for coming night. Here I bump into Hilton. The both of us stay for the full 2 hours that the well assorted buffet is open and eat almost enough for the rest of the day. When I go outside I see Helen get her luggage out of a taxi. After a brief exchange of news I invite her to join dinner with Hilton and me. At the end of the day we end up having drinking beer with the largest part of the group from Bagan. When we enter a bar I am surprised to hear a local band play to my knowledge an Engnlish version of a Dutch song Suzanne of "VOF de Kunst", but maybe it was originally English. The next morning I find a little package at the reception. Helen has brought some bandages and stuff to clean wounds. It gives a good feeling that someone has thought of my health. Then I head to the busstation to take a bus to the beach on advice of a German couple I met at breakfast. The first night I camp on the beach, but in the morning I am told it is not legal. Later that day I rent a little hut at the beach next to Eric, an American I had met in the bus the day before. Although I have to make rhymes for my family for Sinterklaas I do not find the time to do this, instead I do nothing or play football on the beach with a few locals. We win, but most of my wounds are open again and I even have a new one on my shin. Fortunately I have the stuff from Helen.
On the third of December I take the bus back to Yangon. To my surprise Jake, I met him earlier in Tunis and Istanbul, has already arrived, he had told me he would only arrive tomorrow. I manage to fill my days with almost nothing. Every day has the same routine. I have breakfast from 8 till 12 and chat with everybody around, then go out for a while like the market or the famous Shwe Dagon Paya. Have a few snacks, then dinner on the street or in a restaurant and I conclude with a couple of beers. It is nice to take it easy for a while, but I already start missing the bycicle.
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