Car trouble. Myanmar. Toe surgery. Fail.

The Magnificent Volvo has suffered a minor setback. The alarm system has gone kaput.
On the one hand, that's bad, because broken things inevitably cost money. And on the other hand, it doesn't really matter. Who ever wired up the system failed to include any sort of immobiliser in it. So while the alarm sounds, you can still put the keys in the ignition and drive the car away.
I did exactly that, and the guard at our house didn't even look up from the morning paper. I'd hoped a short drive would enact some kind of override, and the alarm would stop. It didn't.
So I (literally) ripped the alarm out and we continued, still with the hazard lights flashing away, and that's how it's stayed for the past two weeks.
I don't want to spend more money on that stupid thing. It cost $1000+AU at the last service, and it didn't even grow wings and fly after that.
So if you need a giggle, think of Jem, driving the twenty five minutes to work every day with the hazard lights on.
Which, being Malaysia, doesn't even raise an eyebrow with the police.

Ah, the beauty of Myanmar, caught mid-sneeze

Myanmar was interesting, for most of the time. It has incredibly lovely, helpful, genuine people, and
about 20 bazillion temples. If you like temples, and would like to hate them, go to Myanmar. Temples (or Pagodas, for that matter) now make me feel nauseated.

Things to do:
Walk around:
Meet people. See them smoking cigars, carrying huge baskets on their heads, smiling, being helpful, and sneaking out in pairs to go sit up at the temples with their boyfriends/girlfriends. Funny stuff.
Ask someone about An Sung Soo Chi:
She's the national hero. For a long time I wondered why the government hadn't killed her off; she caused them a fair bit of grief over the years. Now I know; the whole country would have revolted against them.
Buy some Ann Sung Soo Chi merchandise:
I bought a coffee mug. Jem was given a keyring, with the head of Ann rising out of the centre of a rose. Classy, and understated.
Eat:
Everything. Have a quick look around the restaurant to ascertain basic hygiene standards, and then tuck in. Mildly spicy, so after two years in Malaysia I had no problems ordering the 'hot' food. Pork option universal. Generally nothing has fish-head in it, it's just fresh, simple flavours. Wash it down with Myanmar Lager: it's probably cheaper (safer?) than water anyway.

I went for a walk around, and found a protest. Workers were upset about their factory being closed, and were taking part in a hunger strike to promote their cause. This was in the centre of town, beside the second largest Pagoda. Before the end of the day, a government official had come down to address their concerns, and the strike had ended.
It's a nice though that the government now responds positively to a cry for help from the people, but I'm not naive enough to think this is the case Myanmar-wide. There's a whole people group that are currently not recognised by the government... because they're muslim, not buddhist. Yeah... not convinced. I was approached by a local journo who gave me the basic run down. Apparently having ten day growth and a backpack on makes you look like a reporter. I must remember that.
"Hello, would you like to come and see the protest?"
"Yeah, what's going on over here?"
"Hunger strike protest. They don't wan't money, they just want jobs... are you, maybe, a reporter?"
"Oh me? No, sorry. I just have a camera..."
"Oh, haha, I thought you were freelance..."
"Well, I'm if you mean 'free' as in 'no-one pays for it', then yeah, I guess I am..."

"Dey took err jerrrrbs" IRL edition


Anywho. We stayed in Yangon, where accommodation is crazy overpriced, (we're talking Melbourne prices for third-world spec rooms... yep, it's a joke) we stayed in Mandalay, where they make awesome velvet thongs, and Bagan, where you will learn to hate Pagodas. It's kinda cool though.
There's thousands of brick temples there. It's as though for a one hundred year period, 50% of the population made temples, and the other 50% made bricks. And it's not all nice stuff either, there's plenty of horrible stories of brutality from the rulers of the time pushing to get them up. Mmm.

 At some stage, 'enlightenment' meant 'sticking neon lights behind Buddha'. I have no explanation as to why I found that so amusing.

 Green dude approves, but it's fair to say he's biased.

This church in Mandalay looked way too much like the preacher robot from Futurama


We were about done in Mandalay when I decided to remodel my toe. Toes and number plates don't mix, so be careful not to kick them in an uncovered state. Ironic that the worst injury I've ever gotten from a bike was getting on the bloody thing.
So after a day or so of bandages, I got sick of not being able to fit my foot into shoes, and walking meant that the wound kept bleeding, so I took Luke Wilko's advice and sent Jem for superglue.
Enter Jem, finding a dinky little hardware shop in Mandalay..
"Can I help you?
"Um, yes... I'm just looking for superglue."
"Ok, what do you need to use it for"
(Jem is slightly taken aback by the perfect english spoken by the female store clerk)
"I need to glue my husbands toe back together."
(without hesitation) "Here, use this one. It's made in China, it's much better quality than that Thai made stuff."
FYI, superglue is less painful than stitches, and so, so much faster than waiting for the wound to seal up. 10/10 would use again. No side effects I'm aware of. The pink elephant that has been following me is apparently from something else.

Umm... mum asked me about my uni studies. I am still technically studying, but if I were to give myself advice three months ago it would be something like this: Don't muck up your credit card so you can't order books until week five and then work on a movie set for two weeks and then try and catch up for one week and then go on holiday for another two, or you may find yourself failing a semester in it's entirety.
Just sayin'.

Mandalay. One of the Pagodas. The one on the hill. That narrows it down, right?

 

Temples, pagodas and... oh hey, it's a lizard... nice.

We bought some paintings from here. They're pretty sweet.

mmmmm.... vomitous

The outside is calm, but the inside threatens violence should he spit red beetlenut slime in front of her just one more time...

Got swagger?

 For those concerned, this man isn't drowning. He's actually fishing. I'm aware that seems unlikely.

 'Do you like stairs? You'll LOVE Myanmar!'

 Saturated dude with large fish indicating previous picture of different person was indeed fishing and not drowning

I talked to this guy on the street. He told me that he realised I was busy just then, but should I ever be back in Yangon, he'd like to invite me to his house. Although he couldn't give me his phone number (he didn't have one) and he couldn't give me his email (he didn't have one) but if I took his photo, and asked around, someone would know where to find him. He's known on the street, you see...

So, yeah. Hopefully some updates will come a little more often now. But, you know me. So let's all just hope together.

Wanna see a cow race?

Leong's bike ground to a halt, kicking up a cloud of red Cambodian dust. He points to the dried rice fields on his left. My eyes are drawn to a massive crowd of people standing in the middle of the field.

With a smile that seems to cover his whole face, he says words not usually put together:

“Wanna see a cow race?”

On the rare occasion a man is asked whether or not he wants to see a cow race (or, for that matter, a racing cow) there is only one answer he can possibly give.

So we doubled back, and began to cut across the field towards the mass of villagers gathered.

Pulling up next to the cart selling iced sugar cane juice, (which I usually hate, but three days of eating trailbike-thrown dust made it taste incredible) it was immediately clear that whatever the focus of the day had been before we had arrived, it had now changed. We were swamped.

Small children dared each other to approach, pushing one another forward before chickening out and retreating behind the nearest adult. I fished around in my bag for half a packet of jubes and a few packs of peanuts, and eventually managed to give them away by kneeling down, head bowed, before the intended recipient snatched it from my hand and darted back to safety.

We smiled and shook hands with the gathered friendly locals and immediately regretted not knowing any khmer (Cambodia's native language) whatsoever. A much older Khmer man in a weathered camouflage jacket (apparently oblivious to the thirty-something degree heat) approached me humbly, bowing his head as he clasped my hand with both of his, and if his beaming toothless grin was anything to go by gave me the warmest of greetings possible, seemingly honoured to have simply made my acquaintance. Knowing full well Cambodia's history, and (to put it bluntly) the rarity of someone his age, I suddenly felt very small, and then incredibly inadequate of doing this occasion due justice. A man like him would have some stories to tell.

Our guide Leong worked his way through the crowd.

We're on the final leg of a three day trailbike trip through southern Cambodia, and making our way back to Phnom Penh. My oldest friend was getting married, and as best man I thought the buck's party would be better spent in south east Asia than on a pub crawl through Melbourne. So, with him having never left Australia (but for a short trip to England, which absolutely doesn't count) I dragged Neil out into the middle of nowhere to celebrate the closing of the longest chapter of his life. Fortunately, we found a cow race, and the trip was a great success.

Leong calls us over. The locals have directed us as to where the best place to capture the race is. They factored in wind direction, so we wouldn't be covered in dust. I'm fairly sure they didn't understand what we'd been up to in the previous days. They pushed us well back from the track, signalling that they really couldn't be too sure as to where the cows would run though.

The wind changed, and they hurried us to the other side of the field. And then I saw the racers.

Two bulls strapped to a cart. A muscular Khmer atop of the cart, wearing nothing but a loin cloth and sporting some of the finest mutton chops I've seen since the last time I went to the Drysdale RSL. Wielding a stick that is probably best described as a goad, they cut an imposing figure.

The bulls ambled their way to the opposite side of the field where their opponent was waiting, and the anticipation grew.

I was assuming all this time that the bulls would run side by side, drag racing style. I was fairly confused when this didn't happen, and the bulls and carts tore past one after the other, the pair behind almost pushing into the cart in front. They crossed the finish line, the crowd erupted into cheers, and then were promptly chocked out with more red dust.

Neil, Luke (our fellow groomsman) and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. We had just witnessed the craziest race any of us had ever seen, and had no idea who'd won.

Leong came to the rescue.

Should, by chance you have met Leong, you would understand why I haven't tried to quote him directly in what he said. He's got a strong twangy Cambodian accent at the best of times, and when he talks quickly sounds almost exactly like Jar Jar Binks. Except that Jar Jar is slightly more comprehendible, and everyone wants to kill him. Leong, on the other hand, is a top bloke.

Leong explained that when the bulls race they tie a piece of bamboo between the two carts. Should the bamboo fall, the cart in front is declared the winner. Should it stay up, as was the case here, the cart behind is crowned victorious.

The crowd gathered around the cart. I walked past the bookie, dealing out big handfuls of rial. A man walked past me, big grin on his face, fanning himself with a massive wad of cash, like some sort of a Cambodian TAB commercial. I see a kid I've previously given a small packet of peanuts to, following me around like a pup, unopened packet still in his hand. If I was his age, I don't think I would have saved it to take back to the family. I feel pretty small again.

After another 20 minutes of smiles, shaking hands, and shy children, it's time to go.

Whenever we're cutting through a village on the big dirt bikes, kids run out to the front fences to wave, and the younger adults usually give us the universal 'do a wheelie' charade act, waving their arms in the air. Leong obliged, Neil took off with him, and Luke tried to do the same. Immediately Luke was choked out in the dust, and his bike ground to a halt. I was fifty meters away filming, and he couldn't hear what I could hear over the noise of the other bikes.

We're in the middle of nowhere. I can't even see the village from where these people must have travelled from. We've got 100 or so northbound clicks to ride to get to Phnom Penh before dark, through fields, goat tracks, railway lines and through villages. 

There's five hundred or more Cambodian villages in field for a cow race.

And right now, every one of them is laughing at Luke stall his bike in the dust.