Rudyard Kipling wrote the words. Frank Sinatra sang them: "On the road to Mandalay Where the flying fishes play An’ the dawn comes up like thunder Out of China 'cross the bay." And I for five days lived them. The Ayeyerwady is the Road to
Bagan has no shortage of horse carts. Horse carts by the dozens stand ready to provide clip-clop transportation around pagoda-rich Bagan. Every shady spot, every hotel, every outdoor tea shop, every pagoda courtyard serves as a horse-cart taxi
"I'm going to give you a present," says the young monk and hands me a string of mala beads (prayer beads). They look like the kind of mala beads you could buy at any market for about ten cents. He then looks at me expectantly. "Can I ... umm..
"One more photo. Please??" I wrap my arm around the young girl's tiny waist and smile. It is barely 9 am, but I have already posed for at least 20 photos that will soon decorate homes around Myanmar. Everyone around me is dressed in their Sunday