Kyo Kyo driver of the venerable and shock-less Ply-Mouth.
Bus in front of our guest house. The 'conductor' hangs off the back (open air) and hollers the destination. Usually crammed with people, I beams of steel, baskets, monks, monks, monks. Mandalay has the greatest population of monks in the country.
Why is the new modern Mandalay airport one hour from the city? Why is it deserted? No one at any counters, no one at information kiosk, only the passengers deplaning from Yangon and the guys who won't let you touch your bags. Their job is to find your luggage and take to a waiting taxi. Although I use the word euphemistically; ancient Mazdas held together by gaffers tape and rust. And the steering wheels are on the right side, although they drive on the right side. Someone decided it was bad luck to drive on the left.
We had rented bikes of a certain vintage....fine for Mandalay which is flat except for Mandalay Hill and its glittering temple.
This tri-shaw driver doubled as bicycle tire pumper upper.
With an ancient pump and a tiny red tube he inserted into tire valve he put air in our tires and told us that business was bad.
What can we say about the traffic....motorcycles, trucks, Chinese jeeps, cars, bicycles, tri-shaws loaded with gigantic boxes, all going about 90 miles an hour in no discernible pattern. The rule seemed to be 'Forward motion at all times. Do not stop. Do not look over your shoulder when turning. Traffic lights are a mere suggestion.' All I can say is that we survived. And did I mention the pot-holes? Make Nova Scotia roads look like super highways. Wheeeeee! Never got a good shot of the insanity of it all as we were too busy hanging to our handlebars.
Our favorite mode of transportation.
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