Mandalay!

It sounds magical: but this is possibly more about a Kipling poem than anything else. The enormous central fort does its bit, but is mostly a military base and the reconstructed palace allegedly not entirely tasteful.

The city is more lived in: wide roads, shacks and tea houses, dusty trees, the odd dubai style building going up randomly on a quiet street, bicycles, mopeds, trishaws (bike with backwards and forwards side chair) and cars honking endlessly on the main streets, betel spat liberally over the side, and morning processions of dark red monks collecting alms. It's very hot.

Arriving in a new country is mad. You know nothing about how it works and everything is new. We read the history sections of the guidebook on the plane and feel stupid for not knowing more and preparing better. The first hours are a steep learning curve - taxi, money, hotel, food all to be negotiated; by bedtime, all is more or less under control and you're a pro.

We find comedy bikes, two good meals, excellent draught beer, and everyone is so friendly! People call out to you from passing mopeds, want to chat to you, do whatever they can to help you. They seem pleased you're there. There is deep friend sparrow on the menu at supper. . .

Ul has picked up the cold. Clearly we go to Bangkok to get sick.