I flew into paper-dry Yangon around midday. Coming in to land, I could see the circular train wind its plodding way around the city like a toy. I had all the hotel, bus, flight, and money details already transcribed down onto a single piece of paper that would travel in my pocket for the length of the journey. A measly five days over Tet. The e-visa was a (fifty dollar) piece of cake. At arrivals the hotel driver was holding up a sign that said "Toyne Ephroms". No A/C in the van. The city was hot, as I'd expected. Hot and dry. I stayed at the curiously named "Zabu Hein" hotel, near the train station. Downtown Yangon is a swarming place. Colonial charm of the crumbling kind. Weather-stained facades. Lots of crows. First impressions: a little like Mumbai, a little like Calcutta, a little like neither. The Burmese thronged the sidewalks with painted faces. At first I thought it was some religious thing, but on second thoughts the purpose may have been to keep out the sun. A primitive kind of whitening-slash-sun cream. They looked like clay oompa loompas, but more cream than carrot. Burmese are beautiful, in an old-world kind of way. They have a certain grace about them, a humbleness. There's a strong Indian lean to their look and culture. Burma as a whole feels like the missing link between India and South East Asia. Lots of walking under the brutal glare of sun. "George Orwell." I thought about him a lot. Cashew chicken and rice at a beer house for lunch, big two-dollar serving. A pint of famous Mandalay beer. I had one goal for the day: the circular train. It costs about a dollar and does a long and leisurely loop of the city. The trains are old, decades past their use-by date. No windows or doors. You can see the Burmese hanging their limbs out, sometimes sitting in the windows. I missed the 3.30 train and had to wait an hour for the next one. I took a lot of pictures of the train station and its surrounds. Maybe too many pictures. I was reading Huckleburry Finn on the platform and drinking bottled water. When the train came it was the wrong one. This train was modern, windows that couldn't be opened, afternoon commuters packed in like sardine salad. The A/C was broken. I lasted three stations. The heat in there was unbearable. There were two Spaniards on there, a couple, taking the train to the airport. I said, "I can't hack this any more. Good luck." I scrambled out at some suburban station. Another train going back the other way was pulling out at the same time and I missed it. Damn. I tried to get my bearings on the Lonely Planet print-outs. Another train came into the station. I ran over the pedestrian bridge to get to the right platform. The train slowed as it pulled in but didn't stop. People jumped on and off at a run. I had my canvas satchel bag stuffed with books, the Canon hanging around my neck, hands full of printed paper and the water bottle. f***. I stood on the platform watching it pass in front of me. Dammit. I paced around some. It was hot. The day was turning Apocalyptic orange, the colour of dusk distinct to the East. I drew some looks, but not as many as you'd think. The moustache helped me blend in. Sat on a length of metal pipe and mulled over whether or not to walk back. Another train pulled in, but going the wrong direction. Some kids got up on the engine and chatted with the driver. I wondered how hard it would be to get a ride up there with them. Some chai sellers were helped up onto the catwalk around the sides of the engine and got comfortable, dangling their legs over the side. Looked like a fun way to ride the rails. But this train was going over the bridge and out of the city. I sat on the metal pipe reading some more Huckleburry Finn. Reading Huckleburry Finn in oriental train stations, I thought. It sounded like the title of a poem. Another train pulled in and I got on. It was almost empty. Three stations back to the city. I sat leaning out the window. The single-carriage mail train ghosted us for a bit. I tried to get some pictures of it. People walking along the tracks, carrying baskets of things on their heads. Skinny dogs with downward-cast eyes and their tails tucked under their legs. I walked down to the river from the station. Fell in with the flow of people headed somewhere, past the warehouses and the docks. All these people walking in the same direction. I followed them through an old rail yard and a market and came out at a wooden wharf crowded with sampans. All these people were crossing over to the other side of the river. A scene from a hundred years ago, to my eyes. I walked back into down, dragging my feet. The sun and the heat had done its job in sapping me. I found a Chinese tea house and asked for some Chinese tea. A beautiful old edifice painted blue and white. I need more of these in my life, I thought. I had a telephone-directory-sized hardcover on the Japanese involvement in WW2. Aside from its weight, it proved to be the perfect travel companion. Mental note: always travel with a solid history book. I must have been in there a solid hour. Turned out the Chinese tea was complimentary. I felt bad and tried to give them some money anyway but the old mamasan wouldn't have a bar of it. I thanked her and promised to come back for a coffee in the morning. Indian for dinner across the street and a hot chai. Perfecto. Over from the hotel I found a late-restaurant to read in. Dusty tables, amber lighting. A burly Burmese called Win Zao was drinking in there with his wife. He asked me to drink with him and we talked about the government. People are still getting disappeared, he said to me. You have to be careful what you say. We talked about Vietnamese gangsters and his time in Singapore. He'd lived there as an engineer. He got progressively more drunk and coloured in the face. His wife disappeared deeper into her phone. It was getting late, I was dog-tired. I said goodnight and called it.