by Marc Escanuelas

After Bagan, our fortunes in Burma seemed to be changing, giving us a false sense of confidence that let Mount Popa take us completely by surprise. Mount Popa is a volcanic plug crowned with a Buddhist monastery on its summit in the Burmese countryside.

Kat and I made the acquaintance of an English couple named Betty & David at our hotel. Although they were from Yorkshire, they spent their summers at a house they owned in Turkey. As you do. Betty was constantly scolding David over this or that. He was the more carefree of the two and seemed to be coping with his midlife crisis by reverting back to a mischievous teenager. On their invitation, we all piled into a minivan one morning to visit Mount Popa.

Along the way, David spied a small farm below a grove of palm trees. Actually, what he really noticed was an old woman smoking an enormous rolled cigar. The family made a number of products from palm sap. One man climbed a ladder nailed to the palm tree to demonstrate how he collected the sap. We watched politely until David said, “Just like a little monkey”.

“David, don’t be daft,” tutted Betty.

David and I sampled a palm sap liqueur they made, which tasted like motor oil and lit a match in my throat that threatened to spread to my belly.

David got his chance at the giant doobie. I declined as I tried to swallow the taste of the liqueur from my mouth.

Mount Popa, Burma

We drove on to Mount Popa. On a gloriously sunny morning like this one, the golden stupas of the monastery were impossible to stare at directly. I saw the covered stairway snaking up the side. Unfortunately, this view on the approach would be the best part of the outing.

Over a thousand steps climb its steep sides. A thousand steps that must be walked barefoot per Buddhist custom. Unfortunately, legions of monkeys have made their home on the mountain so the stairs are covered in a ceaseless stream of monkey piss and piles of feces. Men and women traverse the stairs up and down all day cleaning dutifully. It’s not enough. I spent the first third stepping gingerly before I finally gave up.

Mount Popa, Burma

I had never been among monkeys before, but it was this encounter that made me hate them. Every time I looked up into their alarmingly human-like faces, I assumed they were plotting against us. Betty had thought it would be cute to feed them a banana. As she reached into her purse to withdraw the plastic bag with the banana in it, dozens of monkey faces paused to stare. Within a minute, one of the larger ones had dived to the ground near her, snatching the plastic bag (and its small bushel of bananas) on its way.

We reached the last stair and took a deep breath that owing to the height we attained was mercifully free of the fetid smell of monkey dung. We walked amid the small pagodas that each house a few gold statues holding clumps of dollar bills left in offering. The monastery enjoyed a commanding view of the surrounding mountains and villages. The wind was strong and its insistent whistle was enough to remind me of my fear of heights. I can usually assuage it by grasping a railing for at least ten minutes before stepping over to the edge, but the railings atop Mount Popa seemed moments from collapsing.

I had to decide which was worst: the irrational fear of falling or a rational fear of over a thousand steps covered in piss and feces.

Although I grumbled the whole way down, I survived. The last indignity? There was nowhere to wash my feet. Clever Kat had worn sandals. I had worn socks and shoes.

In Part 4, the final part, we find that Burma has kept its best secret for last.

by Marc Esanuelas

Place Djemaa El-Fna, Marrakech, Morocco

Yes, you’re seeing that correctly. That would be a block of sugar about the size of an iPhone per cup of mint tea. Boiling water is poured from the elegant silver tea pot into the little glass cups that are stuffed with fresh mint leaves. The taste is amazing but you can’t help but wonder how many cups you can have in a day before your teeth begin to rot out of your mouth.

This is one of dozens of stalls selling tagines, cous cous, mint tea, fresh orange juice and other Moroccan classics that set up each day in Place Djemaa El-Fna in the Medina of Marrakech. They start in the early evening and stay open until the wee hours. Just beyond the stalls, women dance and men charm snakes in the dark.

by Marc Esanuelas

Bagan, Burma

After our inauspicious arrival in Yangon, we booked seats on a bus to Bagan, home of a sprawling temple complex that many consider a rival to the more heavily touristed Angkor in Cambodia.

Our hostel was staffed entirely by rude teenage girls. In Burma, they use American dollars but will only accept them if they are absolutely flawless. This means they have to look as if they were printed moments ago with no blemishes, folds or (god forbid) a tear. Take a look in your wallet right now and I bet all of your bills meet that description. The hostel girls held each of our bills to the light to inspect it and declined a few for being too dirty, each time clucking gently with scorn. Although irritating, this wouldn’t have been a big deal except that in a country without ATMs, turning down a $20 bill meant one less day of things we could do.
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by Marc Esanuelas

Yangon, Burma

One night several years ago, a Canadian teetotaler I’d met only an hour previously invited me to accompany her to Burma. Her name was Kat. Although I knew exactly where to find Burma on a map – all I could visualize was a giant question mark. In between the numerous gin & tonics I was drinking in lieu of anti-malaria medication, we hatched a plan to rendez-vous in Bangkok after our respective trips to Laos and Cambodia.
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by Marc Escanuelas

Os Gemeos in Lisbon, Portugal

I love the work of Os Gemeos, a set of identical twins from Sao Paulo whose graffiti is celebrated the world over. Their work was featured not long ago at the Geffen Contemporary in Los Angeles where they decorated an entire gallery’s worth with their whimsical yellow-skinned characters.
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