On my last afternoon in Bagan, I went in search of a meal that would serve as both lunch and dinner, before boarding my flight to Yangon. I settled on a Lonely Planet-recommended restaurant called Myitzima.

The LP author researching Bagan certainly earned his fee the day he discovered Myitzima, located over 50 meters off the main road, down a decidedly uninviting dirt alley. It seemed impossible that a restaurant could be in such an unlikely place. Even with my LP in hand, I almost retreated thinking that I'd taken a wrong turn. Yet, sure enough, Myitzima appeared, with its pleasingly designed courtyard and open air seating area, decorated with startlingly gifted paintings from local artists. Furthermore, the dish of stir-fry chicken, peanuts and veggies they whipped up for me was the most savory meal I'd had outside Yangon.

In a possible effort to impress me, one of the young guys hanging around the restaurant popped a Robbie Williams CD into the small stereo. The guy was clearly proud, not only to own this non-junta approved music, but because Robbie was name-dropping a Myanmar city in one of his songs ("Road to Mandalay").

The guy's English was exceptional. He explained that he'd purchased the CD purely for the Mandalay tribute, which he loved out of admirable national pride. He went on to describe how he enjoyed all types of Western music, particularly Bob Marley, though he was having trouble acquiring new CDs due to a recent ban on all non-Burmese music.

"Please, may I ask you a question?" Kusala preceded every question with this solicitation of permission, like he hadn't already been putting me through the question-answer ringer for 15 minutes.

"Yes Kusala. And you don't have to ask me if you can ask me a question every time. I give you everlasting permission to ask me questions until we get back to my bike, OK?"

"I thank you. What is 'McDonald's'"?

I hesitated for a moment, staring at the sky as the young monk patiently waited for my reply. We were walking across U Bein's Bridge, a 1.2 kilometer wooden bridge that connects Amarapura to Kyauktawgyi Paya, 11 kilometers outside of Mandalay. How do you explain a world famous franchise restaurant that sells questionable food, which may or may not be physically addictive, hawked by a clown with gender identity issues? It's a tricky concept to illustrate, even when you have the full catalogue of the English language at your disposal, never mind when you're limited to a few hundred, one and two syllable words.

The majority of Burma's impossibly thin tabs of gold leaf - a fixture at all pagodas (temples) - is produced out of several shops in a neighborhood just outside central Mandalay. The tabs are sold in packets of 10, 50 or 100, with each tab being about one square inch, which worshipers apply to Buddha figures and other religious relics as a spiritual offering.

I tooled down a bumpy dirt street on my bike, skidding to a halt in a cloud of dust in front of a non-descript short building, home to the "Gold Rose". I was greeted the instant I dismounted my bike by the shop's "tour guide".

The guide fed me cold water as I recovered from my ride and gave me some tissues to stem the flow of sweat gushing off me. In time I was led to the shop's 'hammering area' where four men rotated through hammering duties, beating hair-width gold leaf down to microbe-width gold leaf. Tabs of gold sheet are packed into bundles of 400, separated by a layer of bamboo paper, then beaten with a six pound sledgehammer for 30 minutes. The newly flattened and enlarged leaves are then divided into four pieces, re-bundled into packages of 1,200 and beaten for another 30 minutes. Finally the tabs are divided again, re-bundled into stacks of 750 pieces and hammered for an astounding five hours.

Despite what seems like pure grunt work, the hammering is a carefully monitored, meticulous process, with adjustments being made depending on subtle variants such as air temperature.

Just as I was commenting on how arduous this work appeared to be, I was led into the air-tight cutting room. Here a team of very young girls worked 10 hour days, sitting on thin bamboo mats, cutting and dividing the gold leaf for the hammering process, then packaging the final product into painstaking piles of perfect square tabs. The youngest girl was 11 years old. Each girl has to go through three years of training before being trusted with leaf cutting duties, meaning they were starting work as young as seven or eight years old.

Cycling around Mandalay provided the most intense adrenaline rush I'd had since I jumped out of a plane in New Zealand, screaming like a little girl all the way down.

The traffic is particularly lawless in a country where most driving conventions are improvised. Certain death is faced and somehow magically avoided every few seconds while plunging through traffic that would make a New York cabbie weep. The accompanying clouds of floating dust and debris that coat your body, while you suck down the hot, foul, fume choked air makes it look like you really did something at the end of the day. Not like those pansy package tourists in their vans with tinted windows, stereos, air conditioning, cold beverages and genuine seats with seatbelts! Rubes.

OK, it sounds horrific and it kinda was, but it wasn't beyond endurance, even for my delicate constitution. And it was liberating to be in charge of a vehicle (of sorts) for the first time in months. Moreover, jockeying the bike through Mandalay's dense, every-man-for-himself traffic conditions proved to be faster than any other form of transport, including motorcycles. I covered a fantastic amount of ground and was very productive on that bike, a travel writer's wet dream.

Take Venice, rebuild it in wood and bamboo, remove most of the dry footpaths and the double-wide butted tourists, then add waist-deep wet farms and that's Inle Lake's 17 water villages. The waterway "streets" were lined with surprisingly large, two and three story, longhouse-like dwellings, with kids hanging out windows shouting 'hello' at me and a few people climbing into the family canoe to run errands.

After a perfunctory tour of one of the larger villages, my captain/guide motored down a narrow canal, finally stopping where the canal became choked with parked boats. He indicated that I was to get out and walk to the market, "25 minutes" away. This development sparked a confused, five minute Q&A. Yes, I was to go tour the market. No, he would not be accompanying me. Yes, it was really a 25 minute walk in that (vaguely pointing) direction and - despite having a wide open view of the landscape and seeing nothing resembling a market all the way to the distant mountains - no I shouldn't have any trouble finding it.

I tentatively set out.

The road was bordered by wet and dry fields with the intermittent, far-flung house dotting the landscape. Once in a while I'd encounter a wobbly old man or a house-sized wooden cart being pulled by two water buffalo, piloted by a couple kids under the age of 10. There were no signs confirming that I was heading in the right direction, but as my captain had promised, neither were there serious forks or turns to deliberate on, so I could only assume I was still on the right track.

I'm not gonna lie to you. Getting around in Burma is quite literally a pain in the ass. What with my trip involving so many long haul voyages in so little time, I was verily spanked into submission by a variety of seats, chairs, benches, and stools, reducing me to standing for dinner by the end of the trip.

Arguably, the brunt of the damage was done on the first trip, an 18 hour bus ride from Yangon to Inle Lake. I was the only Pinkie on the bus (indeed, the only Pinkie in the bus station), which left at noon in 104 degree heat.

It was supposed to be an air conditioned bus, and it did indeed have air-con, but the air flow was at such a pathetic trickle that you couldn't actually feel cool air unless you put your hand directly on the vent. Moreover, when the bus was moving the air flow all but ceased, as if the bus was outrunning the air oozing through the shafts before it could reach the overhead vents, except up front directly next to the driver where sweet, cool air blasted out at gale force.

The bus was packed. Every seat was taken, including the fold-down, death seats in the aisle that virtually guaranteed a trampling-related injury if anything more serious than an urgent bathroom episode arose.

Though I suffered greatly (and wrote about it at a length that would eventually cause others to suffer equally) it was on this trip that I saw something that made me (briefly) forget my discomfort. Not long after leaving Yangon, we passed a bus that had been altered into a double-decker without adding any ceiling space. A slap-dash infrastructure had been welded together, splitting it into two tiny, cramped levels. The bus was full to bursting. People were folded up and jammed in like cookies with only enough space to sit on the floor in a permanent squat. If we hadn't been passing it at 80 KPH, I would have taken a picture for evidence to send to human rights groups.

The local buses in Yangon have to be personally experienced to truly be appreciated. This singular ordeal is a grand departure from the otherwise laidback way the Burmese conduct themselves.

Bus drivers careen around town with one foot on the gas and the other foot, seemingly, on the horn. One gets the sense that these men are drafted directly from the outpatient program at the local suicide prevention center and paid with bags of betel chews.

The driver's sidekick, an only slightly less sadistic announcer/conductor, hangs out one of the "doors" (frequently the actual door has been detached), screaming the bus line number and direction to the people standing at the bus stops as the bus pulls up. He then hastily pulls people on the bus, while simultaneously shoving others off. Age, gender and physical disabilities have no bearing on how one is treated. Often the bus never actually stops rolling.

My guide in Yangon insisted on giving me a lengthy Burmese most-often-used phrases lesson at dinner one night. This turned out to be pure gold for me during the remainder of my stay.

I wrote down and later memorized such phrases as "thank you," "delicious!" "it is very hot!" (referring to the weather), "hello, how are you?" "I'm fine," "what is your name?" "how old are you?" "You are very beautiful," "I am ## years old," "how much?" "too expensive!" "I already bought that" (to be used on the kids selling postcards), and "Discount! I am Burmese!" (this line brought the house down every time). I also memorized the numbers and the refreshingly easy large number counting conventions.

This small arsenal of language drove my already skyrocketing popularity through the stratosphere. Seeing a Pinkie speak Burmese was the funniest thing in the history of the universe for most people. I added to the list of phrases as my trip progressed. Eventually I could ask directions, bargain with hawkers, flirt with girls and order food (I usually had no idea what kind of food I was ordering, but the point was that I wasn't starving to death).

While in Burma I would eventually see more payas (temples) in 10 days than most people see in two lifetimes, including most Burmese, but none of them could hold a candle to the monstrous Shwedagon Paya in Yangon.

Aside from the towering main stupa (A.K.A. "pagoda" – a solid dome, often gold, sometimes white washed, that usually tapers into a weathervane-like spire at the top), there are 82 other buildings in the complex, including simple zayats (small rest houses) with a single modest Buddha and numerous pathos (temples) that are exceptional in their own right.

The main stupa is over 1,000 years old according to archeologists, though Burmese will testify that it's closer to 2,500 years old. With various royalty and Burma's rich and famous donating their own weight in gold leaf to cover the stupa over the centuries, it was estimated in 1995 that there was 53 metric tons of gold covering the thing with only the security of a bunch of monks watching over it. Very telling of the Buddhist mindset, eh? A similarly rich and unprotected fortune like that wouldn't last seven seconds in any major city in the US.

We walked around Shwedagon for hours, during which time I rarely shut off my camera. Every structure, every Buddha, every angle was stunning, unique and seemingly going to be the greatest picture ever. One building had a photo exhibit of the paya, including close ups of the staggering amount of gold, silver, jade and jewels hanging off the top of the main stupa (allegedly over 5,000 diamonds and 2,000 other rubies/emeralds).

There's just so much to process for a new arrival in Burma that often anything short of basic survival (money, food, clean water) has to take a backseat until reasonable acclimation has been satisfied. I reached this stage after several coffees on day two.

Once I'd solved the riddle of the gum disease epidemic, I moved on to crack the Mystery of the Smudged Faces. The majority of women in Burma walk around with gold/yellow powder smeared on themselves. Usually just the cheeks are covered, but some, children in particular, often have it on their foreheads, noses and even their arms.

I tapped the encyclopedic knowledge of my guide in Yangon for enlightenment. Conveniently, we were in a market - where I'd just concluded a triumphant meet-and-greet with a gaggle of rotund, amorous ladies at the shredded fish booth – so he led me to the stall where they were selling lengths of sand wood. My guide explained that, once ground down to a powder, the sand wood is believed to protect the wearer from sun exposure, while being generally good for the skin. Furthermore, when prudently applied, sand wood powder performs the same vanity functions as make-up does for Western women.

That explained that. I certainly understood the need for relief, after all it was April, the height of the hot season and the sun was searing. Oh hey, I burn easily. Should I put some on my arms?

Oh no. Sand wood is only meant for women and children [pause] "and sometimes men, if they are the gay".

Never mind.