Morning comes early. Tai chi is a useless endeavour. My body is aching after three days riding too small a bike, followed by a ten hour journey on a tiny bus seat followed by three days hiking and sleeping in the cold. The Portuguese couple in the bungalow next door share a cab with me to Heho airport. The lobby is no larger than a small town bus station. Three morning flights are delayed due to thick fog on the runway. I'm concerned I'll miss my connection in Yangon and speak with the front desk. "No problem, no problem," I'm assured. The sky clears and the planes land and the passengers board. Air Mandalay does not issue seat numbers. Every man, woman and child for himself. There is no warning that we are taxiing, no tables
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