“Left or right?”
I had no memory of that roundabout. The way to the bridge we had taken to cross the Ayeyarwady river was ahead, but I could not recall which direction we had come from. I had been too busy striving to follow the villager — who had showed us the way to Sagaing Hill on his own motorbike — to memorize reference points.
“No idea!” came the reply behind me.
“Whatever. Let’s eat at that restaurant over there,” I suggested while pointing at a building, which was actually no more than a roof above packed tables and low stools set on the bare ground. It was filled with locals. That was a very good sign.
“Yeah, looks amazing”
