Yado

It was completely by coincidence that we woke on Saint Patrick's Day among the people and grounds of a Catholic church in Myanmar, hosted by Father Matthew. Coincidental because we never know what day it is out here. We also slept there by necessity. We had ridden the first half of the Taungoo Pass, 106 kilometers and 8,091 feet of climbing, through demoralizing heat to the jungle highlands of Kayah. The light was leaving. No legal lodging for 60 miles. The jungle around us was full of untold poisonous creatures, and littered with unexploded landmines.

Refuge in the brothers' quarters of Sacred Heart Church was a saving grace for we exhilarhausted psyclists. A workshop, and a permanent rig for the village children in the church forest, was the token we could offer.

Father Matthew plans to install posts and have the line directly in front of the church. He was happy to offer lodging and aid to any friends who find themselves in Yado. You might be invited to accompany him to a house blessing, and to drink rice wine with him and fifty onlooking villagers.

If smiles are contagious, Myanmar is the sickest place in the world. It is the land of smiles.