Bagan, Myanmar
14 February 2003
A balloon over Bagan, Mayanmar, at dusk. Photo by Michael Seto The late afternoon sun warms my back as the swift breeze cools the sweat on my forehead; I shiver at the temperature difference and guide my bike down the narrow paved road. Around me, open fields with uncultivated grass and the occasional tree run away to the horizon. The sky blue and clear, I can see the distant foothills surrounding this valley.
Rust colored stupas stick up all around me, like oilcans, their spires gesturing skyward. The come in all different sizes, from a small outhouse to a ten story building. Each dedicated to Buddha and housing a statue or altar within. Some stand out starkly with whitewashed exteriors, others glisten brilliantly, the sun bouncing off golf plated domes.
The area of Bagan ranks as one of the least known Southeast Asian wonders, being situated in the reclusive country of Burma (Myanmar); long boycotted by the West at the urging of Aun Sung Suu Kyi, the charismatic leader of the democratic opposition to the military regime in control. Overtaken by Angkor Wat in Cambodia, Bagan beckons off the beaten track travellers with its own bucolic charm.
Waking up to roosters crowing and the rhythmic clickity-clack of horseshoes on the road, one feels transported back to Victorian times. In the early morning, a fog of cooking smoke clings at the ground and hugs the trees lining the streets. The smell of wood fires reminiscent of camping. Few cars go by, the roads dominated by horse carts, rickshaws, and the ubitquitous bicycle, all accompanied by pedestrians meandering to whatever obscure chores beckon.
Early in the morning, columns of scarlet robed monks appear like apparitions from the smoke, collecting alms and food in black lacquer bowls. Shaved heads bowed, they move from house to house, shop to shop, as locals dole out steamed rice or curries. Most Burmese are devout Buddhists.
Less inured to foreign tourists, the Burmese exude a friendliness and guilelessness that welcomes a jaded traveler, tired of incessant touts. Wide grins and a shouted "mingalaba" (hello) greet you at every turn. Kids and adults wave with genuine pleasure. To think that such happiness exists under a military dictatorship, where internet access is banned, surprises.
The tourist infrastructure here lacks the polish and choice of more developed Angkor Wat, but the enthusiasm of the service makes up for all the shortfalls. I stay at the May Kha Lar guesthouse for $7 per night and rent a bicycle to tour the area.
The town of Bagan was moved overnight by government diktat to New Bagan, though a few hotels still stand in now Old Bagan, with small village of Nuang Yu forming the hub of the tourist area. A paved ring road of about 12 miles links all three towns and the 'international' airport and takes you through the spectacular fields of payas and stupas and temples.
The Bagan catalog lists over 2,800 structures still standing, within the 80 square kilometer archaeological site. Three-dozen large multistory sites provide ample exploration for a week, especially when cruising leisurely from one to another on a bike.
Exotic named temples abound: Ananda Pahto, That Byin Nyu, Mingala Zedi, Dhammayan Gyi Pahto. The latter looks like a sixty foot tall soft-serve ice cream cone, gilded in gold leaf, it shimmers in the sun. Others reach skyward in the typical five pronged design that seems imitated in two-thirds of the structures, all built during 1000-1400 AD.
I turn off the road onto a dirt trail, pulled toward some distant spires. Bouncing past fields, oxen, farmers, as I make my approach. The various temples are still used for worship by the local people and Buddhist monks abound, meditating or collecting alms. With little regulation or supervision, one can wander at will around most sites, climbing hidden stairs to higher levels and gazing at the Buddha statues in relative isolation. With so many places to go, its easy to avoid other tourists and find solitude.
Sunset brings the most activity, with two or three of the larger temples becoming the focal point for tourists, disgorged from buses which themselves materialize from nowhere. Chattering hordes climb the steep stupas deigned the 'best sunset view' as a hot-air balloon from Balloons over Bagan drifts past. I cycle past the circus and find Khaymingha temple half a mile away. Here with just four others and a handful of locals, I watch the light turn orange then red and bathe the landscape with soft light, turning the red-rust temples incandescent.
Each day I mount my bike and head off in a random direction. No plan in my mind. No limit to my time.
BBRIIIiiing a liiinnnnng liiiiinnngg! I ring the little bell on my bike, ostensibly to warn other road uses, but I just love the sound of it! BRRRINNNNNG!! The bike sports a basket up front and one speed and a comfy bucket seat. Its the kind you owned at eight years old, the kind with tassels streaming from the handlebars and colored straws or old bare tennis balls decorating the spokes.
The tires growl as they grip the road while I weave from side to side, taking advantage of the dearth of traffic. Goat herds chew at weeds on the roadside while children's laughter wafts through the trees, coming from clusters of dirt-brick homes just off the road.
BBRIIIiiing a liiinnnnng! LIIIInnnnng a liiing! Kids turn and run and wave - I wave back. MINGALABA!! BRRIIINGGG! The bell calls like Peter's pipe.
The five days in Bagan went by quickly, each blending into the other in a enchanting monotony reminiscent of summers as a child. Those long days when the sun never set; when one never tired of running around in the grass; when you could stay in the pool all day before pruning; when scrapes healed overnight; when you spent all day goofing off with your friends; when adults came from an enigmatic alien race; and when a tuna fish sandwich and lemonade in the cool shade of your kitchen tasted like ambrosia. I never thought I would grow up.
The malaise hanging over me from Vietnam, as much my own internal mood as the external environment, evaporated in the warm dry sun of Burma. I was truly in the "beginner's mind" and back in the saddle again.
"...for I was rich, if not in money, in sunny hours and summer days, and spent them lavishly; nor do I regret that I did not waste more of them in the workshop or the teacher's desk."
- Henry David Thoreau
