It was 5:30am. I walked into the dark, unlit street, wondering if Kyaw Kyaw was going to show up like he had promised. Would his horse actually comply and walk after a long day with the German tourist?
“Hello!” the voice I had so quickly grown to recognize and feel reassured by called out, and I turned to see the horse cart, whose bright magenta cushions were black in the night. I saw a figure in the cart next to KK, and peered into the same huge smiling eyes of KK. It was his daughter, Bo Bo Wei. I had met an American living in Cambodia, Eric, at the guesthouse and we decided to go to the airport together. The horse struggled with the weight of 4 people and lots of luggage, but soon we were moving along the road as the horizon began to have a bright orange glow. The chill of night which made us wear fleeces and jackets transformed into a scorching heat.
We passed the Military Elementary School, with square glass windows that fitted neatly into the concrete exterior. There was a metal gate with a fresh paint job, and a neatly mowed field. Less than 100m past it was the normal Elementary School. The wooden shack had no windows, and the sea green paint was peeling.
As we continued down the road, minibuses full of European tourists zoomed by us, the sunburned passengers with documents and money around their neck, concealing the “Myanmar” or “Bagan” printed on their cheap, bright, silk-screen shirts, peered out at us.
Arriving at the airport, I had a few minutes with Kyaw Kyaw, and he asked me to write to him whenever I knew someone who was going to Myanmar. He insisted that on my next visit I come to eat at his house. I willed myself to remember everything about my warm experience in Bagan, and walked into the crowded airport.
It was the worst scene I had seen in Myanmar. Why do people wear high heels, mini-skirts, and carry Vuitton bags to see ancient temples? Why must tourists be loud, treat local people as furniture, and clown themselves with makeup and costumes? There is a reference in ASSK’s Letters from Burma about Myanmar being a “Fascist Disneyland.” As I looked around at the Burmese at the airport – all guides, or hotel or airport staff – I saw brand-new longyis, perfect black sandals, tidy tanakha on the women, purses and clipboards that were immaculate. Scurrying around much as you would expect children at Disneyland were Europeans, chattering to fellow tour group members about where they had been, where else they were going, how lovely the sunset at Shwe San Daw was, how Inle Lake is so beautiful. I listened to people speak of how friendly the people of Myanmar are, of how beautiful and undamaged the ruins of Bagan are, how high the quality of tourist infrastructure is, compared to what they had imagined. What they don’t know, what they don’t see, both because of themselves and the government, is what lies underneath – the medical and education system in tatters, the hungry and naked children.
Showing posts with label Myanmar Bagan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Myanmar Bagan. Show all posts
Monday, August 20, 2007
Myanmar: Bagan: 3 February 2007 (Written 22 March 2007)
The next thing I knew, it was 8am on the 3rd. I was feeling more and more ill, so I decided that I would rest in the morning and hire a bike to go back to the ruins in the afternoon. I got some medicine, and as I returned back to the hotel, the woman was calling me over with the most animation I’d seen from her yet. She had a note for me, from my friends. I had no idea that I had friends in Myanmar that would know where I was staying and would write me a note, so I was rather suspicious when I took the sheet of paper. I opened it, and it was from Pascal! It said he had found out I was staying here, and he and Ricard were leaving that day to head southwest, and it would be nice if we could meet again. I was excited to hear from the boys who had shared my time from Yangon to Mandalay with me, and tried to find out where they were staying or how I could find them. The lady had no idea, so I basically walked around the street and asked every person who spoke English if they had seen a pair of European boys who were probably not dressed very well. It worked! I was told where they were staying.
I told the man at reception who I was looking for and he sent me to the roof, where my two favorite boys in Myanmar were chopping vegetables and tasting their salad. Ahh what joy! We chatted about the past several days that we were apart and ate guacamole and tomato salad and sat in the sun. We were indeed headed separate ways so I gave big hugs before we split.
In the afternoon, I took a bicycle from the hotel and headed to the ruins. The bike was in good condition, with a bell and basket and brakes. I am still precarious on two wheels, and I was hesitant but decided to give it a try. It went very well, except for the fact that to get to most of the actual temples you have to go on dirt roads which are often sand and the bike would skid and I would hover shakily before tipping over to one side, as I would laugh at how ridiculous I looked, and if anyone was witness, they would join in the laughter. My destination was San Thi Dar Restaurant. I had seen a posting in a guesthouse saying how friendly the family that ran it was, so I wanted to go see for myself; I had nothing else that I really wanted to see or do in Bagan, but I wanted to stay a bit longer to experience the feel of the place.
I found the food stall, and as soon as I parked my bike and approached the cool shaded tables, the man who owned the shop came and greeted me with the warmth that I had grown used to in Myanmar. I ordered lime juice, and before I even received my juice, I was given roasted peanuts, sliced banana, and tamarind flakes. I ordered a bottle of water and chatted to the man, and was given a lovely bamboo basket filled with toddy candy, a sweet made from the toddy tree.
The son, who was 10 years old, was playing checkers with a man at a table nearby, and he had a beautiful smile (seems to me most people in Myanmar who are smiling had remarkable smiles; more so than in most other countries I’ve been to). After the man left, the boy came to sit on a stool next to me. He said hello, and burst out laughing without me having said a single word. I asked why he was laughing, and he told me it was because I looked like a Burmese singer that was very famous. I decided to take this as a compliment and asked him if he wanted to play checkers with me. He beat me easily, then we chatted about Japan and did origami and his father showed me a Japanese/Burmese phrasebook that a Japanese tourist had given him. He asked me if I would be able to deliver a letter to this Japanese man and I agreed, so he asked me to go back the next day. I said ok, and asked for a recommendation of a good place to see the sunset. He told me of a temple just down the road, which would have a great view and not many people. I asked Pyi Sone, his son, to show me where it was and we sped off on our bikes.
When I arrived at the temple, Pyi Sone yelled out to a boy at the temple that I was coming, and I saw a figure race down the steps and run out of the temple, waiting for my arrival. The first thing he asked me was if I wanted postcards, but I tried out my phrases that my ‘kids’ the day before had taught me and he laughed and said, “Ok, but I’ll show you my temple anyway.” His name was Souzo, a 10 year old who came to this temple everyday for sunset. The view was magnificent. There were 4 tourists at the top, and the same number of Burmese children. Hot air balloons floated through the air, and the temples slowly faded into the mélange of purples, blues, and pinks that formed the sky and the land. As I left, I gave Souzo a crane and he told me, “Good luck Yuri. Always.” As I rode my bicycle back to Nyaung U, the sky turned a deep purple before transforming into a black velvet speckled with shimmering stars.
The next day, I arranged to take a trip to Mt Popa. A Japanese couple from my guesthouse and I shared a taxi and left at 7.30am on the bumpiest dirt road I think I had been on in Burma. I noticed the Orwellian aspect of the buildings we passed by, such as the Township Peace and Development Council. There were laborers on the roads, who did their best to protect themselves from the relentless sun but who looked to be struggling. They ranged in age from 6 to 80. We stopped to observe a village where a cow was directed to walk around in circles in order to have a piece of wood exert pressure on peanuts, where there was a strain and funnel to gather peanut oil. Our bums hurt significantly and we drank down palm wine to ease the pain, or just to get drunk at 8am.
The view of Mt Popa before you arrive at it is spectacular. This holy mountain is said to be home to the 37 nat spirits of the original Burmese religion. This mountain rises out of a flat plain, and is covered in green and has temples and pagodas at the top. Our driver let us off and told us he would wait at the bottom. There were stairs. Lots and lots of concrete stairways leading up the side of the mountain. And monkeys. Lots and lots of monkeys. They were active, jumping noisily on the tin roofs and looking to cause trouble. It was a steep uphill climb, passing plenty of people with brooms who claimed, “Sweeping clean donation.” At the top, the view was breathtaking. The flat green plan below spread out like a big carpet of emerald, palm trees and rice fields covering the rich brown earth. We were asked to be in a photograph with a family of pilgrims, and we descended quickly before the monkeys made us their next victims and harassed or robbed us.
Back at the bottom, our driver was slightly annoyed that we had returned so quickly because he was still eating his breakfast. We waited a few minutes and off we sped on the same road we had come on. We arrived back in Nyaung U and I decided to have a siesta to escape the midday heat before heading back to visit my friends in the afternoon.
I woke up, and asked the reception for a bicycle. “No more bicycle,” she said with a grave expression. I panicked – how was that possible? There were bikes EVERYWHERE in Myanmar…how was I going to get there to pick up the letter I had promised to take back with me to Japan? I went around to several guesthouses to inquire about bikes and finally found one that told me they could probably get me a bike but it wouldn’t be a good one. I decided to try my luck and followed the 12 year old girl down a small alleyway that led to a bike repair shop. I was given a very old bike with barely-working brakes, a small very hard seat, and no bell. I’m pathetic on good mountain bikes, and hopeless on bikes like these. I paid and got on. I realized 10 seconds after I started pedaling that I was exhausted from the strenuous physical activity of the past several days and the long travel I had done. I tried out the brakes and at the slightest touch, my bike would skid. The seat was so uncomfortable I considered putting my fleece on it to create some padding. I debated actually stopping to take a horse cart, but then decided against it. I continued on the road, finally getting into the rhythm, and passed a horse cart on its left. As I passed, the driver called out, “Hello!” Without looking (my bike-riding skills are such that I can’t turn my head too far), I cried out, “Hello!” The man replied, “Remember me from the other day? Kyaw Kyaw.” I was probably 30m ahead already when it registered and I braked, basically falling off the bike. Everyone laughed, and I turned around to see my lovely driver from two days before. We stopped at Upali Thein because his guest wanted to see the fantastic frescoes, and I chatted with Kyaw Kyaw. His guest, a German man named Klaus, agreed that we could put my bike on the rack behind the horse cart and I could get a lift to the Museum. KK’s horse was acting up, it was very tired from the day before, and we were all laughing. KK told us how a few months ago, he got drunk and fell asleep in the cart. He woke up as he was arriving home in the horse cart, because his horse was hungry and went home on his own accord!
Klaus and I ate together, and Pyi Sone and I spent the whole afternoon together. I ordered prawn curry, and I was served a meal that covered the wooden table for 4 with white ceramic plates filled to the brim with a variety of savory delights: pumpkin curry, bean curry, chicken curry, peanuts, tamarind flakes, papaya, pineapple, banana, rice, and fresh fruit juice. I was shocked, and they simply replied by saying that I was doing them a big favor by taking their letter for them, and that Pyi Sone was calling me big sister; I was therefore like family and would be treated and fed as such. I lingered at the small rickety shop until sunlight was fading, and there was a soft purple glow about the plain; Pyi Sone hugged me shyly and kissed each cheek, and his parents urged, “Daughter, come back and see us again.” I began to cycle on the flat road to Nyaung U, my legs aching, but feeling like they had accomplished something that made the sore muscles worth it.
I told the man at reception who I was looking for and he sent me to the roof, where my two favorite boys in Myanmar were chopping vegetables and tasting their salad. Ahh what joy! We chatted about the past several days that we were apart and ate guacamole and tomato salad and sat in the sun. We were indeed headed separate ways so I gave big hugs before we split.
In the afternoon, I took a bicycle from the hotel and headed to the ruins. The bike was in good condition, with a bell and basket and brakes. I am still precarious on two wheels, and I was hesitant but decided to give it a try. It went very well, except for the fact that to get to most of the actual temples you have to go on dirt roads which are often sand and the bike would skid and I would hover shakily before tipping over to one side, as I would laugh at how ridiculous I looked, and if anyone was witness, they would join in the laughter. My destination was San Thi Dar Restaurant. I had seen a posting in a guesthouse saying how friendly the family that ran it was, so I wanted to go see for myself; I had nothing else that I really wanted to see or do in Bagan, but I wanted to stay a bit longer to experience the feel of the place.
I found the food stall, and as soon as I parked my bike and approached the cool shaded tables, the man who owned the shop came and greeted me with the warmth that I had grown used to in Myanmar. I ordered lime juice, and before I even received my juice, I was given roasted peanuts, sliced banana, and tamarind flakes. I ordered a bottle of water and chatted to the man, and was given a lovely bamboo basket filled with toddy candy, a sweet made from the toddy tree.
The son, who was 10 years old, was playing checkers with a man at a table nearby, and he had a beautiful smile (seems to me most people in Myanmar who are smiling had remarkable smiles; more so than in most other countries I’ve been to). After the man left, the boy came to sit on a stool next to me. He said hello, and burst out laughing without me having said a single word. I asked why he was laughing, and he told me it was because I looked like a Burmese singer that was very famous. I decided to take this as a compliment and asked him if he wanted to play checkers with me. He beat me easily, then we chatted about Japan and did origami and his father showed me a Japanese/Burmese phrasebook that a Japanese tourist had given him. He asked me if I would be able to deliver a letter to this Japanese man and I agreed, so he asked me to go back the next day. I said ok, and asked for a recommendation of a good place to see the sunset. He told me of a temple just down the road, which would have a great view and not many people. I asked Pyi Sone, his son, to show me where it was and we sped off on our bikes.
When I arrived at the temple, Pyi Sone yelled out to a boy at the temple that I was coming, and I saw a figure race down the steps and run out of the temple, waiting for my arrival. The first thing he asked me was if I wanted postcards, but I tried out my phrases that my ‘kids’ the day before had taught me and he laughed and said, “Ok, but I’ll show you my temple anyway.” His name was Souzo, a 10 year old who came to this temple everyday for sunset. The view was magnificent. There were 4 tourists at the top, and the same number of Burmese children. Hot air balloons floated through the air, and the temples slowly faded into the mélange of purples, blues, and pinks that formed the sky and the land. As I left, I gave Souzo a crane and he told me, “Good luck Yuri. Always.” As I rode my bicycle back to Nyaung U, the sky turned a deep purple before transforming into a black velvet speckled with shimmering stars.
The next day, I arranged to take a trip to Mt Popa. A Japanese couple from my guesthouse and I shared a taxi and left at 7.30am on the bumpiest dirt road I think I had been on in Burma. I noticed the Orwellian aspect of the buildings we passed by, such as the Township Peace and Development Council. There were laborers on the roads, who did their best to protect themselves from the relentless sun but who looked to be struggling. They ranged in age from 6 to 80. We stopped to observe a village where a cow was directed to walk around in circles in order to have a piece of wood exert pressure on peanuts, where there was a strain and funnel to gather peanut oil. Our bums hurt significantly and we drank down palm wine to ease the pain, or just to get drunk at 8am.
The view of Mt Popa before you arrive at it is spectacular. This holy mountain is said to be home to the 37 nat spirits of the original Burmese religion. This mountain rises out of a flat plain, and is covered in green and has temples and pagodas at the top. Our driver let us off and told us he would wait at the bottom. There were stairs. Lots and lots of concrete stairways leading up the side of the mountain. And monkeys. Lots and lots of monkeys. They were active, jumping noisily on the tin roofs and looking to cause trouble. It was a steep uphill climb, passing plenty of people with brooms who claimed, “Sweeping clean donation.” At the top, the view was breathtaking. The flat green plan below spread out like a big carpet of emerald, palm trees and rice fields covering the rich brown earth. We were asked to be in a photograph with a family of pilgrims, and we descended quickly before the monkeys made us their next victims and harassed or robbed us.
Back at the bottom, our driver was slightly annoyed that we had returned so quickly because he was still eating his breakfast. We waited a few minutes and off we sped on the same road we had come on. We arrived back in Nyaung U and I decided to have a siesta to escape the midday heat before heading back to visit my friends in the afternoon.
I woke up, and asked the reception for a bicycle. “No more bicycle,” she said with a grave expression. I panicked – how was that possible? There were bikes EVERYWHERE in Myanmar…how was I going to get there to pick up the letter I had promised to take back with me to Japan? I went around to several guesthouses to inquire about bikes and finally found one that told me they could probably get me a bike but it wouldn’t be a good one. I decided to try my luck and followed the 12 year old girl down a small alleyway that led to a bike repair shop. I was given a very old bike with barely-working brakes, a small very hard seat, and no bell. I’m pathetic on good mountain bikes, and hopeless on bikes like these. I paid and got on. I realized 10 seconds after I started pedaling that I was exhausted from the strenuous physical activity of the past several days and the long travel I had done. I tried out the brakes and at the slightest touch, my bike would skid. The seat was so uncomfortable I considered putting my fleece on it to create some padding. I debated actually stopping to take a horse cart, but then decided against it. I continued on the road, finally getting into the rhythm, and passed a horse cart on its left. As I passed, the driver called out, “Hello!” Without looking (my bike-riding skills are such that I can’t turn my head too far), I cried out, “Hello!” The man replied, “Remember me from the other day? Kyaw Kyaw.” I was probably 30m ahead already when it registered and I braked, basically falling off the bike. Everyone laughed, and I turned around to see my lovely driver from two days before. We stopped at Upali Thein because his guest wanted to see the fantastic frescoes, and I chatted with Kyaw Kyaw. His guest, a German man named Klaus, agreed that we could put my bike on the rack behind the horse cart and I could get a lift to the Museum. KK’s horse was acting up, it was very tired from the day before, and we were all laughing. KK told us how a few months ago, he got drunk and fell asleep in the cart. He woke up as he was arriving home in the horse cart, because his horse was hungry and went home on his own accord!
Klaus and I ate together, and Pyi Sone and I spent the whole afternoon together. I ordered prawn curry, and I was served a meal that covered the wooden table for 4 with white ceramic plates filled to the brim with a variety of savory delights: pumpkin curry, bean curry, chicken curry, peanuts, tamarind flakes, papaya, pineapple, banana, rice, and fresh fruit juice. I was shocked, and they simply replied by saying that I was doing them a big favor by taking their letter for them, and that Pyi Sone was calling me big sister; I was therefore like family and would be treated and fed as such. I lingered at the small rickety shop until sunlight was fading, and there was a soft purple glow about the plain; Pyi Sone hugged me shyly and kissed each cheek, and his parents urged, “Daughter, come back and see us again.” I began to cycle on the flat road to Nyaung U, my legs aching, but feeling like they had accomplished something that made the sore muscles worth it.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Myanmar: Bagan: 2 February 2007 (Written 20 March 2007)
Upon arrival to Nyaung U, I jumped in a trishaw and asked to be taken to a guesthouse from my book. The driver agreed but as soon as we were approaching town, asked me if he could take me somewhere else. I surrendered and soon after I arrived at my hotel. I checked in, and highly considered taking the morning easy and having a quiet, relaxing day. I took a hot shower, and found myself packing my daypack and putting sunblock on. I had thought about taking a horse cart around the ruins for the day since I was quite tired from all the previous days of travel, but declined the offers from the reception of the hotel as well as the first two men that approached me in the street. Then, a man with perfectly round, innocent, curious eyes came up to me and asked if I needed a horse cart. Before I could even respond, he rattled off a number of facts, his name was Kyaw Kyaw, that his cushions were very comfortable, that he was from Old Bagan and had lived in the area his whole life, that he knew a lot about the temples and could tell me all that I wanted to know, that we could go to very famous temples, we could go to quiet temples with no one else, that…
I immediately liked him and his enthusiasm and friendliness so we agreed on a price for the day. Within 5 minutes of meeting him, he told me more about himself than most people tell me in a week. He was 38 years old, had 6 kids, and his father died while he was in university so he couldn't finish. He had been a trishaw driver for 10 years and had been a horse cart driver for 4 years now. I settled into the neon pink Minnie Mouse cushions and nodded as he continued his autobiographical monologue.
Bagan. What a place. Admittedly, in photos I’d seen before visiting, I hadn’t been sure what to expect – it was clear that there were a great number of temples in the area, but in photos you don’t realize that you’re getting a tiny tiny view of it. Panoramics don’t capture the grandeur and detail in each temple, and close-ups don’t do justice to the scale of the place. There are more than 4400 temples in the 42 sq km area that makes up the Bagan Archaeological Zone. It’s difficult to form a mental idea of what that means.
I wasn’t sure what to make of it even in the first hours of being in the area. We stopped at various temples and pagodas, many made of commonplace red brick, and Kyaw Kyaw explained what they were and what king had built them…until we went to one that I asked to stop at, and asked him what it was called. He stopped the horse cart, turned around, and with an expression that was grim yet laughing even while frowning, he said “I dunno!” and burst out laughing. He said, “Sorry miss, too many temples in Bagan, sometimes no name, and we don’t know who made it. Too too too many temples!”
As we trotted down the Bagan – Nyaung U road, catching glimpses of such wonders as Ananda Pahto and Taibyunnin, he showed me plants on the side of the road that were being grown for a government biodiesel project.
“Miss, sorry if rude, are you married?”
“No.”
“But miss, you are very beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
“I am married.”
“Good.”
“I got married when I was 19.”
“You have only one wife?”
“Oooh yes! With one, enough problems. If two, I think I have to sleep horse cart!”
His laughter sounded almost like choking, as he constantly was chewing betel quids and in his complete laughter he needed to make sure the red liquid didn’t fly out of his mouth. As we approached Old Bagan, he asked me if I could lend him 200 kyat – USD 0.15. I said ok, and asked what for – “Lottery.” I laughed and said we would share if he won. He picked 2 and 5, making sure I was ok with his selection. I nodded and we rode on.
When we got to Taibyunnin, he consulted other horse carts and found that the winning numbers were 0 and 7. “Sorry miss, next time!” Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle. Two girls ran out to me with postcards to sell. I refused, and they asked me if they could walk with me. I said of course, but I wasn’t going to give them any money. They shook their hands vigorously and said, “No, miss, no money!” and grinned. They spoke excellent English and we were able to have quite a good conversation. Dii Dii and Ni Lah were both 8 years old and lived nearby; everyday afterschool they came to sell postcards to tourists. We entered Taibyunnin and walked very quickly through the halls, and my brilliant guides told me, “Small Buddha, small Buddha, Big Buddha.” Repeat. There was one particularly jolly Buddha, probably about 8 or 9 meters high, and Dii Dii turned to me with a grin that made her eyes disappear and said, “Same same you.”
We finished walking around the temple and we sat outside, and I made them cranes. They said that they wanted to come with me around the temples. I said it was ok with me but they had to ask Kyaw Kyaw. They yelled with delight and ran barefoot to where Kyaw Kyaw was taking a nap, and woke him up, jumping on him. He agreed immediately and all of a sudden what had been a spacious, quiet horse cart pulling me along became a loud, crowded vehicle with 4 kids piled on top of me. As we plodded along, Kyaw Kyaw turned to the kids and held out his palm, saying “You, 1000. You, 1000. Each pay 1000.” This made all the kids giggle and shake both hands back and forth, arguing “Noooo!”
The kids pretended that we were a happy family, Kyaw Kyaw was father, I was mother, and they were brother, sister, brother, baby. They taught me “Shideh”; Burmese for “I already have” – so I could say this to their peers who would try and sell me postcards. We visited several sites together, including a large pagoda on the bank of the river, and after a few hours, they returned to Taibyunnin because they were expected to come home having sold some postcards.
After visiting Dhammangyi Pahto, the largest of the temples at Bagan, which resembles a Mayan ruin, I asked Kyaw Kyaw to take me to Shwe San Daw Paya, which is listed in every guidebook as being the best place for sunset. It was the most horrible vision of tourism I had seen thus far in Myanmar; large tour buses crammed with German and Italian tourists blocked the entranceway, postcard vendors followed people around with aggressive tones in their voices, and the serenity of the other temples was replaced with noise and chaos. I decided to check out the view nonetheless, and managed to reach the base of the pagoda with minimal struggle. I looked up, and found that of the five tiers of the pagoda, the top 2 were already filled with people that looked like part of a jigsaw puzzle, and the people on the third were already starting to resemble sardines. There was still at least an hour before sunset. I decided to go all the way to the top anyway, because I was alone and thought I might be able to find a space anyway. The vertical steps with barely enough room to place a foot on were decidedly scary, and the metal handrail was gripped tightly by many people. I did make it to the top, and found a space, but after a few minutes of being pushed around by other tourists and listening to a cacophony of loud European languages, and realizing that the sunset wasn’t going to be spectacular due to nearly complete cloud cover, I descended and ran to Kyaw Kyaw who was surprised to see me so early, since I had been talking about sunset all day. I told him too many people, he laughed his throaty chuckle, and we went back to Nyaung U. I was at the point of sheer exhaustion and decided to take a nap before going out to dinner; I didn't wake up again that night
I immediately liked him and his enthusiasm and friendliness so we agreed on a price for the day. Within 5 minutes of meeting him, he told me more about himself than most people tell me in a week. He was 38 years old, had 6 kids, and his father died while he was in university so he couldn't finish. He had been a trishaw driver for 10 years and had been a horse cart driver for 4 years now. I settled into the neon pink Minnie Mouse cushions and nodded as he continued his autobiographical monologue.
Bagan. What a place. Admittedly, in photos I’d seen before visiting, I hadn’t been sure what to expect – it was clear that there were a great number of temples in the area, but in photos you don’t realize that you’re getting a tiny tiny view of it. Panoramics don’t capture the grandeur and detail in each temple, and close-ups don’t do justice to the scale of the place. There are more than 4400 temples in the 42 sq km area that makes up the Bagan Archaeological Zone. It’s difficult to form a mental idea of what that means.
I wasn’t sure what to make of it even in the first hours of being in the area. We stopped at various temples and pagodas, many made of commonplace red brick, and Kyaw Kyaw explained what they were and what king had built them…until we went to one that I asked to stop at, and asked him what it was called. He stopped the horse cart, turned around, and with an expression that was grim yet laughing even while frowning, he said “I dunno!” and burst out laughing. He said, “Sorry miss, too many temples in Bagan, sometimes no name, and we don’t know who made it. Too too too many temples!”
As we trotted down the Bagan – Nyaung U road, catching glimpses of such wonders as Ananda Pahto and Taibyunnin, he showed me plants on the side of the road that were being grown for a government biodiesel project.
“Miss, sorry if rude, are you married?”
“No.”
“But miss, you are very beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
“I am married.”
“Good.”
“I got married when I was 19.”
“You have only one wife?”
“Oooh yes! With one, enough problems. If two, I think I have to sleep horse cart!”
His laughter sounded almost like choking, as he constantly was chewing betel quids and in his complete laughter he needed to make sure the red liquid didn’t fly out of his mouth. As we approached Old Bagan, he asked me if I could lend him 200 kyat – USD 0.15. I said ok, and asked what for – “Lottery.” I laughed and said we would share if he won. He picked 2 and 5, making sure I was ok with his selection. I nodded and we rode on.
When we got to Taibyunnin, he consulted other horse carts and found that the winning numbers were 0 and 7. “Sorry miss, next time!” Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle. Two girls ran out to me with postcards to sell. I refused, and they asked me if they could walk with me. I said of course, but I wasn’t going to give them any money. They shook their hands vigorously and said, “No, miss, no money!” and grinned. They spoke excellent English and we were able to have quite a good conversation. Dii Dii and Ni Lah were both 8 years old and lived nearby; everyday afterschool they came to sell postcards to tourists. We entered Taibyunnin and walked very quickly through the halls, and my brilliant guides told me, “Small Buddha, small Buddha, Big Buddha.” Repeat. There was one particularly jolly Buddha, probably about 8 or 9 meters high, and Dii Dii turned to me with a grin that made her eyes disappear and said, “Same same you.”
We finished walking around the temple and we sat outside, and I made them cranes. They said that they wanted to come with me around the temples. I said it was ok with me but they had to ask Kyaw Kyaw. They yelled with delight and ran barefoot to where Kyaw Kyaw was taking a nap, and woke him up, jumping on him. He agreed immediately and all of a sudden what had been a spacious, quiet horse cart pulling me along became a loud, crowded vehicle with 4 kids piled on top of me. As we plodded along, Kyaw Kyaw turned to the kids and held out his palm, saying “You, 1000. You, 1000. Each pay 1000.” This made all the kids giggle and shake both hands back and forth, arguing “Noooo!”
The kids pretended that we were a happy family, Kyaw Kyaw was father, I was mother, and they were brother, sister, brother, baby. They taught me “Shideh”; Burmese for “I already have” – so I could say this to their peers who would try and sell me postcards. We visited several sites together, including a large pagoda on the bank of the river, and after a few hours, they returned to Taibyunnin because they were expected to come home having sold some postcards.
After visiting Dhammangyi Pahto, the largest of the temples at Bagan, which resembles a Mayan ruin, I asked Kyaw Kyaw to take me to Shwe San Daw Paya, which is listed in every guidebook as being the best place for sunset. It was the most horrible vision of tourism I had seen thus far in Myanmar; large tour buses crammed with German and Italian tourists blocked the entranceway, postcard vendors followed people around with aggressive tones in their voices, and the serenity of the other temples was replaced with noise and chaos. I decided to check out the view nonetheless, and managed to reach the base of the pagoda with minimal struggle. I looked up, and found that of the five tiers of the pagoda, the top 2 were already filled with people that looked like part of a jigsaw puzzle, and the people on the third were already starting to resemble sardines. There was still at least an hour before sunset. I decided to go all the way to the top anyway, because I was alone and thought I might be able to find a space anyway. The vertical steps with barely enough room to place a foot on were decidedly scary, and the metal handrail was gripped tightly by many people. I did make it to the top, and found a space, but after a few minutes of being pushed around by other tourists and listening to a cacophony of loud European languages, and realizing that the sunset wasn’t going to be spectacular due to nearly complete cloud cover, I descended and ran to Kyaw Kyaw who was surprised to see me so early, since I had been talking about sunset all day. I told him too many people, he laughed his throaty chuckle, and we went back to Nyaung U. I was at the point of sheer exhaustion and decided to take a nap before going out to dinner; I didn't wake up again that night
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