April 8th, 2013
The temples of Bagan are spread over a large swath of land
covering over one hundred square kilometers. The tourists abuzz about Bagan’s temples
can opt for lodging in either Old Bagan, New Bagan, or Nyaung Oo. I opted for
the less expensive, but ever so out of the way Nyaung Oo.
Having arrived by bus in the middle of the night, a few hours
rest in the room provided a both physical rest and a psychological break. I
recognized my second awakening as the beginning of a new day. It was nice to be
up early, but by the looks of things I had already missed the start of the day
for the locals. By 7:30 a.m. evidence of the passage of time was everywhere.
The tea shop tables were covered in dirty cups and platters, trash was strewn
about the inactive sections of the market , and few shops remained closed.
I was sharing the room with an Italian fellow named Marcio.
We both reawakened at the same time, and were both saddened to have missed
prime people watching time in the tea shops. We grabbed a simple breakfast. I had a noodle soup and milk tea, while Marcio
preferred the instant coffee and donuts. We talked about our prospective plans
for the day. They were similar in nature, but the time-tables were different.
We had both allotted a couple of days to Bagan, and did not
plan on seeing all the temples on the first day. We independently arrived with
the plan to get a feel for things on the first day, and engage in militant
tourism the next. However, Marcio wanted to first find an internet cafe and
talk to his girlfriend before she went to bed, and I wanted to ride a bike
before the heat came. We parted ways happily, and made allusions to the
possibility of grabbing lunch or dinner later in the day, if that is what
happened to work out. These are the kinds of people I like to travel with,
gregarious yet independent. It takes a bit of effort to stick to your plan, but
learning how to do it gracefully is a skill I’ve applied countless times in
life, much to satisfaction of everyone involved.
I rented a bike, looked at a map, and planned a general
route. Before heading to the temples, I took some time to check out Nyaung Oo and
found that I quite liked the town. There were numerous hotels and guesthouses,
but the town had sacrificed very little in the way of authenticity. Most of the
people in the streets were Burmese, as were most of the diners in its numerous restaurants.
As with most tourist towns, the eateries were defacto segregated. Tourists tended
to eat in more upscale restaurants which claim to serve local food. The locals
eat in places that actually serve local food. It was still a town with a predominantly
local presence, who tended to operate in the background as much as possible.
The market had its genuine appeals too, but it was often plagued by the outlandish locust of pricey tour groups. These swarms are generally conducted by a local born man who was the first of his countrymen to become fluent in English, German, and French. In honor of his considerable achievement, he is awarded a tan vest that had the phrase ‘Tour Guide’ sewn on the back in block red lettering. Trailing him would be a cloud of cybernetic tourists from the future. Humans mated to unnecessarily large cameras whirl through the market emitting a collective clicking sound that can be heard a mile away. Any semblance of an authentic cultural ambiance is momentarily obliterated.
It is a transient occurrence, but they too are part of the
show. I often take pictures of the people taking pictures. Not to be mean, for
out of habit I try and exercise discretion, but simply because these scenes are
a carnival unto themselves. There is a cultural significance to tour group
behavior that, if thought about dispassionately, is very interesting in its own
right. In many respects, they are doing the same thing I am, but in a different
way. On a positive note, the tour groups seem to smile often, and they
certainly bring more tourist dollars to the country. However, they may also
justify fears that being photographed steals your soul.
By 9 a.m. most market shops were beginning to shut up for
the day. I rode down to the riverbank a few kilometers outside of town. There
were countless signs in English pointing the way to the ferry, and advertising
sunset cruises. A few rustic eateries lined the shore, and my arrival activated
the customary song of the tourist town proprietor.
“Hello, my friend, you want some cold drink? Food? Beer?”
they cried.
“No thank you” I successively informed them.
I rode back to town taking the earthen side roads. I was
surprised to find an genuine Burmese housing situation in the background of a
major tourist town. The lanes were dirt, the houses were wooden, and small
fires smoldered in random places. The kids played in the streets as they do
everywhere in Myanmar, except for here they are far less gleeful when a
foreigner came around. Unlike everywhere else I had been, some asked for money.
Returning to the pavement in Nyaung Oo, I made my way
towards Old Bagan. Ahead of me was a bone straight two lane road in good
condition and well-manicured. Five minutes out of town temples began appearing
to my left, and I recollected the map which indicated that the majority of
temples lay in that direction. On the right was a lengthy row of restaurants
catering to the western pallet, perhaps twenty in all. I was certain they all
shared precisely the same menu, though I never did find out.
I soon passed an impressive building hiding behind a large
iron gate on my right hand side. The exterior was ornate; palatial in the style
of traditional Myanmar and three stories tall. I saw a sign indicating that it
was the official museum of Bagan and decided to take a look. The gardens inside
exceeded the grandeur of the façade. Several fountains and a thoughtful arrangement
colorful flower pots wove a circular walking path, paved in brick. Several gardeners
were tending to the various plants. It was mostly locals who flitted in and out
of the museums entrance, which for some reason made me happy on several
different levels.
I parked my bike and was given a locker for my bag. I passed
through the metal detector and into the main hall. Save for a few nice looking
but historically irrelevant modern statues and some fancy furniture, the three
story high main hall was devoid of artifacts of any kind. The grandiose
exterior accentuated the vacuous feel of the essentially empty main hall that comprised
the majority of the museum. What a splendid parody for despotic governments, I
thought.
The exhibits were in rooms off the giant hall. The first few
I entered displayed gargantuan dioramas of ancient Bagan. It did give me some
idea of proportion and scale, but the craftsmanship was something I felt even I
could have had a hand in making. In fact, I wish I could have participated as I
imagined that it must have been a very fun project.
Half of the second floor was dedicated to a hundred or so
nearly identical stone statues of Buddha. The other half was a comparatively interesting
collection of weapons, clothing, and curios. As most signs were not duplicated
in English, I amused by playing amateur archeologist. I assigned considerable
import to the objects I fancied most; usually the swords and clothing I wished
to possess. The entire third floor was closed off and there was no sign
explaining why. My spirits, were crushed.
I enjoyed my hour or so in the museum. For the traveller
with a schedule to keep to, the museum would most certainly be deemed “not worth
it”. For the vagabond, however, this particular museum would be well worth a
trip, if for no other reason than to understand why and to what extent the
museum is unworthy. The official museum in Bagan is spectacularly crappy, but I
have seen worse. I know people whose living rooms outshine the worst of the
museums I have been to. However, each lousy museum has been entertaining in its
own way, and this one had air-conditioning!
I left with a smile, happy to have an addition to my
cherished list of hilariously bad museums. I continued on, and reached Old
Bagan with little effort. Seven kilometers sounds like a long way, but it
hardly takes 20 minutes to ride a bike that far. Not wanting to see too many
temples on the first day, I pointed my bike in the direction of the largest
temple I could see and rode towards it.
Turning off the pavement, I headed down the entryway to a
large and discernibly ancient temple built of matte brown blocks. Surrounding
the exterior wall were stands selling t-shirts, refreshments, and post cards.
It was past mid-day, and there were few if any other tourists present. Most of
the souvenir stands were unmanned. I parked the bike and was immediately
offered post-cards, trinkets, and t-shirts by individual hawkers standing at
the entrance. The pressure to make a sale wasn’t excessive by any means, but
two people followed my into the temple. One was selling post cards, and the
other began the opening sequence: “where you from, my friend” etc.
I was in no hurry, and could have tried, against all vanity,
to make a genuine encounter. Instead, I answered her questions more or less by
rote. There is a culturally constructed compulsion to respond to basic niceties
of conversation, even when it is obvious that the soul’s involved not wish to
converse. When there is no virtue in the exchange of words, the body knows it.
While traveling, I’ve applied numerous strategies to these
everyday encounters. The first lesson I learned is never be angry. As Buddha supposedly
said “Being angry is like drinking poison and expecting someone else to die”. I’ve
felt the effect of harboring negative thoughts while traveling. It didn’t take
long to realize that I was the one at fault; they were my thoughts! The second
lesson I learned is to be direct, but sympathetic. Don’t ever be rude or
negative in any way; both inwardly and outwardly. Third, I’ve learned to drop
the fear embarrassment or awkwardness. I’m continually astonished that honest
action is never embarrassing or awkward.
My current strategy for extricating myself from unnecessary
banter is elegant in its simplicity. It was genuine from the first time I field
tested it. Sadly it took me years of travel to figure it out, but it worked
flawlessly on a person who was certain that he could get me to need something.
Gazing earnestly at the person, with a broad smile and warm gesticulations, I
said something approximating “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m thinking about
something very important and can’t talk right now. Thank you, but I’m alright
by myself. I really must be going my own way now. Thank you for your time” and
graciously lead them to their exit. I’ve had to repeat myself on occasion. Once,
this reveal has led to a genuine but brief conversation. This time, however, I
forgot it was within my right to say such a thing.
The price of postcards fell precipitously with successive
refusals, and her companion automatically began a guided tour, telling me relevant
information about the temple and even conducting me into the adjacent room. I
was impressed with both her knowledge and command of English. I had
considerable regard for the fact that she was willing and able to provide a
service, even if it was unsolicited. However, I came out of my stupor and
delivered my honest message. I complemented her English, and wished her luck
that one day she could become a guide. “Thank you. I hope so.” she said.
I ambled back to town on a road which paralleled the one on
which I came. In between the two lanes I saw the variety of Bagan’s temples.
There seemed to be a natural ratio of large and restored ones to tiny ones in total
disrepair. There were a handful of large and impressive temples, a couple dozen
of respectable size and restoration, but the majority appeared not very ancient
yet nevertheless were crumbling.
I made it back to town before sunset, and contemplated
riding back to The Temple Everyone Goes To For Sunset, but gave it a pass. A
short while later I saw Marcio having more coffee and donuts in a tea shop and
joined him. He was happy to see me, as I was he. We exchanged notes on the day,
and both concluded that although it sounded like a large area, with an active
day of peddling Bagan could be canvased within a day. He had ridden farther
than I had, all the way to New Bagan, but hadn’t check out many temples either.
Day turned into night, and talk of dinner came up. We decided to make an effort
to find a proper hole-in-the-wall; to make our own luck at finding an authentic
place to eat. He too felt that Nyaung Oo had its charms.
After a few minutes of peddling, we spotted an establishment
that looked promising. It was full of Burmese and each table seemed to be
sharing several small dishes. I had seen this before but had neither figured it
our nor had been able to try it. We walked through the open façade into a periwinkle
dining area. There were five or so wooden tables inside, and a few plastic ones
outside. Our presence stole the attention of most patrons for a moment. We
nodded hello and made rapid assessments of the food displayed on their tables.
We found some empty seats and our table was tidied up by the
matriarch, who uttered a few happy words of Burmese to us. One of her shy
descendants came over and handed us a menu in English. They seemed to have only
the one. It was filthy, but functional. Still, it left us a bit in the dark.
Would I prefer a Pennywort salad, or a Lemon-nut salad? There was only one way
to find out.
We pointed to some things on the tables near us, ordered a
couple of salads, and some beef. The salads were excellent, and went well with
the rice. The orders of beef were by the piece. Their outstanding quality was a
welcome surprise to both Marcio and I. The beef seemed to me like tougher cut
of beef, perhaps shoulder, brisket, or ‘London Broil’. However, it was clearly
roasted for hours, which made it succulent and tender. It was then pan fried
when ordered. The beef came as a cube, crispy, black, and flavorful on the
outside. With the touch of a fork, it cleaved into slabs and strands of
slightly rouge meat, moistened and warmed by the recent frying.
Glassy eyed with gluttony, we ordered piece after piece
until we were humbly warned about the price. Each piece was 500 Kyats or about
65 cents. The meat was as good as I’ve had in high end restaurants, but when it
cost’s as much as an entire noodle soup, you’re right to warn your gluttonous
foreign patrons. I, for one, was moved by her words of caution. We were looking
fairly raggedy, and for some backpackers (usually the one’s having the best
trips, I’ve noticed throughout the years) 65 cents per piece adds up. Her
facial expression was mind bogglingly universal and genuine; it told a story
beyond the words. With a smile caused by restrained laughter, exigent nods of
the head, and wide eyes the short statement “500 Kyats” was extended to a more
familiar dialogue: “You know this stuff is 500 Kyats a piece right...? Just
making sure, ha-ha”.
Indeed, we did laugh at ourselves out loud. It was true, we
were spending more than we intended, and were stuffing ourselves merrily with
comparatively pricy food. If for no other reason than to fit in, it felt right
to laugh at our gaffe, and put an end to our extravagant ordering. I was happy
to be on common ground with fellow human beings.
The following morning, up at 5 A.M., I joined Marcio for his
sunrise mission. He had picked out a decent temple from which to watch the sun
come up, and I trusted his judgment. We breakfasted in a busy tea-shop for a
half hour or so before we began our biking. He led me to one of the smaller
temples, and showed me how they worked. With our headlamps on, we climbed
inside and found a narrow stairway. Winding our way to the roof, we had a view
over a considerable swath of the plain, and were in close proximity to one of the
larger temples. As daylight came, we saw other tourist perched atop the nearby
smaller temples. Eventually we were joined by an older Frenchman who’s horse
cart driver had recommended this temple for sunrise.
Soon after, the balloons took flight. Hot air balloons are a
popular way to see the temples, which makes sense. The temples are spread over
a large an area and I would imagine are more magnificent seen from the air. The
balloons themselves were majestic. I had never seen one in action before, let alone
a dozen. They took off sequentially and flew at different heights; some just
meters above the temple tops. It was impressed at how well they maneuver with
respect to changes in height.
Sun beams shot across the parched land, skewed by the
curvature of Earth. This stretched the colors of the monotone landscape into
more pleasing and distinct spectrums. Uniform brown glowed amber and yellow. Scant
evergreens shined emerald in places. As fantastic as the light show was, I
couldn’t helping thinking about Mandalay’s enchanting bus station, the hills of
Namshan, the pagoda of Mingo-Ngo, the
tea shops of Katha, and my breathtaking $9 cruise. Bagan held a claim to fame,
but I just didn’t see it. Was I becoming a jaded traveller or was I simply
seeing things as they are? I was by no means disliking Bagan, but I didn’t seem
any better or worse than most of the places I’d been.
I went to take my very first picture of Bagan only to
realize that I had forgotten the memory card for the camera. I would leave Bagan
the following afternoon without having taken a single photo. The memories were
there and, if necessary, I could always look up spectacular photos of the
wonderful temples. Bagan wasn’t of any particular importance to my trip. All
the small interactions I had with people far outweighed the importance of
inanimate and irrelevant ancient temples. The temples can inspire awesome
wonder, and there is merit to that. But, ever increasingly for me, the ‘Must
See’s’ of a place are generally the places to avoid. Rather, there is a
paradox. Once a place becomes a Must See, considerable authenticity is lost.
The qualities that make a place a Must See are lost in an instant. What one
comes to see is no longer there by virtue of the fact that too many people have
proclaimed it to be a Must See. The essence that made it special often, but not
always, gets killed. So it goes.
After sunrise, I bade Marcio farewell. He was to be on a bus
at noon. I took a look at most of the temples. I enjoyed myself, the temples,
and bike riding. My last bus ride in Myanmar was scheduled for the following
day. I would leave Bagan around 7pm and arrive in Yangon around 9am. I had a
flight the same day for Kuala Lumpur at 5PM. The trip was at an end, and the
timing seemed right. I had one a full day to reflect on it, and many more days
to look forward to.