Myanmar Chapt. 12 : Overcoming Adversity in Bagan

The Travel Gods do not always smile upon us, nor does the sun always shine, nor do the best-laid plans come to fruition. So it goes, tra-la-la. Every journey is going to have that day when things just fall apart. Today was that day. But first, we had to get from Meiktila to Bagan.

The vomit van picked us up at the hotel, a luxury afforded by being able to afford it. Sure, we spent about two dollars more than the locals, but we saved schlepping ourselves and backpacks to the mini-van stop. My One was still getting over a head cold, so I chalked it up to money well spent.

The vomit van was packed, no more, no less, and we the only Farrang aboard. We rolled across the countryside, watching the Myanmar countryside slide by the dirty windows. I let myself be lulled into the thought that there is nothing new to see, much to amusement of the Travel Gods. A funny bunch, those Travel Gods; always willing to liven things up.

“Ah, Bucko, is it new you want? Very well, as you wish, so shall it be…”

When the little van made the obligatory pit stop, the vendors came crowding round. One of the vendors was holding out an enormous platter of fried meaty bits (photo above). When I leaned over for a closer look, I realized that the snacks on offer were bird’s legs. Now, I don’t mean chicken legs, Friends and Neighbors, or even little quail legs. These fried bits looked to be the size and shape of a sparrow drumstick. Which, as it turns out, they were. I cannot swear to you that the scrawny little appendages were sparrow, exactly, but tiny birds they were.

I know you are asking yourselves the question, so I will cut to the chase. There is very little in the realm of street food that I have not tried, including wok-roasted spiders in Cambodia. I have to report, however, that these pathetic bird bits joined Balut, the Cambodian duck embryos, as a taste treat I had to take a pass on.

Oh, and if you doubt the spider-munching story, here is the video:

Tasty Cambodian Spider Treats

But we are rolling into Bagan, so it is time for things going wrong. To be more accurate, we are rolling into Nyaung U. There are three towns that make up the Bagan region, a wide flat landscape punctuated by thousands of pagodas, large and small. Nyaung U is a smallish town northeast of the old temple city of Bagan. This bustling burg is the headquarters for most independent travelers (read backpackers). Old Bagan became a tourist ghetto back around 1970, when the ruling junta booted all the locals out of the old city. A new village was established creatively called New Bagan. Old Bagan is dotted with high-brow and expensive resort-type hotels, where the well-heeled can stagger out of their digs and directly into the temple sites. New Bagan is, well, new Bagan, and the temporary home for most of the tour-bus type folks. Now you know enough to go on.

Still rolling into Nyaung U, and thanks to our friendly driver, we rolled right up to the doors of what was supposed to be our guesthouse. There were a a van-load of local folks checking into the place. The scruffy guy at the desk told us that we were at the wrong location, the other guesthouse was five minutes up the street.

Sketchy and doubtful, very doubtful, but it has happened before. We loaded back into the van and headed for the “Number Two” guesthouse. You guessed it, no guesthouse, at least not one with the correct name. We let the vomit-van go, as it was pointless to hold up all the other passengers. I marched back to the place, got the same answer, with more detailed evasions. One more loop on foot proved that the “Number Two” was a chimera. I finally cornered the owner, who admitted that he only rented to locals. This translated loosely into “I only rent to locals right now because there is a huge pilgrimage going on, and the whole town is booked solid.”

So, the situation is this: Our reservation be damned, the locals are in, we are out, and the town is booked solid. Step one: Find a café with WiFi. Step two: Get my still-sick Sweetie a nice, cool drink. Step three: Try to get a last minute deal online. And… the town really is slammed, unless a body wants to fork over $100+ per night. This is where it gets fun. I set out on foot, leaving My Heart to guard the backpacks. It’s hot, sultry, and I’m sweating bullets. I walk a long ways, about a four kilometer loop, and I have bupkis to show for it. The Travel Gods must have gotten their jollies, because at the last place, they  finally relent. I find a modest little guesthouse devoted to Myanmar folks, a friendly, sympathetic host, and one last room.

There was no guarantee of a room the next night, but they would see what they could do. And of course it all worked out in the end. The next night they moved us to a more expensive room, which was still dirt cheap. There was a rooftop terrace for cigar-smoking, and the breakfast was great. we met some cool local folks, got to see the pilgrimage scene, and we managed to persevere without freaking out; close, but no freak-out.

Settled and showered, with evening upon us, it was time for walkabout and dinner. Nyaung U abuts the mighty Ayeyarwady river. A long, tree-covered hill separates the center of the town from the muddy river. A late-season monsoon had hit the town just before we arrived, so everything was wet and steaming. The gloaming of the day brought out everything that is beautiful about the town. It was practically glowing.

The gloaming of the day, when shadows grow long, and the oven-hot day cools to merely sultry. We met a Korean traveler in Yangon. He told us to avoid Bagan because it was the hottest place in Myanmar. His assertion is actually backed up by the annual weather patterns.

We found a night market that was clustered around the ruins of a pagoda complex. It was a maze of covered sandy walkways past brightly lit vendor stalls. Where there are vendors, there is food, because eating and shopping are a tag-team event in SE Asia.

The maze of the night market led us to dinner and dinner led us to…

The crazy little amusement park that followed. Amusement park would be a stretch, even here. The attractions consisted of a hand-powered carousel, a giant bouncy castle, and a huge swing ride. If anyone was underwhelmed, they failed to show it. Kids were throwing themselves at the bouncy castle with wild abandon. Littler kids were riding the carousel, all the while squealing as if it were the best ride in the world. Teenagers climbed on and off the giant swing, while the operators used their body weight to assist the tiny power plant.

It did not matter that the carousel hand-spun by a guy smoking a cheroot. The kids didn’t care that the bouncy castle was leaning hard to one side and barely staying inflated. And the folks on the big swing were throwing themselves at it for all they were worth, as if trying to send the rickety thing into orbit. Everyone was having a gas with what there was. It was magical.

Here is a link to my YouTube video of the hand-powered carousel.

Hand Powered Carousel — Bagan

Here is a link to my YouTube video of the squealing kids on the carousel. If this one doesn’t warm your heart, well: Jack, you dead.

Pure Joy Carousel — Bagan

And, last but not least, the teenagers rocking the Big Swing:

Lo-Tech Amusement — Bagan

The Travel Gods had their way with us today, and yet everything came good in the end. Better than good, because our world got a little bigger. That’s a blessing, and I will take all the blessing I can get.

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