Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, people… Yes, time is an inexorable force, and now we must go. Must we? Yes, Traveler, you must. The long haul was upon us: Mandalay to Yangon, an overnight in Yangon, then a late evening flight to Bangkok. There would be no reprieve in the Big Mango, no precious extra few days to hang out in the food stalls of Chinatown. Get Thee hence; back to the cold, grey stone of Northern Europe.

And for the first leg of Paying the Piper, so it went. The only hitch was my bad choice of Tuk-tuk pilots, an addled young guy who really didn’t know where he was going. We got to the bus station, but not without a bit of tension. The Mandalay-Yangon VIP bus really was a deluxe coach, complete with treats and drinks. Nine hours of sun-drenched countryside later, we were crawling through the rush-hour clogged streets on the north side of Yangon.

A jitney cab got us to our hotel, another slog through more snarled traffic. The center of Old Yangon may not have huge traffic, but the outskirts make up for that in a big way. We arrived at our hotel, a posh and modern little tower in a quiet and unlit neighborhood. Compared to our last Yangon digs, we were out in the sticks. Finding a curry place proved to be a bit of a walk and frustration, added to by the fatigue of a long bus ride. We finally found a local joint, and were waited on by a couple of twelve-year-olds trying to act like adults. I am reasonably sure no Farrang had set foot in this joint in a very, very long time.

The day dawned hot and bright; our last in Yangon, our last in Myanmar. Our flight time was around seven PM, so we had the whole day to kill. There was a lovely walkabout, a pagoda (of course) and a quiet lake with shady tea-shops. The morning rolled to afternoon, and the demands of travel reared their heads.

An evening departure is great for the outgoing flight, but a bit more challenging for a return. Imagine you are a good traveler in a hot SE Asian city. The flight leaves at eight PM. Even with the latest check-out possible, there are hours to kill, and those encumbered with baggage. One arrives at the airport a sweaty mess, then climbs into the silver tubes for twenty hours or so. Such are the travails of an evening departure. Faced with a very late fights, it is often easier to just book the guesthouse for another night, take a last-minute shower, and arrive for the ordeal fresh as a lotus.

And then the limbo beings, the long stretches of waiting, queuing, boarding, waiting, flying, deplaning, and repeat. It starts at Yangon International with the comically stern immigration folks, then the interminable baggage line. We wish to be out of the lines, which only gives us more time to wander the weirdness of the airport waiting area, amongst the wasteland of duty-free shops and strange snack-bars.

A savvy traveler can pick up some bargains at the duty-free. I found MacArthur’s whisky, the very same as peddled by our cute plaid girl at the BBQ joint, and only nine bucks the bottle. While I am sure that this is a mighty-fine libation that would impress the hell out of my Cigar-and-Scotch friends, I had to let this bargain pass. (Scott, My Brother,  if you are reading this, I can feel your shudder of disgust!)

The plane lands at Bangkok and I can feel the pull of the Big Mango. This is torture, to stop in Bangkok for a few hours, never to leave the airport. My One and I mope about the cavernous concourses, talking wistfully of the food orgy that we are missing out on. Just two days, a day, is that too much to ask?

We have a few hour layover at Suvarnabhumi Airport, plenty of time to contemplate the Myanmar adventure. Far better we should talk of that, of what memories we carry away with us. After all, no one really wants to read about the tortures of twenty hours in the aluminum tube.

The Traveler’s Wrap:

Burma is Myanmar, and Myanmar is not Thailand. I did not have any clear expectations of Myanmar, which is always a good starting point. If you have never been to Southeast Asia, everything will come as a surprise, and lucky you are. If you are familiar with Thailand, Myanmar may actually be a bigger surprise. I believe that Myanmar draws as much cultural influence from the Subcontinent as it does from its neighbors to the East. During our time here, I often found myself feeling I was in Sri Lanka, wait, no, Kerala, or… perhaps Mae Hong Song. And yet Myanmar remains its own land, unique and yet somehow familiar.

Burma is Myanmar, and Myanmar is not homogeneous. This country that was once Burma, a country overlaid with many, many ancient peoples and kingdoms, is still a land of many cultures. The Bamar, or Burmese-speaking people, are the majority, but they make up only about 68% of the overall population. There are Shan, Kayin, Rakhine, Mon, Karen, and many more ethnic and tribal peoples, many with their own dialects or separate languages. This diversity is a source of both strength and weakness in Myanmar society. The diverse mix of peoples and customs make Myanmar society richer, but have also led to problems and violence, both in the past and present. The plight of the Rohingya people, in particular, continues to be a significant human rights issue, and a black eye for the current government of Myanmar.

Burma is Myanmar, and Myanmar is a land of that offers a wide variety of cuisine. From a bowl of mohinga, the standard fish curry soup breakfast, to an evening curry cooked “until-the-oil-comes,” there are many culinary surprises to be sampled. Regional specialties such as Shan Noodles have become standard fare here. A first-time traveler to Myanmar will experience dishes for which he or she has no prior reference. The bean-paste concoctions of Mandalay are a good example of this. I have never had anything quite like them, neither in the rest of Southeast Asia, nor in the Subcontinent.

Myanmar offers many surprises for the traveler willing to veer from the Tourist Trail. While Myanmar’s travel industry is relatively young, the guidebooks have succeeded in laying out established routes. The well known destinations of Inle Lake, Bagan, Bago, or Shwedagon Pagoda, are all worthwhile sights. We enjoyed each of them. Yet veer only a little from the established routes, and Myanmar will surprise and delight. Our accidental side trip to Meiktila, for example, provided a fine view into local culture. Any country is more than the sum of its most famous attractions, and Myanmar is no different in that regard. Mixing with the local folks, sampling the local dishes, watching the progress of daily life from a shady perch in a tea-shop, these are all part and parcel of learning a new country.

The airport hours passed, along with the waiting and queuing. The silver tube lifted off from Bangkok, and we settled in for the long flight. The Piper must be paid, and pay we did. Read, sleep, talk, eat, watch movies on the tiny screen; the time passes. The cabin goes quiet and dark, and the silver tube flies through the night.

The cabin stirs slowly to life, the flight attendants move about, and the breakfast carts begin to bash the elbows of those still sleeping. We stretch and yawn. The window shades are raised and passengers blink against the invasion of light like so many moles. Another airport, another wait for baggage, and the sigh of relief as both bags appear. Passports are stamped and we are back in Vienna, back in the efficient gleam and glare of the First World.

The train that takes us home is clean and comfortable. The windows are sealed against the outside world. There will be no slow clattering, no clouds of insects invading the coach. I already miss the clouds of bugs. The train takes us to Meidling, and the escalator to the U-Bahn. Then we are walking, wincing at the cold.

Another trip has run its course, and another land added to the wondrous memories I carry with me until the next journey. Thank you for joining me on this adventure. I hope you enjoyed it. Until next time: Travel well, travel often, be well, and be kind.

Thanks for your interest in my travel blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here,  please tell another reader. Word of mouth is the most precious gift an Indie Author can receive. 

How about a free short story? My short story “Reindeer to the Rescue: A Christmas Tale” has recently been featured at MEF. You can check it out here:

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The sun beats down on the wide-flung grid of streets. We are bound for Mandalay Hill, the geographic feature from which the city took its name. It is a long walk, so we are aboard a Tuk-tuk,  whizzing past the endless moats that surround the Mya Nan San Kyaw, the last palace. This was the seat of the Burmese king from 1859 until Burma fell to the British colonizers in 1887. Times got a lot harder for the palace after that, of which more later.

But we are not here for the palace. A pox on palaces! We are on our way to climb Mandalay Hill, to make merit, to grab the Oh-So-Important Mandalay sunset photo. Therein lies the two reasons to walk up the hill.

Most local folk who climb the hill do so to make merit. One climbs barefoot to the top of this 240 meter hill, stopping along the way to pay respect to the many Buddha statues along the stairs. Walking barefoot up a great many unevenly spaced stairs whilst dodging the occasional offering left by the temple dogs does require a certain heightened awareness. Think of making merit as acquiring karma through good acts, not unlike counting out Hail Marys on a rosary.

Tourists flock to the top of the hill for the panoramic view. At the very tippy-top of the hill are the wide terraces that surround the Sutaungpyei Pagoda. Mandalay is spread out far and wide below the hilltop, and the summit has become THE spot for a sunset photo. In my ignorance, I thought the steep climb would keep the number of tourists to a minimum; ignorance being the operative word.

So, where were we? Sorry, we were whizzing along the sun-baked streets of Mandalay in our trusty Tuk-tuk. A long, hot block from our hotel is an odd tower, a gangling bolted-up metal thing that juts above the shop-houses. Of course I had to inquire. It turns out that the structure is a fire watch for the main fire department. During the time we spent in Mandalay, I walked by the fire station many times. The men at the station took to laughing and waving. I suppose they thought some poor village in the USA was missing an idiot.

Before we could whizz by the palace, we had to whizz past the market. There is always a market. To answer the oft-asked question: Yes, the meaty bits sit out in the heat. And yes, the locals eat the meaty bits that have been sitting out in the heat, as do we when we go to the BBQ joint. And, yes again, most everyone seems to survive. My only advice is this: At a certain point it is best not to know.

There are a great many places in the world that are not so obsessed with refrigeration. Take eggs, for example. Tall stacks of eggs are a common sight in any Southeast Asia market; great honking stacks devoid of any mechanical cooling. Shocked Western visitors stop to photograph the deadly food peril. And yet I remember open trays of eggs sitting atop the counter of my local store. My Grandmothers would devil the eggs by the dozen, making huge trays of the things. Rafts of deviled-eggs would sit outside for hours amongst the jello-molds and pigs-in-blanket; all of it washed in the mid-summer Kansas City heat.

Somehow we kids all survived, including myself, and now I am whizzing across Mandalay in a Tuk-tuk…

We finally arrived at the foot of the Mandalay Hill, paid the Tuk-tuk driver, and dodged the local shills who offered to guide us up the hill. The process is simple: remove your shoes and socks and start climbing. The main route to the top of the hill is the southern stairway. The stairways are covered to protect pilgrims from the sun. While the stairways are indeed shaded, they are also hot as hell. Any merit acquired during the climb will be well-earned.

We climbed, we dodged doggie landmines, and we climbed some more. There were local folks going up, local folk coming down, and a lot of monks sitting here and there. There were a very few Farrang sweating their way up the long stairways. In fact, there were only a very few Farrang in Mandalay, or at least that was my impression. They certainly were not out walking around the streets. But they must be here somewhere?

There are small monasteries, satellite temples, and large pagodas scattered all over the hillside. The stairway runs back and forth between them, and always there is another incarnation of the Buddha. This particular Buddha was urging us on, pointing the way to the top of the hill.

The steep stairway climbs to a plaza, an open temple area, another small pagoda. The legs say “This is it!” The brain knows that it is a lie. And then there is the sign, put there for the benefit of the Farrang: You ain’t there yet, Bubba. There is a lot more merit to make before you see the summit.

And… the joke got stale about two signs below. But wait, the punch line is still to come.

Then we are at the top, unmistakably the top; the summit, the end of the stairs. I know this to be a fact because I can now see the elevator, and the punch line to the joke.

“Well, gee, Bob, where are all the tourists at? I don’t see hardly none of them on these purty stairs!”

“You’re a fool, Edgar, as Mama always said. Them tourists ride a Tuk-tuk to the top, right up that twisty road yonder. Then they pays a bit and rides up the rest of the way in that there elevator, the one that’s made to look like a pagoda.”

Bob and Edgar are both less fools than I. There was a mere half-hour left in the day, give or take. The door of the elevator opened, disgorged another load of tourists, then hurried back down for more. The terraces surrounding the Sutaungpyei Pagoda were teeming with tourists, both local and foreign. A gentle jostling had already started along the railings as folks positioned themselves for the sunset selfie.

More folks were arriving by the minute. The Sunset Race was on. Pretty quick, they would be packed in tighter than green Mara on the march. 

The name Sutaungpyei translates to “Wish-fulfilling,” more or less. I was wishing for a little elbow room and far fewer people. We fled down a small stairway and found a nearly abandoned terrace perched below the mob scene. This little ledge offered the twin benefits of relative peace and an absence of no smoking signs. The view was not greatly lessened by the loss of three meters in elevation.

I savored the merit I had acquired on the long, sweaty climb. I discovered that my savored merit paired nicely with a local cheroot.

The sun did set over the town, and over the mighty Ayeyarwady to the West. We good pilgrims gave out with the usual sunset exclamations: “Oooooooo… Aaaaaaaaahhh.” All was well in the world, and peace reigned over the land. It was time to head down the stairs.

The ghostly glow of fluorescent lights cast weird shadows down the stairways. The shadows made it more difficult to see the dog poop. Take your awareness with you, Pilgrim! The descent of the stairs was lonely and delightfully spooky. As few people walked down as had climbed up. We finally reached the end of the many stairways without anything squishy between our toes. A few Tuk-tuk guys swarmed us as we donned out shoes, but they were disappointed. We set out on foot into the glow of the evening.

The walls of the former royal palace are two kilometers on a side, and the entire thing is encircled by a wide moat. Broad sidewalks run along the outside of the moat, a rarity in SE Asian cities. By day, these sidewalks are a baking inferno, but at night they become the city’s promenade. Folks in athletic gear do their fitness walking in the relative cool. Young couples canoodle in the dark shadows of banyan trees. Traffic sputters by on the four boulevards that complete the huge square.

The palace looks better by night than by day, and better from the outside any time of day. The walled compound once held the last teak palace of the king, but that was bombed and burned during World War II. During the Battle for Myanmar, this walled fort was a bastion for the Japanese forces, with the British besieging them. The Brits blasted and bombed the huge walls, trying to force a breach, but with little success. Finally, the British decided to invade the fort through the sewers. They did so, only to find that the Japanese had escaped using the very same sewer tunnels. 

We navigated the darkened grid of streets until we accidentally came across the BBQ joint I had been trying to find the night before. Full of acquired merit, and knowing that everything tastes better when served on a skewer,  it was high time to acquire some dinner.

Plates of food appeared, and kept appearing, until our table was a litter of charred skewers and crumpled napkins. When we could finally eat no more, we sat and watched the evening unfold.

The BBQ joint was also a happening little bar, and there was a promotion of a sort going on. A nearby table was festooned with a plaid table cloth and many bottles of the local version of Scots whisky. A pretty young woman was presiding over the display, clad in a plaid longhi and a matching plaid tam o’ shanter. It was an epic collision of cultures. A fifth of this fine whisky was going for about eight bucks the bottle, and that is how the Myanmar men drink it. The bottle is plopped on the table along with the requisite number of glasses. The whisky is accompanied by tepid cola or water, and the gentlemen get down to it.

The festivities were still going strong when we rose to take our leave. Our small army of cheerful servers wished us well into the night. With our bellies full, and whatever merit we had left, we made our way home. Mandalay may lack the immediate picture post card appeal of other Asian cities, but given time, this city can work its way into a traveler’s heart. So it had been today.

Thanks for your interest in my travel blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here,  please tell another reader. Word of mouth is the most precious gift an Indie Author can receive. 

How about a free short story? My short story “Reindeer to the Rescue: A Christmas Tale” has recently been featured at MEF. You can check it out here:

“Reindeer to the Rescue: A Christmas Tale” live at MEF!

Or perhaps one of my novels? All of the information is here at my website. You can check out books, blog posts, book reviews, or even get a free book. Just look for the big button that says “FREE BOOK.” It’s kind of hard to miss. Happy reading!!

Here we are in Bagan, Myanmar, were it is hot and sunny and wonderful… and then the fabric of the false-time narrative tears. The reality, unsupported by the shredded net of travel memory, is that I am not basking in heat and sun. I am in the cold and grey of Vienna, and a virus is running amok in my head and lungs. When I came to this morning, my lungs sounded like a couple of junk-store cheese graters being used in the back chorus of a Tom Wait’s song. So… fair warning; things may become a bit disoriented.

Let’s give it another go: Here we are in Bagan, packed and ready, yet there is no sign of the bus, minivan, or any other form of conveyance. We did out part. We went to the bus guy, forked over the kyat for two tickets aboard the VIP bus, and were assured of a pickup at our hotel. Our friendly desk guy calls the bus company. Nope, they have no Farrang to pick up at the Gold Star. And so Nyaung U ends at it began, in confusion and uncertainty. I trot down the hill to the bus guy’s kiosk while My One guards the bags. Trotting in the tropics produces some sweating (good sweating, not the fever sweats I have right now). Then come the phone calls. Yes Sir, all is well, the bus company is running behind, they will meet you at the guesthouse. So… more trotting, this time uphill, knowing that there will be a pickup waiting when I arrive and, sure enough, there it is.

Of all the phrases bandied about on Southeast Asian travel posters, the term ‘VIP Bus’ is the most fantastically chimerical. Somewhere, in some alternate universe, they must exist; giant, air-conditioned behemoths gliding down smooth highways, whilst sarong-clad beauties serve delicious treats from bamboo trays. People keep buying tickets for VIP buses, so there must be hope, however misplaced and groundless I believe it to be.

I was under no such delusion, therefore I was not disappointed. We rolled into the shabby bus park and boarded the typical Chinese half-bus. Our assigned seats were the worst of the lot: back row, behind the rear axle. This is the seating zone where the basic laws of physics multiply every road dip and bump to the magnitude of amusement park rides you never liked in the first place.

But who cares? We are on the road to Mandalay. How romantic is that? Those were the very words of Rudyard Kipling; the title of his poem. It is also the title of a few films, a few songs, and probably two hundred blog posts. Oops, there is the fever again… focus… focus… where are my drugs?

The bus ride was five hours along the East bank of the Ayeyarwady River valley, heading north along the hot bottom lands. Not far out of Nyaung U was the site of a major attack and river crossing during the 1944 campaign to retake Burma from the Japanese. The British kept the attention of the Japanese focused on diversions directly across the Ayeyarwady at Mandalay. Meanwhile, the Brits snuck an entire army down from the Northwest and crossed the huge river at Nyaung U. That crossing opened the route to the battle of Meiktila, and the eventual encirclement and capture of Mandalay.

Less than an hour out of Nyaung U, we crossed a lowland area along a tributary river. The shoulder of the road was lined with people begging at the line of buses and trucks that lumbered by. Clouds of dust rolled over the poor families with their arms held out, imploring. As best as I could ascertain, these desperate folks were Rohingya people, displaced from the nearby state of Rakihine.

To quote from a UN independent investigator:

Yanghee Lee said in a report to the General Assembly circulated Friday that living conditions for the remaining Rohingya in northern Rakihine State “remain dreadful.”

The Rohingya can’t leave their villages and earn a living, she said, making them dependent on humanitarian aid whose access “has been so heavily diminished that their basic means for survival has been affected.”

Sources: UN Report, AP News, October 4, 2019

Mandalay, so exotic as to be the title of a Kipling poem and the name of a Las Vegas casino. Unlike the casino, there is no ‘Bay’ in the real Mandalay. The wide-flung city sits alongside the banks of the muddy Ayeyarwady River. There are lots of sandbars, and a big, marshy lake, but no bays.

This is the part of the story where I cut exotic notions to shreds. Mandalay is not an exotic, mysterious city. On first inspection, Mandalay may be the most boring Southeast Asian city that I have ever visited. But, as Treebeard says, ‘Let’s not be hasty…”

Okay, yes, the first thing one notices is the giant, orderly grid. Imagine you could magically appear in Bangkok, Phnom Penh, or Saigon; then take three steps in any direction. Guess where you would be? Lost, that’s where. Most SW Asian cities are a labyrinthine maze of tangled lanes bisected by huge, noisy boulevards. They are wonderfully impossible to navigate.

Mandalay, on the other hand, is more like a very hot version of Manhattan. The north-south streets are numbered 1st Street to 49th, and the east-west streets are 50th to 90th. There are no avenues, so you will just have to take it in stride. The other thing that is remarkable about the Mandalay streets is that they are very wide, very straight, and easily walkable. This ain’t Yangon, Bubba.

The explanation for all of this is very simple, and very tragic. During World War II, Mandalay was flattened by aerial bombing, and not just once. The Japanese army was forcing the British to retreat from the length of Burma. The most horrific onslaught on Mandalay came in April of 1942. Japanese planes bombed the city with incendiary bombs, killing thousands of people and burning down tow-thirds of the buildings in the city. As an oft-cited quote states: “A city that had taken a thousand years to build was destroyed in an hour.” It was the worst attack, but far from the only one. The British bombed the city as they pushed south in 1944.

The war ended in 1945, the British recaptured Mandalay, and the rebuilding process was begun. The rubble was cleared away, the charred teak skeletons carted off, and a modern city grid was laid out. British colonial control would last only three years after the end of World War II, but the colonists left their stamp on modern Mandalay.

Any Walkabout in Mandalay is likely to be a long trek. The city blocks are really big, so a perceived jaunt of ten blocks is a substantial walk. So it was that I led My One on a walkabout too far. Mandalay has few Farrang, and those few are mostly contained in the small tourist zone north of the old palace grounds. If you want to experience being ‘The Other,’ take a hike in Mandalay.

There were pagodas, of course. This is Myanmar, after all. But the architectural style was completely different to anything we had seen thus far. We walked until we did not find the silly place I was looking for. It was no more than an excuse, a phony destination to justify a walkabout. My One reminded me that it was long we had walked, long since we had eaten, and time to rectify both.

The gloaming of the day finds us deep on the streets of Mandalay, with the Buddha watching over us, and the Naga watching over the Buddha.

What Mandalay may lack in twisty lanes and confusing streets, it makes up for in a solid and varied food scene. We stumbled onto a Burmese-Chinese joint, over ordered, and settled into a feast starting with dumplings. Who doesn’t love dumplings? Forget the fact that about four more platters of food followed the phalanx of tasty dumplings. Yes, I admit it, I overdid it just a bit.

No matter the town, My One and I will invariably walk to or through the local night market, without any foreknowledge of where it might be. It’s true: Drop us blind-folded into the dark streets of, say, Ubon Ratchathani, and one of us will lead the other directly to the food stalls of the closest night market. So it was this sultry Mandalay night.

Tired, fed, walked-out, it was time for smokes and drinks on the rooftop bar. There were insects of course, and geckos skittering after them. A huge moth landed above our table and would move no further. I believe he was as tired as I was.

In any good traveler tale, the fever sufferer would be laid out in a hammock under a banyan tree. “Quinine, quinine…” a rasping whisper, an outstretched and trembling hand. The truth is, I was as healthy as a horse in Mandalay. I had to come home to Vienna to get really sick. Hooray for Northern Europe and easily-acquired viruses. Hopefully the false-time narrative will be restored, allowing me to acquaint you with the real Mandalay, a city that is not easy to love at first sight. But that will have to be the work of tomorrow’s post. I think I’ve done enough damage for one day.

Thanks for your interest in my travel blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here,  please tell another reader. Word of mouth is the most precious gift an Indie Author can receive. 

How about a free short story? My short story “Reindeer to the Rescue: A Christmas Tale” has recently been featured at MEF. You can check it out here:

“Reindeer to the Rescue: A Christmas Tale” live at MEF!

Or perhaps one of my other novels? All of the information is here at my website. You can check out books, blog posts, book reviews, or even get a free book. Just look for the big button that says “FREE BOOK.” It’s kind of hard to miss. Happy reading!!

The Bagan Archeological Zone is spread out over a mostly flat plain that is over one hundred square kilometers in size. Outside of the ruined walls of Old Bagan, this UNESCO World Heritage Site is far too bit to explore on foot. Thus we found ourselves aboard what the locals call an E-Bike. It is a funny little means of transportation, a melding of E-Bike and scooter. They are for rent all over Nyaung U, costing 10,000 kyat per day. That works out to about $6.50, give or take.

The mission for today: Explore the far-flung temples and pagodas that rise like jagged teeth above the green flatlands. The area south and east of the walled city of Old Bagan is criss-crossed with earthen roads, farm lanes, and goat paths. The morning sky was hot and bright, devoid of the last of the rainy season clouds. We were about to put the little E-Scooter through its paces.

Piloting our electric steed through Farrang-Town, we emerged onto one of the main East-West roads. My goal was to get us out into the open country to the south of Old Bagan. I had a marginally vague idea of where we were going. It did not really matter, as the pagodas rise above the plain wherever one looks. It is simple thing, really. Choose one of the looming pagodas, then steer towards it. Veering off the pavement, we were soon bouncing down a rough earthen road, weaving around the many potholes filled by recent rains. I did the best I could to miss the bumps and spare My One a jostling, all the while getting the feel for my strange little electric moto.

Our first stop was a busy one, a lively temple crowded with local folks. There was an avenue of vendor stalls lining the entrance way, selling everything from snacks to religious icons. It was a festive scene. I find a certain small pleasure in being a traveler amongst local tourists. This is their culture, their pilgrimage, and their holiday. It is a privilege to be allowed into their world, and I enjoy it very much.

In a previous blog post, I mentioned the Gu-style temples. These temples are large squares or rectangles, usually topped with a pagoda spire. What is unique about the Gu-temples is that the interiors are accessible.  Most of the stupas are solid structures built around an inner chamber. This chamber is usually the resting place of sacred relics, such as a few precious hairs of the Buddha. These reliquaries are not open to public viewing. The Gu-style temples, however, offer a unique view of the interior architecture employed by ancient builders.

The temples are blocks, and the inner passages conform to the outer shape. Thus we found ourselves in cool, shadowed passageways, with stone arches high above us in the darkness. Light flows in through open arches from the outside world. Other things flow in as well. Bats often make their homes in the nooks and crannies of the stone ceilings. One can hear their tiny squeaks while exploring the labyrinthine corridors. 

Let your eyes adjust to the dim light, walk slowly, and you will be rewarded with glimpses of what these walls looked like a thousand years ago. There are bits of fresco still adhering to the stone, painted images of the Buddha. Pictographic panels, worn with time and moisture, tell the fragmented tale of the Buddha’s life and teachings.

The temple walls were finished with a coating of limestone stucco. The stucco was then painted in myriad fresco designs. Most of the stucco coating is long gone, eroded away by the ravages of time, weather, earthquakes, and the touch of human hands. Yet fragments remain, transporting the viewer back through the centuries.

The Gu-style temples, like the chedi and pagodas, were built from stone blocks, often overlaid with brick. The brick was used to to build up the shape of the temple walls,  and to fill the spaces between the sections of carved stone façade. The brick was then clad with limestone or sandstone. Most of this cladding has fallen away. It is particularly vulnerable to the many earthquakes that rattle this region. The bits of cladding that remain are stained a dark grey-brown. They still bear the mark of the maker’s hands. The intricate geometric patterns and designs must have been an amazing sight when these temples were gleaming white above the green fields.

A Gu-style temple glowing in the sun in an awesome sight. The stone and brick climbs level upon level, and all of it topped with a crumbling pagoda spire. Multiply that vision by a hundred, two hundred, with temples and pagoda stretching as far as the eye can see. That is the Bagan plain on a brilliantly hot Myanmar morning.

Truth be told, I was having as much fun riding the little moto as I was visiting the ruins. There was a wide swath of coutryside to explore. I gave up on caring where we were, piloting the scooter down smaller and rougher paths. Sliding down one very muddy section, I had to daub a foot to keep us upright. We managed to fishtail through, but not without the reward of one very mud-coated foot. That was worth a good laugh. By the time we got to the next temple, the mud had dried to a gummy cast. Fortunately, there was a pilgrim’s foot washing station, which I took full advantage of.

Bagan is all about seeing temples, yet there are only so many temples that one can see before fatigue sets in. To utter the refrain on touring Thailand: “Here a Wat, there a Wat, everywhere a Wat-Wat.” It is no different in Europe. Medieval cathedrals are incredible structures, yet even the most dedicated traveler can only take in so many cathedrals in one journey. The massive buttresses and glorious stained-glass was meant to awe and humble the poor peons, and that purpose was well-served. I am awed and humbled as well, but when temple overload kicks in, well, it’s good to have another source of fun.

Today, the fun was supplied by the little scooter. With our own transport, regardless of how silly, we were able to wander at will. When we got tired of busy temples, we sought out the smaller pagodas. There are many, many temples that sit alone and unvisited. They are scattered everywhere. Pull off a goat path, park the scooter, and you have your own private ruin. You could sit on the edge of the stone foundation and have a picnic. Or you could take a break, find a shady spot, and smoke a cheroot in peace.

The sun was beating down like a hammer on an anvil when I turned our scooter towards the village of New Bagan and lunch. New Bagan became a village around 1970, a product of forced eviction. This was the hey-day of the military junta, and the ruling generals wanted to clear the locals out of Old Bagan. The walled city was destined to become a heritage site (and tourist ghetto) so the local folks were in the way. Thus was New Bagan created.

Today, New Bagan is a prosperous little town which derives a great deal of its income from the tourist trade. It is particularly favored by the tour bus groups. There is a lively main street, chock full of cafés and tea-shops. We had no trouble finding one of each; first for a good lunch, then for tea and some leisure time.

With the afternoon sun becoming fierce, the interior passageways of the Gu-temples were a welcome refuge. I had recovered my Temple-Fu and was honestly having a blast. We had given up all notions of destination, choosing our path by which dirt lane looked the most interesting. There was a good bit of getting lost, getting found, and giggling about it all. Putzing around on the silly little scooter was amazingly fun. We dawdled about from temple to pagoda, retreating into the shadows for a respite from the sun. Cooled off, we would saddle up once more and venture out into the baking heat.

This was my favorite Buddha of the day, perhaps my favorite in Myanmar. There was something in the carved expression that held my eye. I loved the rose-coloured stain over the stone, and the unique form and style.

The late afternoon was upon us, and night comes quickly here. It was time to head for the barn. We navigated a circuitous route across the southern Bagan plain, with piles of stone on either side. There were famous temples, their dirt parking lots full of vehicles, and many smaller pagodas standing lonely and quiet. We passed them all by, enjoying the ride through the countryside, and the cooling of the day.

With a vague notion of direction, I aimed the scooter up a goat path leading out through the fields. Before taking the plunge, I checked with My One. She gave me the “Sure, what the hell” shrug, and off we went.

Packed earth gave way to rough gravel, then rocky patches, and even a stream crossing. We were doing it, motocrossing over the wild trails of Myanmar! This was, of course, a silly notion. No matter where I go in Southeast Asia, no matter how rough the path, or how bad-ass a moto jockey I think I am, I have to remember one simple fact. Some eighty-year-old Burmese granny has just ridden a 125 automatic scooter over this very stretch of path, and she was probably hauling 100 kilos of rice, a grand-kid or two, and a pig.

The path opened into a small lane, and the small lane into a road. Then we were out on the main road to town, traffic whizzing by us in the gloaming. A quick turn into Farrang-Town brought us back to the scooter rental joint. We bid our trusty steed adieu and walked back to our side of town.

Our little alley was still there, as were the two old guys perched on their stools. We climbed to our guesthouse and a very welcome cool shower. The night fell quickly, and hunger came hard on night’s heels.

Nights in Bagan are sultry. The mention I made of the day cooling off is a relative term. It is cooler than the hammer and anvil of the midday sun, that is true, but the nights are still plenty warm. Yet that did not stop us from ordering our own personal charcoal brazier, delivered directly to our table. The thing was radiating heat like the ovens of hell. Brilliant planning, that.

The glowing ceramic inferno notwithstanding, the hot-pot was a fantastic meal. Our BBQ joint was packed with folks, both local and Farrang. There was much eating, much drinking, and a good time seemed to be had by all.

Our time in Bagan had run to its end. Despite a few bouts of temple fatigue, I really enjoyed this part of our Myanmar adventure. There was a good mix of sights to see, tempered with great food and lots of interaction with local folks. Tomorrow we would set out on the road to Mandalay.

Thanks for your interest in my travel blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here,  please tell another reader. Word of mouth is the most precious gift an Indie Author can receive. 

How about a free short story? My short story “The Broken Vow of Ramón Torres” has recently been featured at the great online review Inlandia Journal. You can check it out here:

“The Broken Vow of Ramón Torres” at Inlandia Journal

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The Bagan Archaeological Zone is a flat plain along the Ayeyarwady River in West-Central Myanmar. Approximately 4,000 pagodas punctuate the 100 square kilometer area of Old Bagan. Everywhere one looks there are pagodas, stupas, and zedis. The structures range from towering and famous, to toppled and forgotten. My favorite sites are the Gu-Style hollow temples, of which more later.

Bagan, formerly Pagan, was the capital of the Pagan Kingdom from the 9th to the 13th centuries CE. These days, Old Bagan is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, a designation that attracts cultural tourists from all over the world. Bagan is blessed and cursed with the fame of being an Important Destination.

The folks that visit Old Bagan seem to fall into four groups. First, there are the Myanmar folks who are mostly here on various pilgrimages. Old Bagan may be an archeological site to tourists, but it is still very much a part of Myanmar Buddhism.

The second group are the well-heeled Culture-Tourists who can afford to stay at the resorts in Old Bagan. They are the same folks that rock-star into Luang Prabang, or Siam Reap: Fly in, see the good stuff, fly out. And yes, I know my snobby side is showing. What can I say? I Yam What I Yam.

The rest of us are the more-or-less independent travelers and those on bus tours. We hang out in the cheaper digs of Nyaung U or New Bagan.

Many of the temples in Old Bagan contain statues of the Buddha, and these are still venerated by local folks coming to make merit. This area is very much an active religious site. One of the most important pagodas was only a short walk from our digs in Nyaung U. It was also the reason that all the guesthouses were booked. The pilgrims were in town.

Shwezigon Pagoda is not a ruined old stack of stones. This pagoda was completed circa 1100 CE, and has been in use more or less ever since. It was very much in use as we walked the long entrance passage that led to the pagoda. The lunar cycle plays an important role in Buddhist rituals, and this week’s full-moon had brought pilgrims from far and wide.

Bare feet met marble and stone as thousands of good pilgrims walked around the main stupa. All sorts of folks were making merit. There were a great many local Myanmar folks, but there were also pilgrims from other lands. I spotted grey-robed Buddhist monks, whom I believe were from Korea. Most of the camera wielding tourists were Asian folks, with the merest smattering of Westerners.

The mood was festive at Shwezigon Pagoda. Folks were having a good time. Laughing kids ran around chasing each other, and smiling folks posing for photos. There was even a cadre of young men and women running a promotion for a brand of energy drink. Jacked-up on their own product, they were handing out cans of energy drink as fast as they could get them unpacked. It struck me as one of the great anomalies that are so common in SE Asia: Energy drinks for pilgrims, garish LED halos over centuries-old Buddhas. So it goes.

Here is a link to a video of the scene at the pagoda, which is pretty fun:

Party Pilgrims at the Pagoda, Nyaung U, Myanma

The Bagan Plain, where one is never out of sight of a pagoda. Three ruined chedi and a Gu-Style temple hover above the sultry green.

It is a long walk from Nyaung U to Old Bagan, so we opted for a Tuk-tuk. It’s a funny thing about Tuk-tuks. These three-wheeled transports seem to be a sort of cultural marker for a region. The Bangkok guys favor decals featuring Al Pacino as Scarface. The Vientiane Tuk-tuk drivers, the most piratical of all, lean towards Sylvester Stallone and Cobra. The Myanmar Tuk-tuks, by contrast, are clean and neat, devoid of macho stickers, and the drivers are friendly and reasonably fair.

Yes, great, and what the hell is a Tuk-tuk?
This is a Tuk-tuk. It’s powered by a small motorcycle engine that goes Tuk-tuk-tuk-tuk-tuk….
                     \/

Old Bagan is a maze of temples, pagodas, and Buddha images scattered across a few square kilometers, all enclosed within the ruins of the old city walls. Outside the tumbled walls, the Bagan Archeological Zone stretches out into the distance. Today, our walkabout was centered on the area within the walls. The walkabout became something of a mantra: Temple — Shoes Off — Buddha Statue — Dirty Feet — Shoes On — Walk Down Jungle Path — Temple.

Which is not to say that this isn’t interesting and worth doing, but writing about it does present some problems. After the lively scene at Shwezigon Pagoda, Old Bagan left me a little under-awed. So, shifting gears, we threaded our way between two exclusive resorts, and descended a red earth path to the mighty Ayeyarwady River.

This is the Big River in a land of rivers. The Ayeyarwady (Irrawaddy by its colonial name) begins in the Himalayas and ends in the Andaman Sea. It is a big, brown, Mississippi of a river. Centuries ago this was the main transport link to the city of Mandalay. The river remains a important transportation route for goods and people.

I was happy to take a break from temples and tourists. We climbed around on the silty banks of the river, exploring this and that. Long, narrow boats were tied up along the bank, of similar style to the boats that work the Mighty Mekong. There were a few posh pleasure craft as well, the riverboat cruisers that bring the fancy folks to the fancy resorts just up the hill.

It was the weekend, a full moon, and a big day for locals to visit the temples. The ferry jetty was a busy place, with long-tail boats coming and going. The jetty itself is in reality just the river bank. Set back from the bank, steep stairways climb the hill to the flats above. The whole place was crammed with vendors, food stalls, and local families. An earthen road ran in from Bagan to the top of the stairs, then circled back on itself and ran back out. The road was a slow-moving pulse of tiny delivery vans, tractors hauling trailers, taxis, Tuk-tuks, and horse carts. Busy, busy, busy, as the Bokononists would say.

We slipped out of the mayhem and into a smaller lane of shops and curry huts. A Myanmar Grandma motioned us into her joint, got us seated, and told us we were having curry. Curry: it’s what’s for lunch. Once all the many dishes were on the table, Grandma and her granddaughter joined us at the table. The curry was good, although it was best not to examine the kitchen area with too sharp an eye.

The array of side-dishes included the odd bean-paste dishes that central Myanmar is known for. There are several strange, jiggly varieties, and they are lot more appetizing than they appear. Folks from other parts of Myanmar refer to the natives of this region as the Bean-Eaters. 

The stroll along the river and the craziness of the holiday crowd had me ready for more walkabout. We ambled away from the river and back into Old Bagan. A few more temples lay between us and the main road, where we could find a Tuk-tuk. One way or another, more pagodas were being added to our itinerary.

So here, then, is the obligatory big temple photo and description. I present this as evidence that we fulfilled our Bagan tourist obligations, at least for today.

This is the Thatbyinnyu temple, built circa mid-12th century by King Alaungsithu. It is an historic and massive temple, with Buddha statutes and whatnot. But more importantly, if one combines the name of the temple with the name of the king, one gets a devilishly difficult drinking game:

“Repeat after me: That-Binn-You — Ah-Long-sith-U!  Hahahahaha, you screwed it up, take a shot.”

Yeah, and it’s all downhill from there.

Truth be told, my favorite temples were the small, satellite pagodas, of which there were many. These are the shorter, less imposing, less famous temples. They are largely ignored, so they make for lovely wandering. There are no tourists, pilgrim or otherwise, no vendors, and no queues of buses.

When enough was enough, we hopped a friendly Tuk-tuk back to Nyaung U. I am forced to admit that I am getting soft. Squared off with a Bangkok, or worse, Pnom Penh Tuk-tuk driver, I will bargain like a old auntie in a street market. The Myanmar drivers have messed with me. First, they are smiley, and secondly, they start the pricing too low. I would certainly not drive them as far as they are driving me for the money offered. So I bargain enough to save face and off we go.

Back in busy little Nyaung U, we picked up the threads of a mystery that had us puzzled: Where were the Farrang? Our guesthouse was on the river-side of the main road, an area mostly devoted to local folks. We certainly saw Farrang amongst the temples of Old Bagan, but where did they hide out when they were back in town?

The mystery was solved, indirectly, by My One informing me that tonight’s dinner would most definitely not be curry. She looked up a few places online, and off we went. That is how we discovered Restaurant Road and Farrang-Town.

On the far side of Nyaung U’s main drag, there is a flat bottom land divided by rutted lanes. It looks very much like a frontier town. There are guesthouses scattered along the lanes, as well as all the sundry businesses that cater to travelers. Cutting through the center of Farrang-Town is a busy, dusty road. Whatever the real name of the pot-holed street, even the locals call it Restaurant Road. Scooters and Tuk-tuks zip up and down, raising clouds of dust. Open-air restaurants and bars line both sides of it. Indian food, Italian food, burgers, pizza; it is all here. We had a lovely dinner at a cute café leaning hard towards the hipster-organic end of the spectrum. Sure, it was twice the price of a local meal, but it was a nice change, and the food was good.

When we scuttled back across the main road, it was as if a lock snicked closed behind us. Farrang-Town was on one side, our digs were on another. We dodged the traffic, threading our way to the mouth of a narrow, muddy alley. The same two old guys are always sitting there, so our turn is easy to spot. We give them a smiley Ming-gah-la-Bah and head up the alley. It is really dark, so one has to pay attention to the big puddles. It also pays to keep an eye out for scooters with no headlights coasting down the hill. Keep straight on past the huge pig, uphill to the big tree, and turn left onto the little lane. Voilà, you are home!

Thanks for your interest in my travel blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here,  please tell another reader. Word of mouth is the most precious gift an Indie Author can receive. 

How about a free short story? My first non-fiction piece,”The Healing Sting,” has recently been featured at the great online journal Route 7. Look for ‘Non-Fiction’ and click on my name. You can check it out here:

“The Healing Sting” at Route 7

Or perhaps one of my other novels? All of the information is at here at my website. You can check out books, blog posts, book reviews, or even get a free book. Just look for the big button that says “FREE BOOK.” It’s kind of hard to miss. Happy reading!!