Having spent less than 48 hours in unimpressive Yangon, one of Myanmar’s biggest cities, and while still processing my experience in China and feeling fed up with big cities, I decided to move on to the smaller sized town of Bagan, a UNESKO protected area also known as “sea of temples” where 2,000 pagodas, temples and monasteries built between the 9th and 13th century still stand, although originally there were approximately 10,000. I had zero expectations mainly because all I could find on the internet about Bagan was minimal, and I didn’t expect to find much more than the pagodas. But who doesn’t love a good surprise?
(Most temples have specific parts that only men are allowed to enter, while adding a golden leaf on a Buddha is straight up forbidden for females. At least I was allowed to sit in that nook and pose..)
My overnight bus arrived in Bagan at 5am and when I exited its safety about seven taxi drivers speaking quite good English started harassing me to take an overpriced 5’ ride to my hostel. Since I had just woken up I was not in the mood to have a conversation with a bunch of strangers whose only purpose was to take my money, I removed myself from their circle and sat at a little restaurant close by. Some followed demanding I take their taxi telling me that’s the only way to get to town; i didn’t have to try hard to put on my strict face, and along with the perfectly timed arrival of another bus, I was finally left alone to decide my course of action. My phone’s map informed me that it’d take about an hour and a half to walk to my hostel – although that’s usually an exaggeration. In addition, I thought, why should I get to my hostel early if I were to just sleepily sit around waiting till noon to check in? With the Sun finally diluting the sky’s darkness, I got up, completely ignored the drivers’ ultimate warnings, and just like that gave them an 101 on Greek stubbornness, and began walking away.
(I might be Greek but I’m also very grounded.)
The walk itself was beautiful, with each step filled with wonderful flower smells, colors on the horizon changing constantly. Along the way I witnessed small communities waking up, with street vendors setting up their various items for sale, house windows giving away hints of food getting cooked. The buzz of a small town regaining its consciousness became louder by the minute with cars, motorbikes and tuk-tuks zooming next to me, some of them catching a curious glimpse of my happy face, but moving too quickly to get a second glance. And to my surprise, although in retrospect it makes absolute sense, I saw for the first time in months a very special creature to me and what I believe to be one of the best omens: swallows flying swiftly all around and above me.
(I admit I have some serious issues with the concept of religion, but I will never deny the beauty of the art created in its name.)
Marvelous and gorgeous in their sharp black-and-white suits, these small birds are seen in many cultures as a symbol of hope since their arrival announces that of spring’s as well. Their presence signals that land is near, making sailors love them and often tattoo them on their chest, neck and hands to show off the miles they’ve covered – one swallow equals 5,000 nautical miles or 9,000km, distances almost unachievable in the old days – while if a sailor drowns, the legend has it that a swallow will carry his soul to heaven. A migrant species, always chasing after warmer weather, swallows mate for life, and you can be sure that if a couple chooses your home to build a nest and lay their eggs, they are bound to always come back. Yes, I do have a special admiration for these birds, and I’m always happy when I get to see their unique sharp shapes flying high in the skies where they belong, and seeing them again made me even more excited to be walking in Bagan that early morning.
(A mischievous and excited face somewhere in Bagan.)
Until a few months ago visitors had access to the upper levels of some of the pagodas offering amazing views of the area, but to my disappointment they were all locked away due to safety concerns: a severe earthquake in 2016 damaged many of the shrines, while in the meantime the amount of visiting tourists keeps rising, making Bagan a fertile place for a serious accident. Despite that I spent three full days having a blast biking around, looking for pagoda that might’ve been unlocked; alas, they were all unaccessible. However, I did find some of the most beautiful ancient buildings I’ve ever seen, and some of them I was able to climb safely from outside.
(With 2,000 pagodas around, I traded all the popular ones for those equally amazing laying just a few steps further.)
At night, I’d avoid the touristy restaurants and eat sitting on tiny plastic chairs rubbing elbows with the locals, eating what they ate. One of Myanmar’s traditional meals is a plate of simple white rice served with lots of smaller plates filled with different sauces, meats and vegetables and a bowl of soup.
(Biking 20km/12miles in the heat per day means I get to eat all the small plates I want.)
After four nights and three full days of wandering around in Bagan, I firmly believe I was the only traveler who did not witness a single sunrise or sunset from a pagoda, a hill, and/or a hot air balloon, when these are super advertised and almost impossible to avoid in conversations with other travelers. I began realizing that the kind of traveling I prefer the most includes dusty roads filled with kids playing with dogs running free; the little corner food stalls; the raggedy tourist shops with misspelled signs trying their best to look modern; walking miles daily visiting the local markets and witnessing the everyday life other people experience. Being coerced into any Sun related activity – apart from laying on a sun-bed reading a book by the ocean – leaves me quite uninterested.
(With that being said, isn’t the sunset at U Bein bridge wonderful?)
Arriving in Mandalay, the former capital of Myanmar and current capital of traffic, felt like a sensory overload after being so peaceful for the last few days. Hundreds of motorbikes storming the streets relentlessly, honking to any pedestrian in sight which in most cases was either me or another unfortunate westerner thinking that walking around the city was a good option. I spent my first day trying really hard to find the pavement while visiting a couple of interesting sights, while the second day I joined forces with three more travelers to check out some sights that are a bit further away from the city center. Mandalay, apart from being pedestrian unfriendly, it is public transport unfriendly too, and in order to see any of the wonderful sights one needs to hire an overpriced taxi or tuk-tuk. Giving up the efforts of finding any other way to see the city such as a local bus that is always cheaper and offers more freedom of movement, we got into a taxi our hostel got us and headed out to spend the day looking at more ancient ruins, the most wonderful pagoda I’ve ever seen, and the world’s longest wooden bridge.
(Myanmar is the first country that I’ve seen so much drinking water available everywhere and for free – the catch is that everyone has to use the same cup that I never saw being washed…)
Wandering around in the streets of Mandalay I saw a lady with a round cage filled with different kinds of birds including swallows, and I had to take a closer look because I’ve only seen them flying in the skies, and as far as I know they do not survive in captivity. At first I thought they were going to end up roasted – I’ve seen way more peculiar items in people’s plates – but she explained that she would set one lucky bird free if I gave her money. Essentially asking for ransom in exchange for one of those little prisoners’s freedom must be one of the cruelest things I’ve ever heard, along from the concept of the zoo. Mouth hanging with bewilderment, I refused profusely to offer her anything that would enable her to continue such a malicious deed.
(Even broken, art can own beauty.)
Currently on what it feels like the world’s rockiest train ride, heading to a new town in the north of Myanmar, my wagon travels through long fields of chrysanthemums – or golden flowers, as the word translates in Greek – their heads picking inside the train in any given chance, their smell stamping the last paragraph of this post. I am riding to the unknown through fields of yellow at the extremely slow speed of 20mph, taking it all in and making this one of the best train rides of my life. And when the sunlight caresses my face, I know it’s been blessed by swift swallow feathers flying free above me.
(Even black sheep deserve their own spot on heaven’s white clouds.)