Myanmar - Bagan - Cycling Into Centuries Past

We woke to the sound of rain falling heavily on the tin roof above our heads. The beds were comfortable. I snuggled deeper under the duvet. Swathing myself in luxurious linen. Debbie lay asleep beside me. Her breathing gentle and regulated. Adding an undeniable serenity to what was already a perfect setting. 

Stepping out from our room, we stopped to admire one specific tree. Its presence was quite overwhelming. The endlessly long branches reached up and out in all directions. Creating an intricate tapestry of greens, yellows and browns. This wonder of nature had witnessed the past. Was now embracing the moment. And no doubt, reaching out to the future. As a mother does, the tree embraced all within her strong arms.

Breakfast awaited us on the veranda of a magnificent wooden residence. Built in 1922 for the Prince of Wales visit, the solid wooden beams projected a powerful sense of security around us. Encasing history. The Burmese threads of a bygone era richly woven into the fibres of the dark wood. A selection of piping hot foods welcomed us. Our favourite being the Mohinga dish. The perfect flavours and textures filling every empty corner of hungry bellies. Time stood still as we took mouthfuls of the nourishing meal. We were relaxed and so happy. Once again, doing what we love to do. Exploring new cultures, foods and places.

With excitement surging within us, Debbie and I did what all tourists in the area do. One hires a moto, as it’s lovingly referred to by most. Having lived in Cambodia for years now, Debbie was the owner of one such vehicle. Her skills were accomplished. I trusted her. Hopping on the back and holding on for life, we headed off to find the famous pagodas and temples of Bagan. 

That day I went solo on the moto. Reminding myself to do something every day that scares me. Cutting a solitary figure on the side of the road, Debbie watched with much anticipation I’m sure, how I lumbered off into the distance. Wondering if she’ll ever see her mom again. I was off. And having way too much fun to care about how to use the brakes. I figured I could slow down to the point where I could use my feet to balance the thing. I will never know how worried Debbie was. But I returned, shrieking with laughter. My beautiful daughter simply smiled. Tactfully suggesting that she be the driver from there on.

Personally, Myanmar has always conjured up images of romance and idyllic evenings spent sipping chilled G&T’s. Of ladies dressed in silk longyis. Delicately clasping a cheroot between slender fingers. Of gentle sunsets and monsoons. Of monks and saffron robes. Of legends. Hence the name The Land of a Thousand Temples, befits my perception perfectly.

The ancient city of Bagan lies peacefully in the midst of the central plains of Myanmar. Approximately 180 kilometres by road from Mandalay. To the west lies the Irrawaddy River. Seemingly the area was allocated by the Gods to hold and nurture the sacred temples and pagodas. The landscape is that beautiful. Those splendid plains once accommodated over 13 000 temples built between the 11th and 13th centuries. Today approximately two thousand temples remain. Sadly through the passage of time, many have been destroyed by earthquakes and Man. The biggest earthquake occurred in 1975. Many stupas, pagodas and temples were destroyed. Again in 2016, a 6.8 magnitude earthquake destroyed a further 389 sacred structures. Restorations have been carried out in order to attract tourists to the area.

King Anawrahta, formed the First Burmese Kingdom in 1044. The heart of the kingdom was located in the area now called Old Bagan. We so loved this area. Energies from the past filtered through each and every structure. Architects have discovered that each brick used to build the temples was made outside of Bagan. Evidence of this is that each brick has the name of the village in which it was made, on it. They were then transported on the Irrawaddy River to the plains.

With every step of our journey there, we would stop to respect and appreciate that which was. To breathe it in. The silence was audible. Time had stood still. What was in Old Bagan that day, had no knowledge of what the rest of the world was doing. Nor did it seemingly care. Each moment there was more precious than moments gone before. Debbie and I sat on rocks in the sun. Simply observing. Simply being.

Each day spent in Bagan brought its own wonders. Its own sacredness. We cycled our bikes along tracks on the beautiful plains. We sat staring out at nothingness. Seeing everything. Allowing our imaginations to fly free. Capturing images in our minds as we saw the past. The time spent in Bagan with Debbie was one of my most treasured holidays. So uncomplicated. So simple. Being in the fresh air all day long, with the sun baking on our backs as we cycled, lifted me into a new realm of wellness. Both emotionally and spiritually.

Many of the temples appeared stately and powerful. Commanding on the landscape. Others were simple and discreet. It was almost sunset when we caught our first glimpse of the phenomenal Gawdawpalin Temple. She appeared between two other structures. Standing majestic in all her glory. A truly magnificent Indian-style temple. Having been built in the 11th century, and at fifty five metres tall, Gawdawpalin earned the right to stand regal. Despite her powerful, solid exterior, she exuded elegance and grace. 

The less majestic temples too had their place on the plains. Each one unique in character. The vegetation surrounding them was gentle in appearance. Endless magnificent trees covered the earth’s surface. Narrow strips of dirt meandered through beckoning grasses. We followed each one only to come upon another relic from the past. Putting the bikes aside, we would sit in the stillness. In the wonderment of it all. Disbelieving of what people who came before us had created.

 

There were of course opportunities to shop. Opportunities to drink a chilled beer at a local restaurant. To engage with some of the loveliest people on earth – those from Myanmar. Inquisitive children, their faces covered in Thanaka, shyly joined us in play during one of our delicious noodle lunches. Their moms remaining in the background. Curious as to where these tall blondes came from. They guided us to their roadside shacks where puppets were strung between trees. A typical Myanmar traditional handicraft. For centuries marionette puppetry has played an important role in the culture of Myanmar. We were fascinated by their painted faces and Myanmar’s famous gold embroidery used to create their costumes. I chose to purchase a monk, who in his saffron robes, held on tight as we continued our cycle into centuries past.

A large area stockpiled with earthenware greeted us. Surreal that was. Unglazed pots of varied shapes and sizes stood in the blazing sun. Waiting to discover their next chapter of life. Not knowing what contents they would hold in the future. The richness of their terracotta colour warm and inviting. For centuries in Myanmar, pottery has been used to either cook or store food. Huge burial urns would contain gold and jewellery within their beautiful shapes. Needless to say we left this area with a few pieces of pottery in our bags.

Stopping at a local store to buy water, we stumbled upon a selection of traditional Myanmar parasols. I fell in love with these elegantly crafted works of art before I had arrived in Myanmar. Handmade of natural materials such as, cotton, wood and silk, each parasol was made waterproof using juices from wild fruits. These incredibly beautiful items were used as gifts for Buddhist monks and nuns. In times gone by, parasols were decorated with emeralds, rubies and gold plates. The more parasols one owned, the higher the status. My standing in society escalated that day as we rode off to the next temple, our baskets filled with parasols.

Each adventurous day ended having G&T’s beside the mighty Irrawaddy. Under those enormous trees. Traditional wooden boats sailed past. The chatter of the folks within, rippling across the water. There exists such a gentleness in Myanmar. Amongst the people. Amongst the environment. It was pronounced each evening whilst watching the setting sun.

We entered the ancient building. Walking in silence so as not to disturb the ambience. Monks wafted through archways. The light held an amber glow. The deeply sacred aspect was evident everywhere. Huge double doors in red adorned the long walls. For an hour we were part of a different world. One so far removed from our own. It was almost ethereal. 

Minutes later we cycled past derelict houses. Abandoned. We will not know the reasons for this. They had clearly stood the test of time. Continuing to hold their space, shrouding it in a cloak of mystery. Providing shelter for donkeys and the odd cow. 

Navigating our bikes along bumpy strips of dirt, we breathed in the magnificence of where we were. In the distance pagodas stood tall. The silence, other than the rattling of old bikes, crept through the shrub. We came upon a farmer. Raising a hand briefly to greet us, he continued with the work of the day. The work which had been done for generations before him. Leaving the bikes, we approached the scene, ostensibly taken from an era past, to sit near him in order to fully appreciate the sight. He ploughed the fields. For hours on end. He and his beautiful beast. Stopping in the shade of a tree to drink water. Both man and beast. An aura about them confirmed the love and respect they held for each other. Dressed in his traditional longyi, the farmer had a gentleness about him. An acceptance of his role and his world. He smiled at us. And then continued in the brilliant sunshine, during the heat of the day, to plough the fields.

Debs displayed interesting antics whilst capturing the moment. The old wagon stood waiting. Waiting for the end of the day when it would take both the farmer and the beast home. Its bones brittle from the scorching sun, the wagon remained sturdy. It too had fulfilled  its purpose for time immemorial. Sitting under a tree, it was incredible to witness this way of life. A life we could not imagine. A life full of challenges and hardships. Yet, perhaps the farmer was content. He had perhaps realised that the simple things in life are what matter most. His beast, his patch of land, his serenity. Such riches he possessed. There was deep wisdom for us to be learnt from that experience.

The day drew to a close. A mystical atmosphere materialised. We sat in absolute silence. Embraced by serenity. Darkness fell as she has done since the beginning of time. Gently wrapping her blanket of silence over the hauntingly beautiful pagodas and temples of Bagan. Holding them dear till dawn once again shrouds them in sunlight.

To be continued …