Author: Christopher Preston

This morning we’re going to Inthay village which, Richard C promises, is an Indiana Jones style ride upstream. Our regular boatmen collect us and we journey though the lake village to a muddy river. Bamboo weirs have been constructed at intervals and there is just enough of a gap for one boat to accelerate up the mini rapid to the next level.

It’s not quite as narrow or as fast-flowing as Indiana Jones would prefer, but it’s still a good ride, especially as the boatman has to allow for downstream traffic and give way or steam ahead accordingly.

Canal boats in England have a speed limit to preserve the canal sides. No such speed limit here, and the result of erosion can be seen, not only in the colour of the water, but the banks, in many places have been sand-bagged up to prevent further collapse. The river is busy with trading boats carrying all kinds of goods, from cement to woven baskets. There’s lots of demand for cement here: the river banks need constant shoring up and there is a boom in building everywhere. The English

Language news-paper boasts of economic progress and the determination of the country to join the globalised world, beginning with trade talks amongst their immediate South East Asian neighbours.  I wonder if they know quite what they are letting themselves in for. It’s a difficult thing to deny a decent standard of living, though I don’t see anyone starving, just lean and healthy.

We are heading to the Shwe Inn Tain, yet another temple up a hill and there’s a 500Tk (50c) charge to take photographs. This must be the longest shopping mall yet, though as it’s the low season, most of the stalls are empty. There’s some pretty amazing stuff for sale and it attracts our attention. You have to be wary of saying ‘on the way back’ as the stall holders will remember you and if you’ve already bought from someone else, they will be upset.  There’s also dozens of abandoned stupas, overgrown and ripe for exploring.

The actual temple at the top, houses the usual statue of Bhuddha, but the stupas out the back are fantastic – so photogenic as they line up in rows for eager photographers. Then there are the forgotten stupas with trees growing out of their tops. I manage to avoid engagement with the stall-holders on the way down and find a group of overgrown stupas to shoot.  Back at the river there is a group of white tourists discussing if it’s worth paying the 50c to take photographs, ‘Yes’ I say in passing. They look surprised and I don’t wait to see what they decide.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I pause to watch boatmen unloading cement. They’ve removed their longyis so they won’t get dirty, revealing tight black briefs which are now grey with cement dust.  Now we know what the Burmese working man wears under his longyi. I’ve got my eye on a small hill on the other side of the village.  It has a cluster of ruined stupas (I like a ruin or two) on top and promises a good view. It’s long abandoned and I can overlook the village and temples further up the hill. Just at the bottom of this hill a brand new monastery has been built right next to a group of abandoned stupas.

I find the other guys and order lunch even though I’m not hungry and think that my stomach could do with a rest. When they forget my order, it’s no big deal. John has made a purchase and is very excited. He lays out a beautiful quilted picture on the next table – a good buy. Garry and Mark have to go back up the hill to complete their purchase by VISA. We wait for them in one of the boats while the other one goes ahead. Suddenly they arrive with a stall holder in tow, clutching a large plastic shopping bag containing the purchase. Unfortunately there was a misunderstanding as the other stall did VISA so they need to borrow cash from us. Between us we almost have enough, so the woman has to decide. She accepts what’s offered and the guys have a bargain. I’m almost cleaned out of cash but figure that I’ll get paid back soon enough.

Going downstream on the way back is almost like shooting the rapids if you close your eyes and imagine. We collect our luggage from the hotel and set off up the lake to Nyuangshwe.

We pass fishermen as featured on postcards, casting their nets and using a leg to drive the paddle.

There are also boatmen employed to weed the lake.  Using a long bamboo pole, they hook up the weed onto the boat, creating improbable mountains for the size of the boat.

Clearly this is and always has been a highly managed environment – not exactly an ecosystem.  It’s comparable to the so-called ‘natural’ beauty of the English countryside, which has been farmed/gardened/managed for over five hundred years. There is little doubt that left to itself Inle Lake would just silt up. The English countryside might take longer to revert to forest.

Back in Nyuangshwe we are re-united with Priscilla and Richard is trying out a new hotel with the significant name of Cherry Queen.  Now, if you are a Japanese tourist, this will resonate with your Cherry Blossom festival. If you are a gay man, the association will be entirely different … we like the name.

 

Morning reveals that the late-stayers, John & Nev had an adventure getting back from the bar.  Nev has a local sim card and does the sensible thing by engaging his Sat Nav app to navigate.  Unfortunately he was so busy looking at the app on his phone that he failed to notice a ditch and fell right into it.  John remembers saying, ‘You fit quite nicely in that ditch.’  He’s covered in mud, scratched and bruised and causes quite a stir at the Hotel reception.  He appears at breakfast with just about all his toes sporting sticking plaster

Not far out of Kalaw there are caves full of Buddhas.  This place is very curious as the small statues are placed in niches along the rock walls.  Many are cloaked and most lit up with fairy or LED lights.  Someone tells me that the far cave is very dirty and slippery and contains bats.

I’m keen to see them, having only witnessed one solitary bat flying over my London garden on summer nights.  The first thing I notice is the smell of ammonia, its bat shit.  There’s a cry as I enter, which may or may not be a bat warning the others.

Several shadowy shapes flutter silently away from me and I quickly dismiss irrational fears and gain confidence – they have no intention of attacking.  Because it’s a temple, I’m again walking bare-footed in shit. I have to hold on to the walls of the cave and in some places crouch to get through the passage way.  Bats continue to flee silently and where space above permits they escape back over my head. It becomes quite magical, in spite of the shitty wet floor.

Outside I find a trench of stagnant water surrounding a Buddha and think he won’t mind if I wash my feet. Back near the entrance there’s a tap to give them another rinse. John decides to explore this cave just as we are about to leave. I warn him about the shit and danger of slipping – we don’t need any more accidents. I’m just about to go looking for him, when he’s spotted emerging from behind a row of Buddhas, safe and sound.

As we near Nyaungshwe we stop at Peter’s request at the famously photographed Shwe Yan Pyay Monastery.  It’s unusual for its oval windows and looks entirely deserted.  We go in and peeing through a doorway behind the Buddha statue see a few boy monks in a very untidy dormitory with no beds, so they must sleep on the polished wooden floors.

Across the courtyard is a revelation – an arched complex houses tributes to all the people who have historically supported the monastery. The effect is stunning.  This artistic financial acknowledgement I‘d noticed back in the temple with printed lists on the walls – the most recent are written on a white-board – so up-to-date.

For families, it is an honour to have a son in a monastery as this is a good way for them to get an education and it’s an ambition of every family to have at least one son to find his vocation here.

 

Oo tells me that he spent four years as a monk.

‘You like?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ he nods and smiles.

It’s clear that Buddhism is central to the national psyche and has sustained them through years of trouble. I think it will also be important in their future.  The other way to be educated is to join the military.  All through our travels we pass elementary schools with kids in white shirts and green longyis in the school play grounds or walking to and from their homes. Education is a noisy affair and the sounds of reciting can be heard from the road.

Priscilla drops us in Nyaungshwe and takes Ray for more medical attention.

We can explore the market – relatively free from hawkers, but I choose to try a local barber.  Peter advises that I wait and check out what the guy currently being done looks like when finished.  He looks fine and goes on to have a shave.  The bib looks a bit grubby but I think I can cope with that.  I get a quote, it’s 5000Kt around $6 NZ so even if that is tourist rates, its OK. There are several other locals sitting outside on the seats and I think there might be a queue, but no, they are just sitting and passing the time of day, so I’m next. The first thing the barber does is get out a freshly laundered bib, which is a bit of a relief. I manage to convey what I want with sign language and off he goes.  It reminds me of the methodology used by the barber in my home town as a kid – the short-back-and-sides method.  He asks if I want a shave (I need one) and I agree.  I’ve actually never been shaved by anyone else before.  He makes a great show of putting in a brand new blade into his cut-throat razor and I try not to think of Sweeny Todd.  He’s very gentle, but he’s used to sparse Burmese beards which are mostly confined to a few hairs on the chin and upper lip.  He has to work a bit harder for me.  Peter returns and I pass muster.

Priscilla, the bus, drives us through Nyaungshwe to the river where we say goodbye and clamber into two boats – luggage in front – for a one hour journey down the lake.  It’s quite shallow and is in danger of being choked up with water Hyacinth, which floats around in clumps.  The boat has a short propeller shaft, presumably so they can be reached easily and de-fouled. The water is, especially in the busy channels, muddy from being churned up.  We pass signs proclaiming ‘conservation of the biosphere’ – this might indicate an understanding of the connectivity to the rest of the planet, but I think it’s about retaining the lake as a place to live, fish and sustain the tourist trade.

Left to its own devices the floating weed would silt up the lake leaving a river of sorts. Already agriculture has reclaimed strips of solid ground where corn is grown.

Our Hotel, on sits to the side of the lake, is charming and I’m sharing with Peter for a few days.  He’s fun and full of anecdotes and giggles. Once again it’s cool enough to do without the Air Con and mosquito nets are provided. Richard C has arranged for most of us to have rooms facing the lake.

It’s great at 5.30am standing on the balcony, but rush hour begins early here and the noise of the boats, small and large carrying produce, commuters and tourists becomes ever present and loud.  We get used to it along with the variable wifi all over the country.  It’s mostly too weak to hook up to on a lap-top and I spend hours trying to up-load the blog. Mobile phones cope much better and it’s worth noting that Facebook, Grindr and my Guardian Apps work OK on low connectivity. Power-cuts don’t help either and these are frequent.  I point out here that they are common at home on Waiheke Island so it’s not just a third world problem.

Kalaw is fairly high up so temperatures take a welcome dip.  This means we can turn off the air con and leave a window open. The full extent of Ray’s injuries have surfaced.  He’s got badly bruised ribs and has to sleep sitting up. Fortunately there is a pharmacy in the town with a good supply of pain-killers.

I take up the option of a four hour hike up to a mountain village with veteran hikers  Nev and John – who did the Outside the Square’s Milford track – plus Mike and of course our leader Richard C.  Our guide is a small, compact and very fit young man called Tenzing.  We all get very excited on hearing his name and ask him if he’s Nepalese.  He doesn’t know. He thinks he’s Burmese.  The British brought Gurkas and Sherpas here to build the railway but never returned them.  It was more cost effective not to use local labour, which might at any time decide to go home. We are convinced that

Tenzing looks Nepalese although none of us have a clear idea of what that might look like.  I ask him if he’s heard of Mount Everest. He has. I explain that we come from New Zealand, Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing were the first to climb Everest and that they are heroes in our country. His eyes light up – he’s pleased.

We drive for twenty minutes in a taxi to a rough road which has obviously taken vehicles of some sort, but we only see motor scooters – the workhorses of South East Asia – passing occasionally.

We’re walking through market gardens on the edge of the mountain forests. Fields of Dragon fruit (a cactus), coffee trees growing under the forest canopy, taro, random bananas, corn and greens on the flatter areas all grow splendidly.  Oranges are one of the main crops, covering the steep hillsides.  I walk with Mike for some of the way.  He’s a keen gardener and works in a garden centre in Auckland, so he knows a lot about plants.  We’re able to share observations and identify some species.  One discovery is that teak trees have huge leaves and we have been looking at new plantings all along the mountain roads we travel on.

John, who knows a lot about NZ forest giants can’t believe that teak would have large leaves, but it’s confirmed when we actually see a huge tree with its distinctive trunk. I develop a theory that the large leaves have evolved to beat the creepers which choke the forest. Large leaves cover the smaller leaved creepers, depriving them of light. John agrees with my theory.  We’ve seen logging trucks on the road and carefully labelled logs stacked along the way, but very few mature specimens. It looks as if some of the denuded rain-forest is regenerating and young teak trees are being planted everywhere.

The English language paper reports that illegally harvested teak logs have been seized.  Police and the forestry department found three tonnes of logs worth $506 US – they are still looking for the culprit.  Of course regeneration is a problem for the farmers here who have to constantly weed their crops and reclaim farm-land. Tenzing says that these hill farmers are better off than most Burmese because they work harder.  This might be partly true as new grander houses are being built here.  There is still no strategy for rubbish collection in the countryside (parallels with rural NZ here) as time and again I see plastic near rivers; when the Ayeyerwady River floods, much of this will end up in the Indian Ocean.  In these hills, as everywhere else, rubbish is tipped at specific locations, often in a gully at the start of a stream.

On close inspection, it’s entirely packaging: empty plastic sachets once containing laundry powder, body lotions or snacks.  Everything these days is packaged – for our convenience, but eighty or even thirty years ago everything on these tips would have been biodegradable.  Is this progress?  In the west, this rubbish might not be visible, but it’s still around, in land fill.

What price is Myanmar paying to so eagerly join the global market? There’s also evidence of ‘roundup’ use in places – suggesting that the Monsanto giant has already planted its influence. Provided you don’t look down the track banks, the scenery is lush and verdant and the walk, good exercise for my legs.

In the village we stop for a prearranged cup of green tea from flasks and palm sugar snacks.  The house is dark and rustic, belonging to an elderly man – all the other villagers are out working in the fields.  Tenzing reveals the origin of his fitness. disappointingly this is not tramping in the mountains but attending the Gym.

The afternoon is to catch up on writing and sorting out photographs before I forget what happened.  The others go into town as its market day and reputed to be vast. It’s still light when we walk into the centre for dinner, dressed as has become our custom in longyis.

There’s a bar the others have sussed out in the afternoon where pool is being played and we stop to have a pre-dinner beer. We pass one of the few mosques I’ve seen so far.  There’s quite a controversial standoff between Buddhists and Muslims in some part of the country and foreigners are still restricted from travelling to these areas.  Once again the English Language paper comes to my aid, reporting that the UN has sent a Human Rights Reporter to talk to Aung San Suu Kyi about the situation for Muslims of Bangladeshi origin in Rakhine State.

After dinner at a Burmese restaurant, some of us go to what claims to be the smallest bar in the world.  It’s a horseshoe shape and six of us join conversations.  Two American girls (one German born) are looking at us from the other side.

I own up. ‘Yes we’re all gay.  By just walking in, we’ve just turned this bar gay.’ It turns out that the girls are lesbians so the place is at least LG.  The Polish couple talking to Peter are probably not gay and there are two locals, one of them very drunk.  He’s talking very loudly to the girls but there’s a gap in the conversation, so I jump in.

‘What should we call the people of Myanmar.’

‘Bama,’ is the short reply.  He then launches into a lecture about how the country used to be called Bama before the British.

‘We know about that,’ I say, but he expands his thesis that the British liked to put ‘ese’ on the end of every country: Chinese, Siamese etc.  I don’t mention that there are quite a few countries which escaped this treatment, like Cambodia, India, Nigeria etc.

‘So do we refer to the people as just Bama or Baman people or Baman?’

‘Just Bama.’

He’s too drunk to go on and I hear the barman say, ‘Actually we’re just Burmese.’

Further research suggests that Bama is the old name for the Bagan area.  By now I’ve finished my whiskey – not at all sure that it can be called Scotch but it’s good and the trouble is that I always want one more.  I decide to be sensible and some of us go back to the hotel.  Fortunately Richard C has brought a torch and there’s always the trusty mobile phone to light my way.

Day Eight

We’re on our way to the hills, passing through more prosperous looking farm land.

Everywhere there are palm trees bordering the fields and clustered around the houses.  These are the Sugar Palms, not to be confused with the Palm trees grown for cheap palm oil which encroach on vast areas of rain forest in places like Indonesia and Malaysia.  The male and female fruit are tapped for the sweet syrup they contain.

We stop to look around a Palm sugar ‘factory’ where an elderly man climbs up one of the trees to collect clay pots which hang under the fruit.  We are shown the process of reducing this liquid to a sticky syrup and eventually crystals.

Large woks sit in a row on a clay oven and the liquid is moved from the cooler end to the hot end.

There is also a fermentation process, which produces a spirit from crude stills.

At the end (shop) are some delicious snacks to be purchased.  Palm sugar lumps with plum, grated coconut or tamarind.  We stock up for our journey, finding that palm sugar is not sickly sweet like cane sugar – ideal.

On the journey to Kalaw, we pass Mount Poppa, home of The Nats.  These are ancient deities who pre-date Buddha.

The Bagan ruler who brought Buddhism from South India, cleverly found a place for them in the new religious hierarchy.  The Nats, number 37, and although only four are special to the Mount Popa region, all can be worshiped, usually by the offering of fruit or money.

They originate from people who suffered particularly violent deaths- usually at the hand of some despotic ruler.  Mount Poppa is a volcanic plug, formed when a volcanic core cools very fast and is much harder than the surrounding ash.  Erosion revealed the mountain, so there’s a climb of 777 steps to the Monastery perched on top. Richard C has warned us about the monkeys – we must leave any food on the bus to avoid invasion.  They are abundant, being fed by the faithful and tourists who purchase newspaper cones of small nuts from the sellers.  When the cones are thrown, there’s a monkey fight and the successful ones scamper to a safe place to tear open the paper, discarding it after eating the contents.

The monkeys can also be observed opening plastic water bottles to drink and one nursing mother grabs a can of sugary fizzy drink, removes the straw (that’s too sophisticated) and drinks the dregs.  Sticky drops fall on the baby, who promptly moves from underneath Mum to her back.  The consequence of all this is rubbish, which, with an abundance of monkey shit, has to be cleaned off the steps so that we can climb bare-footed. Volunteer cleaners station themselves all the way up with brooms and mops. Their buckets contain black water, so I can’t help thinking that the monkey shit is just getting moved around and our feet are covered in it.

Each cleaner asks politely for a ‘donation for the cleaning’.  It’s advisable, for the sake of your conscience to have lots of small notes about you.  I gave my last 200kt (less than 20cents) to the first cleaner at the bottom and had to shake my head and apologise to the rest. I’m thinking that the solution to the monkey shit might be to stop feeding them, then; they would go away and live in the forest.  On reflection this would mean that the nut sellers would loose their living and so would the ‘volunteer’ cleaners.  In terms of ecological economics, it’s best to put up with the shit and being a farm boy, I’m used to it. Along with the usual families and a few western tourists risking the monsoon threat, there’s a school party visiting today, so there’s lots of teenage drama, especially from the girls who are protesting about the climb.

There are displays of The Nats at the bottom and the top – they are astonishing. Their representation by 21^st C manikins and dressed in clothing of mixed vintage means I now have to invent a new category – Buddha Kitch – wondrous.

There’s a great view from the top but the main attraction is us.  The school kids are fascinated; they try out a few words of English and cuddle up to us for selfies on their mobile phones.

Nev and Peter manage to get surrounded.  Nev’s boys are all style conscious like many young men here – vain about their looks – a streak of bleached red hair and trendy camouflage trousers.  These boys in their school uniforms, are not quite at that stage, but one of them is wearing a red scarf with confidence and doesn’t seem to know that red is an unlucky colour to wear up on this mountain.

Garry has had to change his top, so we try to tease the boy about it.  Not sure if he got it though.

I

seem to attract the girls who boldly ask to be photographed with me, one at a giggling time.   There’s no opportunity to wash feet before putting on my sandals and getting on the bus. Hopefully, nothing nasty has stuck.

 

Its day seven and I can see by the map of Bagan that there are potentially hundreds more temples and stupas to see.  We start off with a whitewashed temple which houses murals and then we stop in the middle of three options.

It’s very hot and Richard points to Tayoke pyay.  That’s where we are going.  So I set off ahead but no one follows. It’s small and elegant, worth the walk.  When I get back to the bus, everyone has gone to another temple.

I’m too hot to walk over and cool down inside Priscilla. Just to break things up, we’re visiting Minnathu Village. It looks very basic, houses made from bamboo screens.  We have a girl who guides us and the new electricity supply is pointed out.

Street lights are dotted around and we are shown a large television and other electrical goods in one of the houses.  Last year, Richard tells us, the village had only just got electricity and they kept turning things on and off in wonderment.  It all seems incongruous amongst these shanty type dwellings and primitive shelters for animals.  The tethered bull is aggressive but the gelded steers are docile.

We are shown a single cotton plant with the raw material for weaving protruding from a pod.  This house has a crude loom and our guide sits down and does a few rows.  So many rural Burmese live in houses like this – walls of plaited bamboo, roofs thatched with leaves of the Sugar Palm tree and cooking on wood fires.

It does appear that the people still live here though in five years, this might be a model village with the people busing in for the day.

Next up is Dhamma-ya-za-ka with its golden spire is unusual for being pentagonal – most Bagan pagodas are square.

 

Heading south we visit a lacquer factory in New Bagan and observe the process, starting with the shaping of bamboo strips into the required shape. Sanding the bamboo then applying lacquer is a time consuming process. Each coat of it has to dry before proceeding.  Some cups are made on a base of horse hair woven between bamboo spines; this gives them great flexibility.  Between each layer of lacquer the items are rubbed down by very bored looking boys and finally painted with intricate patterns by girls.

They all sit cross legged on the floor or raised platforms.  We are assured that they are all over eighteen and get around $4US a day with the painters getting $6US.  Astonishingly, this is enough for the purchase of a mobile phone.  The young people of Myanmar are thus connected to the rest of the world … in theory … provided they can get wifi.

You guessed, it’s shopping time and there’s some beautiful things which tempt me sorely, but I don’t need any more stuff – maybe a set of chopsticks? They are unadorned black and I can’t find two of the same length.  Others are buying and the Americans are contributing generously to this economy.  Mark buys a fabulous lacquered chest with red legs.  I don’t ask how much he paid as furniture takes months and even years to make.  He’s getting it shipped home and plans to use it as a filing cabinet.  Nice, I think. Garry mutters a few words about keeping files in the cellar, but don’t quote me.  ‘What are you like?’ is the ‘northern’ expression I keep saying to them and they roar laughing.

We return to our café for lunch.  It’s roasting and we rush to find a table next to the giant fan.  Bursting with food, we stop to visit Georgie’s family shop where we sit down to green tea and a range of nibbles.    We meet his heavily pregnant wife, his young son who is very shy and his Mother-in-law, the owner of Priscilla the bus. Georgie will not be with us for the next part of our tour as he is needed with to be around for the birth.  Photos are taken and we force ourselves to eat something, particularly the mango. We notice very old photographs on the wall of Aung San – hero of early Burma (1920), during and following the British.  He is the father of Aung San Suu Kyi.  The frames, high up on the wall, look as if they have been gathering dust for decades and have escaped notice.

Thatbyinyu inside the area of Old Bagan, is the largest of the temples. Built by King Alaungsithu (1113-1163) to atone for his sins, it was never quite finished before he died. Its whitewashed walls, stained with age lend it a sinister atmosphere.

 

By the time we get to Manuha temple, it is raining hard and we scurry with umbrellas into a long building to marvel at the size of a reclining Buddha. Having left sandals and umbrellas at the other end of the building, it’s a dash back to retrieve them.

It’s still raining by the time we reach our sunset Pagoda – Shwe San Daw.  It’s a clamber up the steps with camera slung over my head, clutching umbrella in one hand, and a hand-rail in the other, this feels like an adventure.  I’m wearing my longyi today, so have to tuck that in to avoid treading on the hem.  Rain and sunshine pour down, but the light is amazing.

Peter thinks this view is better than the modern tower (some of the guys went there early in the morning) as everything is much closer.  We’ve become photo buddies, looking out for the best shots and angles.  Peter’s results on his ipad are breathtaking and I get to use it to take a few of him.   We are both raving about the rain washed light shining on the pagodas to the East.

It’s too early to see the sunset, so we indulge looking the other way, while everyone else huddles under umbrellas looking west.

The sun strikes the golden stupas one by one on its journey behind the hills across the Ayeyerwady River.

After dark, with hints of rain still in the air, we visit a functioning temple lit up as if it was Christmas.

There is water lying everywhere – just as well I’m bare-footed, though Ray is not so lucky and ends up having a nasty fall.  I don’t find out about this until the next day when his bruised ribs come to the fore. Onwards to our restaurant which tonight is Burmese and delicious with great service, so no obvious drama at the end of the day. Ray is being stoic and cheerful as ever.

 

We have the option to explore on our own today.  Richard suggests hiring electric scooters or using the free bicycles from the hotel and investigating more temples.  I anticipate more temples tomorrow, so think I’ve done quite well on the that front so far and don’t want to be ‘templed out’ just yet.

The Californains, Garry and Mark, who are turning out to be such fun, with Peter (now recovered from a dose of flu), hire a car and driver for the day to see more temples.  Mike and Ray say they are going to chill out.  My plan is to visit the Archaeological Museum in the morning, so it’s a swim before breakfast.  On my way to the pool I check out the free bicycles – they are very old.  One has a completely flat tyre and the others need pumping up.  I take a couple of test rides and check at reception if they have a pump.  They triumphantly produce a huge plunger type, which unlike the bikes, looks brand new.  I trot off to the pool where the water temperature is almost acceptable and decide to lower the risk by hiring one of the brand new electric scooters – foreigners are not allowed to drive petrol ones.

All goes well and I find the Museum, a hideous modern building attempting to copy features of the beautiful Ananda temple.  No cameras are allowed, but mobile phones are ok – all the locals are photographing stuff on their phones, so I don’t see the point.  Eventually I follow suite. On first glance the vast central hall looks gloomy, but a series of bronze statues, imagines four of the 55 Pagan Kings of Bagan

King Anawrahta 1044 – 1077

Kyan Sittha 1088 – 1113

Alaungsithu 1113 – 1160

King Kyaswa 1235 – 1249

This Dynasty unified Burma and brought Theravada Buddhism to the country to create a golden age.

 

A short history of Burma – not up to date but clear at https://newint.org/features/2008/04/18/history/

These statues represent strong rulers and although one holds a spear, not all are military.  One sits with one leg crooked in a ‘thinking’ pose.  I imagine at in 1998, the Generals who ruled, were flattered by this work and they are in any case great fans of this period of Bama imperialism.  There are also ancient statues of Buddha from his life and reincarnation.  To one side of this hall is a crudely cast group ad dancing people.  The inscription reads ‘People of Bagan who are always in happy mood by singing and dancing’. This room feels a bit more like a promotion than archaeology.  The Museum doesn’t seem to be air conditioned and in one room an attendant opens a window creating a welcome draft.  I nod my appreciation of her effort.

There’s an interesting comparison showing the evolution of the modern Myanmar alphabet as seen on tee shirts.  The origins are traced back to South Indian and Brahman scripts.  Various rooms reconstruct life in 11^th Century Bagan and the allegedly caring nature of the rulers is explained.

There’s a whole room of inscriptions carved on marble slabs, stone pillars and paper.  These seem to be complicated historical narratives.  Suddenly there is an air conditioned room – delicious.  Upstairs I run into John and Nev who have also hired the electric scooters.

Here there is a room full of carved Buddha’s from temples, all seated on identical carved seats of teak.  The three of us decide to lunch together, so Nev and I go ahead, turning right outside the museum.  I look behind – being the only one with rear vision mirrors – as there is no sign of John.  We stop and eventually he speeds out the gate, turning left and not seeing us.  I race off after him, stretching my scooter to its limit at 50km/h all the while tooting loudly.

 

We decide to re-visit the afore-mentioned café for lunch.  It’s in the village near the hotel and I think I know the way.  We set off to the north, finding the village, which seems to go on forever. We stop several times to ask the way but to no avail. Eventually, John asks a taxi driver who gives us precise instructions.  As we approach the turn-off, he’s waiting, having driven ahead to make sure we get it right – such fantastic kindness.  You’d pay for a London cabby to lead you to an address.

Over lunch, we engage in conversation with a Danish couple – she’s white and his parents are South Indian.  They offer us the felt pens to write on the wall.  We decide on a kiwi, but who can draw one? We have several try-outs to get the shape right.  In the end I get to do it and I’m not known for my drawing skills.  This is Nev’s idea and the symbol = has to go in the middle of the Kiwi. He recons it’s too obscure for any military official to interpret.

 

 

To me it’s obvious that = means equality but just to make sure that my crude drawing is recognised, he ads NZ = underneath.  I’m not sure that we have equality in New Zealand, but why not dream of the possibility?  If you get here and see this motive on the wall, low down towards the front, you will know the name of the café.

I leave the others to explore and set of back to the hotel with the intention of catching up with the blog, swim and chill out.  No such luck as I take a wrong turn and have to turn around and stop to ask a monk sitting at a bus stop, showing him on the map where I want to go.  He assures me that turning right at the T junction ahead is the right way to go – this takes me to the river and no exit.  A woman asks if I want a boat. No I don’t want a boat and have to go back again, ending up on a parallel road and almost back in Old Bagan when I spot a map outside a temple.  It has ‘you are here’ on it and I’m able to work it out.  The place is flat like Florida, another part of the world in which I’m prone to get lost. By dodging across on some minor roads I manage to get on track, but not without getting very hot and bothered and sunburnt knees.  I’ve put sunblock everywhere else.  It’s too hot to swim I just shower and flake out on the bed.  It turns out the lunch café is only five minutes away by taking a side road near the hotel.  We went a very long way round.  As we gather in Priscilla for the evening ride to dinner, everyone reports on their adventures.  Mike and Ray, who were supposed to be chilling, decided to walk to the very tall viewing tower which appears to be close to the hotel.  It is close, but they go the long way ending up walking seven kilometres.  They enthuse about the view and for the 5000kt ($6 NZ) entrance fee, get a drink at the top.  Richard C has been reluctant to include this in previous tours, maintaining that it was just funding the generals, plus it’s a modern construction out of place amongst antiquity. He has a change of heart and offers an optional visit the next day on the basis that the government has changed and the economy is to be encouraged.  John and Nev sort of got lost finding their way back but more worryingly, the batteries on their scooters rand down and they only just made it, trailing at snail pace towards the end.  Richard N decided to risk the bicycle and made reasonable progress until he had a flat tyre.  He didn’t make it to the museum and had to ‘bribe’ someone to give him and the bike a lift back. Richard C nobly took all our laundry into the village launder-o-mat, saving us a few dollars on the Hotel prices. Garry, Mark and Peter had a drama free day.

Tonight the bus takes us to a Burmese restaurant in the village and the service is incident free and the food delicious.  It’s worth noting that Burmese food can be hot and spicy and the first plate of food is one of ‘mixed condiments.  A dish of chopped chillies in fish sauce is guaranteed to liven up your meal.  There’s also a tea salad made from fermented fresh tea leaves which can be quite hot.  Fried beans, which look like peanut halves, are delicious and crunchy and then you get a ginger salad.  Everyone gets their turn at ‘the runs’, particularly those who like their food hot and spicy.  It’s due to the over use of chillie which reacts in a gut, unaccustomed to this food – I remember this from China 5 years ago – It’s not actually a bug.  Some in the group are brave enough to order salads at restaurants and seem to get away with it.  Richard tells us that everything is washed in bottled water and that Burmese people, unless they are very poor, don’t drink water from the tap – it’s so cheap to buy – in plastic bottles.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s an early start as we will travel most of the day.  Madalay has been enchanting, but there’s a puzzle in that no one can quite remember who wrote the song ‘On the Road to Mandalay’.  Noel Coward is suggested, but it turns out to be Kipling’s Poem, written in faux cockney and set to music by Oley Speaks and sung by many, including Sinatra.

It seems clear to me that Kipling never came to Burma, because his geography is quite wrong.  A British solider is dreaming of his Burmese lover.

By the old Moulmein Pagoda lookin’ lazy at the sea.

Mandalay is about two thirds of the way up the country, miles from the sea. Only the Ayeyerwady here.

But looking closer, Moulmein is on the coastline sweeping south to Thailand.  It faces west, and is where the Burma Girl waits for him, or so he believes. So why does he want to go back to Mandalay?

On the road to Mandalay

Where the flying fishes play

I believe that flying fishes are salt water creatures. The muddy Ayeyerwady might not be freshwater, but it ‘aint got any salt in it.

An the dawn come up like thunder oute China ‘crost the Bay

Maynmar shares a border with China to the North, a direction from which I’ve never known the sun to rise, though with a bit of imagination you might see the Bay in one of the bends in the Ayeyerwady.

The landscape from Mandalay to Bagan is unremarkable.  We travel south through poor undeveloped farmland.  Fields seem to be fallow or being tilled, ready for planting in the age old method with a cow pulling a wooden plough.  I spot one rotary cultivator suggesting some progress is being made.

The Bagan area is flat and packed full of temples from an era of the Bagan Kings roughly spanning the 11^th – 13^th Centuries.  It has now sadly lost its’ UNESCO world heritage site status due to unacceptable restoration, modern sized bricks, rough pointing and the use of concrete to fill gaps.  In addition a tourist hotel has been built by the river in old Bagan within the heritage site area.  Some years ago the Government forcibly moved all the people from Old Bagan to clear the area for tourism. New Bagan, several kilometres south seems to now be a thriving area for the lacquer ware industry.  It’s hot here, so we’re desperate to jump into the fifteen metre swimming pool at the Amazing Bagan Resort.

I’m also keen to do some training as this is the only swimming pool on the tour.  The water is hot, around 26-28 degrees so I have to stop every four lengths to cool down and only last twenty minutes.  We gather in the evening to visit the first of many temples – Pya Tha Da.  We climb up the steep steps using hands on steps above for balance as there is no handrail.  There’s a great sunset view and a group of young monks are colourful in their saffron robes.

We have a full second day here with temple visits best described with pictures.

Gubyaukgyi

Htilominlo

 

This beautiful temple, Ananda, was inspired by the  Himalayas. The architect has created white mountains of great beauty with corners guarded by marble lions which on close inspection have been awarded two penises each.  Presumably this means extra potency. The king had the architect killed on completion so he couldn’t build anything more beautiful for someone else – as they did in those days.

 

We are being followed by around six army trucks carrying soldiers.  They turn out to be 18 year old recruits having a day off.  they all look around 16 and we immediately remember not to photograph any of the military in Myanmar.  This is the first time we have seen any sign of them – they are more prominent in Yangon.

Word gets around that it’s OK to photograph these young men as they are not real soldiers yet.  As they are all bare-footed in preparation for entering the temples, even in their smart green uniforms they don’t quite look like soldiers.   Joining the military is of course an alternative way of gaining an education – of sorts – similar to, but different from a monastery.

We stop at a local market selling fruit, vegetables, betel nuts & leaves which many of the men here chew.  All of our crew indulge and in consequence have red stained teeth. A very short woman which I initially mistake for a child follows me around touching my elbow for attention and indicating that she is hungry.  My first thought is to buy her a mango as she looks so woeful.

She has pushed some paper up one nostril to look like snot and I note that her bare feet are deformed. I escape to bargain for a dark blue Longyi, and the beggar chases the others. The hawker women here start by giving a ‘gift’ of a cake of traditional sunblock made from the pith of a particular tree ( you can buy cut up branches in the market). We are then exhorted to buy whatever they are selling and if anyone is strong enough to resist, the ‘gift’ is snatched back with a cross snort.

Waiting for the bus to collect us, we are deluged by the hawkers even though we have learned how to say no thank you in Mayanmar – Mo way boo Jezu bar.  The beggar woman is still around and Richard C works out that they guys have given her the equivalent of a week’s work and proceeds to give us a few tips to avoid being targeted. 1 don’t look at the merchandise. 2 Don’t engage in conversation with the seller. 3. Don’t ask the price unless you want to buy. 4 Don’t name a price at the start and only agree when you get to a price you want to pay. 5. Don’t change your mind after agreeing,

We go to a village to the north of this area to find a café– sort of named after a pub chain.  Nine of us pile into this open air eatery cooled by fans and sporting a white-board graffiti wall with comments from all over the world.  Richard C goes off to arrange massages for some of us (included in the tour package).  The owner of the café is intrigued and asks where the women are.  He’s guessed and we’re not shy in ‘coming out’.  It’s all fine and he admits that the place is ‘Gay Friendly’, but please would we not put anything on facebook as homosexuality is still quite frowned upon by some people.

Things are changing in the country, as evidenced by the bright newly framed portrait of Aung San Suu Kyi, but there is a way to go. Though this country is making great progress it’s being done with lots of small steps,  so I’m not telling you the name of the café, but if you are gong to Bagan and want to visit, I’ll tell you privately.  If you are reading the Lonely Planet or Rough Guide, you’ll find it.

The massage place is a long communal room with firm mattresses on the floor.  Four of us plus Richard have opted for this experience.  Burmese massage is quite distinctive and is done through the clothes or a towel if there is any bare skin.  It relies on pressure on the muscles and the masseurs (3) and masseuses (2) use elbows, hands, knees and feet to kneed the body.  Limbs are manipulated and it helps to be flexible as you can find your spine being stretched out by pushing legs over in one direction whilst holding the opposite shoulder in place.  The Masseurs all work methodically and seem to all be at the same stage, keeping together.  Being a bit of a connoisseur of massage, I find it’s good, and much needed after all the tramping around temples and getting in and out of the bus.

So it’s an afternoon of more temples. I undertook this tour with the expectation of being ‘templed out’ quite soon.  I have never been in a country where Buddhism is so strong and just when you think you’ve seen every temple you could imagine there’s yet another one, quite unique.

Sulamani

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A group of stupas nick-named Pisa have tilted – perhaps an earthquake or poor foundations.  Nearby a family live in impoverished conditions selling souvenirs at this little frequented sits.  A young man puts out his wares in hope.

 

Dhammayangyi

Our sunset today is from the river.  Richard hires a boat powered by a propeller on a long extension to take us up-stream.

We’ve stocked up with beer – wine is expensive here and usually not very good.

We pass what look like decommissioned river cruise boats now acting as accommodation for workers.  There are a few other boats around with couples on a romantic evening out and when we all get far enough upstream, the noisy engines are cut and we drift silently downstream as the sun falls firstly behind a low cloud and then behind the distant hills.

The light on pagodas back-grounded by threatening monsoon clouds is fantastic.  So far, in what is supposed to be the beginning of the monsoon season, we’ve been lucky.

The bus takes us to an Indian Restaurant.  The tables are outside with mood candle light.  It’s great for a young couple but it’s a bit dim for most of us ‘older chaps’ to see the menu, so being resourceful we turn on our phone torches.  Someone has come prepared with a real torch.

The Kitchen struggles to deliver for ten guests at once and the main dish arrives before the rice.  Some of our party forget what they ordered so waiters are standing with an unclaimed dish.  Garry and Mark have ordered extra garlic Nan bread while poor Nev, who ordered a salad (no cooking needed) is served last.  Worst of all his Nan bread has got forgotten in the deluge of garlic Nans further up the table. Nev is stoic and indulges us in our bread jokes.  Even though some of us have taken to wearing longyis to dinner, the mosquitoes are out and some have forgotten to put on repellent.  They don’t buzz, are smaller than Waiheke Mosquitoes and the bites don’t seem to swell up much. Just as well most of us are taking anti-malarial tablets.