Four days in Bagan

Day one

5am. The bus pulls into the station just as first sunlight races across Bagan's plains. It's not the only thing racing; a horde of taxi drivers chase our bus through the station gathering at the door  and pleading for our attention as we disembark. Before departing the bus driver had made it clear that our taxi to Nyaung-U should cost 5,000 Kyat. The moment our feet touch tarmac five drivers peal away from the group, like lions hunting the weakest buffalo. "Where you go? Nyaung-U 15,000 Kyat."

Ignoring them we move to the back of the bus to collect our bags. A recording on repeat booms out from an ancient tannoy system: "If you want to go to New Bagan 12,000 Kyat, Old Bagan 9,000 Kyat, Nyaung-U 5,000 Kyat."

The drivers surround us, jostling for position, although there is a clear hierarchy whether caused by age, power or size. The fat one speaks. "Where you go?" I tell him our hotel name. "Nyaung-U? 12,000 Kyat," he says.

"It's just down the road."

"But outside town," he shrugs. "Okay, 10,000 Kyat."

We start to walk away. The tannoy still plays:  "If you want to go to New Bagan 12,000 Kyat, Old Bagan 9,000 Kyat, Nyaung-U 5,000 Kyat."

The fat one pursues us. "How much you pay?"

"5,000 Kyat."

He wheels away in disgust, as though I've just spat on his shoes. "Hotel outside town," he repeats.

Pulling out my phone I check the hotel location on the maps.me app. Everyone gathers around to see the tiny screen, like we're all friends ready to watch a funny cat video on YouTube. I point out that while the hotel is outside the town, it is outside the town on the drive in. In other words, it is closer to us than the town itself. 

"And listen," I say. Everyone looks to the heavens straining to hear the tannoy over the din of bus engines.

 "If you want to go to New Bagan 12,000 Kyat, Old Bagan 9,000 Kyat, Nyaung-U 5,000 Kyat."

The man nods, seemingly ready to concede defeat. "Okay, 8,000 Kyat."

4pm. We take advantage of the hotel's free push bikes to go see our first sunset. They're the kind that you see in World War Two movies, with handlebars that curve horizontally and no gears. The seat height is fixed, so Sofia sits low down, BMX-style, I'm high up, my knees striking the break leaver. We stare at the highly inaccurate map given to us upon check in and decide to explore a group of temples 7km away. The road is straight, paved and undulates gently, but the combination of thick humidity and squeaky, rusty bikes make the going tough. We are drenched in sweat by the time we arrive. A thick layer of cloud hangs over us, soon it begins to rain. We shelter in one of the temples, squeezing up a small, dark staircase to take in the view. It is quiet. Peaceful. There can't be that many other British people around here, I think.

"Hello there." A bearded man stands before us, camera in hand, bear belly poking out from his white shirt. He is quite clearly English. "Where are you from?" he asks.

"London. You?"

"Near Peterborough," he says. "It's a small town called Stamford."

I look at Sofia, then at the man. "You must be kidding."

"No, why?"

"I come from Stamford."

 

Day two

6.30am. We're huffing our way back from sunrise on the same push bikes as the day before. The sun was half hidden in cloud as it rose but the experience was spectacular all the same. As we struggle up the hill to the hotel, a couple on a moped-like e-bike breeze past. The electric motor is so silent I strain to hear it. Sofia catches up to me, her face red with the strain.

"After breakfast, we're getting one of those," she says.

11am. We pick up an e-bike. The battery last for 45km, top speed is 35mph. Only an idiot can crash this, I think. 

5pm. We crash. Skidding in the thick sand while on our way to see sunset, we end up face first in a sand dune. As we brush ourselves down I'm already planning a different route back to the hotel in my head.

6.30pm. "Listen. I've got a plan," I say to Sofia. "My iPhone map says there's a road going round the back of the hotel, we should go home that way. We'll miss all the traffic and that thick sand."

Sofia takes a moment to look at the phone. "Didn't the guy at the hotel say you couldn't go that way?"

"Yeah, but look, a huge road. They probably just don't want lots of traffic through that small village or something. If we go now we'll be back by seven."

7.20pm. It's almost dark. It's started to rain. The e-bike battery is almost flat. We're driving across a field. 

7.35pm. I stop to check the map. "It says we're still on the road," I say, panicking slightly.

"Looks like a field to me," Sofia says. "Maybe we should go back."

"We're basically there," I say. "Look, we'll be on that small road soon, then it's an easy ride."

7.45pm. The small road turns out to be the main highway. Cars blare past, their headlights blind our view. 

8pm. We finally arrive back at the rental shop and return the e-bike. There is a twig in my hair.

 

Day three

4am. The alarm blares out waking us for sunrise. It's pouring with rain so we roll over and go back to sleep.

2pm. There is a huge Chinese-style building that thrusts into the skyline ruining the view of the temples over old Bagan. It's monstrous. I can't believe anyone was allowed to build it and for a while presumed it was a hotel. We now find ourselves standing at its entrance, it's the museum. We're excited to learn something more about the area, because having been here for three days we're still not even sure who built the temples.

The entrance leads into a huge hallway with an enormous painting of the largest Pagodas and temples at the far end. I read the accompanying label: 'Painting of temples'.

From the hallway there are eight different rooms, some with air conditioning, some without. The first room displays tiny fragments of pottery. Each cabinet has a label, each says the same thing: 'Pots of Bagan.'

Another room is filled with thick slabs of stone standing up right, each with carvings in what I presume to be Burmese. It looks like a graveyard. The first label reads: "Inscription found in Bagan'. At the end of the room is a long cabinet filled with wigs, I walk over to the label already fairly confident of what it will say: 'Wigs of Bagan'.

Upstairs are more rooms. One houses individual paintings of all the larger temples. Each painting is the same style and has the same signature. There must be 500 of them, none have labels. For ten minutes I stand in front of the air conditioning unit watching a lady in traditional Burmese dress silently polish the floor. 

The final room is hugely informative, sadly only about the building of the hotel. As we leave I ask Sofia which was her favourite room. "Any of the ones with air conditioning," she says.

5.30pm. We take our place for sunset along with hundreds of others at the Shwesandaw Pagoda, the most popular of all the temples. The sky is cloudy but the horizon appears clear. Optimistic chatter fills the air as tourists jostle for position. It takes a while but eventually it dawns on us that the clear horizon in the west is actually covered by one huge cloud reflecting the blue sky in the east. As the sun slips behind it, hordes of tourists descend the stairs like football fans leaving a game early. 

 

Day four

6am. We're back on a much quieter Shwesandaw Pagoda, watching the sun rise in a silent, dreamy awe. 

 

4pm. We have picked our favourite temple, Pyathada, to spend the final afternoon and sunset in. As we hide from the sun in one of the archways a Burmese man appears. He stares at us, laughs, then walks away, only to return a minute later with a friend. Then another appears, then another. Soon an entire bus load of Burmese holiday makers are taking photos of us. Each wants an individual photo and we are marched around the temple while each chooses their favourite spot. One man is very unhappy when I pull a funny face, so I look sad in the next one. He's thrilled. 

6pm. The wind is picking up. Way off in the distance a huge storm cloud is building and I watch as it moves across the plain. You can see where it is raining by how the trees start to shake. Suddenly, a guest of wind layers the temple in sand. The wind has changed direction like the running dinosaurs in Jurassic park. The rain is now heading right for us. With a night bus to catch, the last thing we want is to be soaked.

"There's a storm coming!" I say to Sofia. "We should leave."

On the e-bike the wind throws sand in our faces. We can hear the storm approaching in the distance but it never quite reaches us. Instead we arrive back at the rental shop looking like sand monsters. 

"I hope it rains," I say. "We need a good soaking."

 

7pm. Sofia has decided to buy a painting from a local artist. Apparently it will look good in the kitchen. The artist is incredibly smiley and runs a gallery full of work by local artists. However, there's a problem, how do we transport the canvas?

"I roll!" the artist says, "Put in tube."

Sounds like a plan. 

The artist wanders out the back and returns with a drain pipe. I can't help but wonder if he swiped it from his neighbour's house, especially as he begins to clean the inside with a piece of old rag. He measures the painting, cuts a piece of pipe to size, then cleans again. He files the ends down, then adds masking tape to one end. Slowly the canvas is rolled and pushed into the pipe. The other end is taped and with a beaming smile the final product is handed over. 

I ask if I can take a picture of him and Sofia. His smile turns to a look of panic. "Yes, but with shirt."

We wait while he buttons his top, then he stands proud, that beaming smile free again.