Day 51

Day 51: A love affair is born…

8:30ish — Free breakfast of diced watermelon, toast, eggs, juice, and coffee atop the open air roof of the Inwa hostel. The sound of bikes echo in the streets below. The sky a royal blue for another consecutive day. You tell yourself…today…today will be great day. Only you have no idea at that moment how great it will be…

11:00ish – You meander down a dirt road as traffic (both foot and bike) begins to swell in anticipation for the full moon…just a day away. For on a full moon Buddhist villagers, from far and wide, travel great distances to Bagan to worship before its ancient temples. You make a right then a left and find yourself in a barber’s chair…being lathered up for a shave. You open your eyes to find the barber’s face just inches from yours as his hand steadily drags a straight razor across your chin. Village children stand in the doorway and watch…

12:00ish – You find the town’s market. You duck down one of its darkened endless lanes, the sunlight blocked out by a rudimentary tin roof. You make a left then another left then a right and pass a sea of fresh fish, fresh meat, fresh fruit, fresh vegetables. You smile and chuckle to yourself as you imagine Seinfeld’s Jay Peterman following your every step and providing play by play. He would do well in his “Burma.” You find an ornate keepsake tucked away in a far corner of the market and decide on the spot that it must come with you. You haggle and turn over a few greenbacks.

12:30ish – You ask someone the time. 90 minutes. That’s what you have to kill. You notice a sign out of place: “The Beach at Bagan – Café: 200 meters.” The arrow leads you down a dirt road towards the river and away from the main drag. A horse-drawn carriage rolls past. The only other sound is the dirt under your feet. You round the corner and discover a sign, tucked into the trees, welcoming you to The Beach. The dirt turns into fine craftsmanship in the form of a wooden walkway under your feet. The path is surrounded by trees and bush. The sun is blocked out. Your sight follows the path straight ahead. Suddenly you see water through what appears to be a beautiful restaurant. It is! A tiny gem of upscale dining nestled quietly off the drag….and perched on stilts but fifty feet from the Ayeyarwady’s edge. You find the restaurant empty save an elderly French couple. You find a two man table pushed up against the balcony and sit. You turn to your right and rest your chin on the railing 2×4. The river lay out before you to the north. Fisherman wading in its slow moving muddy current. Women washing clothes. Children bath. To the far north the land stretches out into infinity. Up there somewhere, you think to yourself, are the Himalayas. My God what a sight they will be one day soon. Off to the west the river turns into rolling hills. To the west, the Chin state (off-limited to foreigners), is all that separates you from Bangladesh. You order fried noodles ($2.50usd) and drift back to the view. The view, you decide, could be eastern Africa or the Nile. The clouds move so slow across the sky you could swear they were painted there. You take a deep breath and tell yourself to never forget this vista…

2:00pm sharp – Two wide-eyed and genuine nineteen-year-olds pull to a scheduled stop in front of your hostel. They’re punctual. Their boyish smiling faces, familiar from the day prior, remind you that you’re no longer a youth. You jump on the back of the talkative one’s motorbike and head off in a cloud of dust. You cock your head up to enjoy a full blast of afternoon sunlight. You smile and think how lucky you are to be given a personal tour of the temples by two locals…via the back of a motorbike.

2:20pm – Entering your first pagoda of the afternoon, not another tourist in sight, you discover the talkative one knows a great deal about religion artwork, Buddhist history, and is eager to answer any question that may arise.

2:30 – 4:00ish – As if lifted directly from some lost charter of Indiana Jones’ youth, you find yourself climbing and scaling and relishing every moment as you ride through the grass fields swallowing the great temples of Bagan. Every turn, every dirt path, every shortcut, every temple…chosen for this tour, you are told, for a reason. The oldest. The tallest. The widest. The most sacred. You tour them all as the sun makes its way into that perfect late afternoon position. This place is too good to be true. Long ago you lent the quiet one your sunglasses. You smile every time he pulls up along side you, betel nut juice turning his teeth a blood red. You film it all: the temples…the exhilarating careening along dusty sand trails…the eclipses of the sun as it disappears behind countless temples. You shake your head and realize a day of discovery like this doesn’t happen but once in a blue moon. Or, maybe once in a full moon.

4:20ish – You pull into the talkative one’s home. Within minutes you are surrounded, as the guest of honor, by a mother, a father, an older brother, his wife, their child, and three sisters. You are encouraged to sit and watch as the brother practices his craft: religious painting. Dried fish (head-tail-and all), nuts, and tea appear. You eat and ask questions. You have the talkative one translate for his father your gratitude for allowing you to visit his home. None but two speak English, yet all listen intently. You count yourself blessed to be experiencing such an encounter. You are told that father and mother have never interacted with a tourist before. You smile and hope you’re being a good ambassador…for the outside world. You then, naturally, grab more fish head and lob them in your mouth. When the brother reaches for a leaf to prepare his betel nut, you decide its time. “May I try?” The family speaks their native language and all lean in as you place a rolled up green leaf in your mouth and bite. Juice starts to flow and you spit to your right — its blood red. You’re having one of those epic days.

5:15ish – You extend thanks and head out with your two guides in search of the perfect sunset. You find it. Far away from the tour buses. Far away from the crowds. Atop a deserted temple you watch the sun sink into the hills to the west, the brick temples of Bagan glowing red. You shake your head. This is a magical place. And how fortunate I am to be part of it…if for a moment…

5:40ish – You pull back into the talkative one’s home. Before you can dismount people jump into motion. You earlier accept an invitation to dinner, but have no idea what to expect. You sit cross legged on the mat in the center of the tight, open air, communal room. You survey your primitive surroundings and marvel that nine people call this home. As activity continues in what appears to be the kitchen, you watch a stone-faced woman report the nightly news alongside the talkative one and his thirty-nine-year-old brother. You discuss a great many things with the two and feel privileged to do so.

6:00pm – From the kitchen suddenly appear plate after plate, all finding a resting place directly in front of you.

“Aren’t you all going to eat now,” you ask your friend.

“It is customary that guests eat first. My family will eat later.”

With a feast laid out before you, you make eye contact and smile at each of the nine faces staring back at you. “Thank you,” you say in Burmese. Thank you. You ask if they use utensils. The response is what you expect, and with that you place the spoon and fork provided you off to the side. Like the mechanical claw that reaches for tiny stuffed animal prizes at the fair, you begin grabbing mounts of food from every dish and depositing them on your plate. All eyes watching your every move. You begin shoveling food and rice into your mouth and don’t stop for a very very very long time. You long ago disregard your body’s instruction to stop feeding, and continue with round after round which appear from the kitchen. You are told the woman always cooks except when a guest is to the house, when the father does. You smile at him and again offer thanks.

6:30ish – The power goes out. Candles appear so quickly you realize this is a routine occurrence. The food is cleared. By candle light and tea talk turns to the government and corruption. You listen closely and remain focused as the brother talks passionately. Father looks on. Mother, eyes a milky blue, has lost much of her sight. The conversation shifts. You have your friend translate that your clothes were washed in the river. Laugher erupts from all. You score some points with a mother.

7:15ish – You select three works of religious art, drawn by the talkative one and the quiet one, from their collection. They are rolled up and placed on the back of the motorbike. You offer thanks yet again and shake (in the Burmese custom) the hand of each family member. You wave goodbye as the bike rolls out of the yard. The sky above is dark but the road is illuminated by a full moon. You smile ear to ear as the motorbike twists and turns though the night.

7:30ish – You arrive at the familiar tea shop from the night before. The crowd is already massive. Each man’s eyes locked on two television sets. Arsenal vs. Tottenham. English Premiership football. The week’s main event. You cut through the crowd and all eyes turn to you. Sweet tea is poured as you exchange smiles with curious onlookers. You see four elder monks smiling back at you. You think you’ll never get used to seeing them.

9:30ish — The match ends to the approval of the pro-Arsenal crowd. You head out and into the night. You contemplate to yourself how much money you’re going to give your two friends in exchange for the paintings they have already made clear are a gift. You arrive back at your hostel and run upstairs. You return with six business cards, a notebook, and $35usd in fives. You thank each for everything they have done and insist they take the money. They refuse yet this is a debate they’re not about to win. In a country where your trip ends when your money does, $35 dollars can mean a day or three. You tell yourself it’s a no-brainer given the magical day of generosity you have just experienced. You thank them again, shake hands, and wish them well. Before they leave, however, you have them write down their names in English and Burmese.

The talkative one and the quiet one.

They helped me fall in love with their country.

Thank you Tun Tun.

Thank you Mgon.