approached. They wanted to test their simple English on me. We passed a few minutes in happy, childlike communication, a simple human sharing amid the other-worldly magnificence of the pagoda.
In contrast to the gleaming spire of the pagoda, many of the larger modern buildings in the city center needed repair. Even the historic old hotel, The Strand, needed attention to its paintwork. There were plenty of townspeople on the sidewalks and crammed into minibuses. They were slightly built with graceful features. The men wore a sarong, called longyi in Burma, and the women, many made up with a yellow/white paste on their faces and sometimes arms, had unexpected elegance and grace in the poor surroundings. All were polite and helpful.
I headed north for 445 miles to Mandalay, sitting in a reserved seat in an old steam train. Mandalay is Myanmar's second largest city and the economic hub of northern Burma. I was more interested in romantic Mandalay as described by Kipling, who wrote: "On the road to Mandalay/ where the flyin-fishes play/ and the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the bay." His evocative language of the British soldier has a fine ring, but the exact references to flying fish and dawn shouldn't be taken literally.
Outside the train station in Mandalay a rickshaw driver whisked me off to a guest house catering to foreigners. In Burma I just paid what was asked, sometimes just extending my hand with coins in it since I somehow trusted the Burmese. Compared to Thailand I never felt at risk in Burma, where the people seemed much more innocent in their isolation. In the early evening I climbed 800 feet to the top of Mandalay Hill, from which I could see the walls of the Mandalay Palace, destroyed by fire, home of the royal dynasty which ruled Burma until the British arrived. In the foreground I could see the Irrawaddy River, which I would embark on the next day, and in the distance a flat, fertile landscape.
Early the following morning I boarded a river ferry which would take us downstream. A number of young tourists from Germany, New Zealand and France occupied the upper deck, sitting in chairs where they were served lunch; local Burmese passengers lay in hammocks on the lower deck and ate food they had brought with them. The boat stopped at riverside villages and women would display fruits and cooked meats for passengers to buy, shouting out their appeal. We arrived early evening in Bagan, the jewel in the crown of Burmese tourist attractions.
The place where we disembarked was a dusty village, with some cafes and guest houses for foreigners. The reason for their interest was close by: over two thousand stupas stretched out over sixteen square miles of plain. Of different architectural styles and sizes, they had been built during the 11 th through the 13 th centuries, when Bagan was the capital until the arrival of the Mongols in 1287. Prior to 1975 there were more than five thousand stupas, but an earthquake in that year demolished about half of them.
I rented a bike and spent a morning cycling around the temples nearest to the village, exploring inside and climbing up to the top of some of them. There were large structures of many different styles. I sat alone up high on one of the temples and looked out across the distance to many more, as far as the eye could see, a vast outdoor museum. It was a silent and serene scene, soothing and peaceful. I fell asleep until some voices in German woke me.
Back in the village I checked in, as required, at the police station where they registered my passport number. I rented a small wooden boat and paddled out on the Irrawaddy to take a sunset shot of a ox cart loading barrels of water from the river. I ate meals and hung out with other backpackers, and met a pretty and vibrant young woman from San Francisco, Karen Sass. She had interest in and passion for the Burmese and seemed the epitome of the best sort of budget backpacker, enquiring and sympathetic. I would
In contrast to the gleaming spire of the pagoda, many of the larger modern buildings in the city center needed repair. Even the historic old hotel, The Strand, needed attention to its paintwork. There were plenty of townspeople on the sidewalks and crammed into minibuses. They were slightly built with graceful features. The men wore a sarong, called longyi in Burma, and the women, many made up with a yellow/white paste on their faces and sometimes arms, had unexpected elegance and grace in the poor surroundings. All were polite and helpful.
I headed north for 445 miles to Mandalay, sitting in a reserved seat in an old steam train. Mandalay is Myanmar's second largest city and the economic hub of northern Burma. I was more interested in romantic Mandalay as described by Kipling, who wrote: "On the road to Mandalay/ where the flyin-fishes play/ and the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the bay." His evocative language of the British soldier has a fine ring, but the exact references to flying fish and dawn shouldn't be taken literally.
Outside the train station in Mandalay a rickshaw driver whisked me off to a guest house catering to foreigners. In Burma I just paid what was asked, sometimes just extending my hand with coins in it since I somehow trusted the Burmese. Compared to Thailand I never felt at risk in Burma, where the people seemed much more innocent in their isolation. In the early evening I climbed 800 feet to the top of Mandalay Hill, from which I could see the walls of the Mandalay Palace, destroyed by fire, home of the royal dynasty which ruled Burma until the British arrived. In the foreground I could see the Irrawaddy River, which I would embark on the next day, and in the distance a flat, fertile landscape.
Early the following morning I boarded a river ferry which would take us downstream. A number of young tourists from Germany, New Zealand and France occupied the upper deck, sitting in chairs where they were served lunch; local Burmese passengers lay in hammocks on the lower deck and ate food they had brought with them. The boat stopped at riverside villages and women would display fruits and cooked meats for passengers to buy, shouting out their appeal. We arrived early evening in Bagan, the jewel in the crown of Burmese tourist attractions.
The place where we disembarked was a dusty village, with some cafes and guest houses for foreigners. The reason for their interest was close by: over two thousand stupas stretched out over sixteen square miles of plain. Of different architectural styles and sizes, they had been built during the 11 th through the 13 th centuries, when Bagan was the capital until the arrival of the Mongols in 1287. Prior to 1975 there were more than five thousand stupas, but an earthquake in that year demolished about half of them.
I rented a bike and spent a morning cycling around the temples nearest to the village, exploring inside and climbing up to the top of some of them. There were large structures of many different styles. I sat alone up high on one of the temples and looked out across the distance to many more, as far as the eye could see, a vast outdoor museum. It was a silent and serene scene, soothing and peaceful. I fell asleep until some voices in German woke me.
Back in the village I checked in, as required, at the police station where they registered my passport number. I rented a small wooden boat and paddled out on the Irrawaddy to take a sunset shot of a ox cart loading barrels of water from the river. I ate meals and hung out with other backpackers, and met a pretty and vibrant young woman from San Francisco, Karen Sass. She had interest in and passion for the Burmese and seemed the epitome of the best sort of budget backpacker, enquiring and sympathetic. I would
Similar Books
