The back ways of Bagan are for the most part deserted. The occasional bus, seemingly a remnant of the days of the British raj, rattles by. A stray dog makes its way along the scrub, not bothering to lift its tail. Every now and then a woman balancing a jar on her head emerges from the dusty plain. Their calls of greeting are easy to return, their smiles impossible to refuse.

Bagan is the ancient capital of Myanmar, and one of the most inspiring sights in Asia. Any misgivings about the eighteen-hour bus ride from Yangon soon disappear as you explore the seemingly endless ruins. Each one has its story. Gathering enough of these tales makes the past live again, at least in the traveller’s mind. The way it did under the might of King Anawrahta, founder of the majesty of Bagan.

"Minga la baa," the Burmese hello, is the first thing I hear as I leave the modern Anawrahta road for one of the dirt tracks criss-crossing the pagoda-filled distance. Of the estimated five thousand temples surviving in Bagan, built between 1057 and Kublai Khan’s pillage two hundred years later, Dhammayangyi Pahto stands out for both the integrity of its remains and its tragic story.

I bring my bicycle to a halt before the mass of streaked bricks rising from a field of hay. A handful of oxen jostle below the walls, and the clatter of hooves interrupts my reverie. "Minga la baa!" I hear as the hooves near. I turn to see a cart drawn by two white Brahmins pull short. I return the welcome and point to my camera. The driver straightens himself beneath a mollusc hat and waits patiently as his image is taken.

"Chay zoo dai." He shakes the reins at the two weary beasts which move on through the afternoon’s heat. I pass beneath the arch of the temple's East entrance. Inside the compound a group of artists, cane juice-vendors and children gather. A smile and a shake of the head is all that is needed to discourage the touts. But, unlike other countries in the region, a small group remain who are interested in understanding this stranger.

"I like your hair."

"You from Jamaica?"

"Your jewellery is from here?"

Are just a sample of the queries and statements thrown around. Mothers hold babies high to stare, antique vendors furtively unwrap icons, adolescent nuns bow their heads and giggle. The crumbling walls regain a fraction of the life they knew during the peak of Bagan’s power. At its height an empire occupying all of modern day Myanmar and the entirety of Thailand’s Menam Valley.

Moving into the cool interior of the temple, and paying homage to the Buddhist images which occupy every nook, is a welcome relief from the sun. Inside people kneel in prayer and the sound of shuffling is amplified by half-forgotten chambers.

Legend has it that King Narathu, fearing the karma accrued from the murder of his father and brother and the heavy-hand of his reign, ordered the temple built to offset his sins. During its construction, the good king put to death any builder who allowed enough space between the bricks to thrust a pin. Not surprisingly, Narathu was assassinated before the completion of his karmic plea, and the temple remained unfinished.

The walls of Dhammayangyi breathe a dissolute air. One which is hard to reconcile with the peace of the inner vault. I climb one of the claustrophobic stairways leading to the upper floors, and gasp at the sight which greets me. The horizon stretches in an uninterrupted strip of green, the pinnacles and hti (gilded umbrella tops) of thousands of temples glitter in the sun.

The sheer magnitude of the lost city is stirring. After an hour of being humbled by the grandeur which peers from every aspect of the horizon, I descend to the red earth and buy a copy of Orwell’s Burmese Days. "Is this your bicycle?" a man hovering above a collection of trinkets smiles. Like the majority of men in Myanmar, he wears the traditional skirt-styled longyi. "It’s good, it’s a Hero."

I pretend to admire my bike that little bit more, and ask Po-Sin - we exchange names and handshakes quickly - to locate Sulamani Pahto on a map. "Yes, this bicycle is from India, like Narathu’s wife."

In Bagan every one has a story about their favourite ruin. Some of these tales are outrageous fiction, designed to part the unwary traveller from their foreign exchange certificates. "The princess was so lonely she cast flowers into the well all day. She died from a broken heart. If you want, my sister sells flowers. You can make the princess happy again." Others focus on the architects, priests, Kings and washing ladies whose lives are inextricably tied with the history of this once great kingdom. Most of the tales are interesting in their own right. I balance myself, ready to depart, when Po-Sin continues;

"Yes, Narathu executed his wife, an Indian princess, because he didn’t like her foreign habits. Eight men disguised as priests killed him for this injustice." He sways his head at the thought of this outcome, and wishes me luck.

There are literary hundreds of temples to be scaled. Taking a little time to understand the character of each complex produces a story, a legend, or a fact, as interesting as the last. Through days of riding unmarked paths I find clusters of ruins where not another person - sightseer or local - lingers. For these I find a shadowy recess to sit, consult a history book, and imagine the mysteries and intrigues that once played out within their walls.
(featured Spring 2004)