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I put in the hard yards for my final day in-country. After an early breakfast of eggs, tea, and bananas, I jumped on the back of Nyi Nyi's moped and we left the city, crossing over to the other side of the Irawaddy River by the mighty Irrawaddy Bridge, bound for Mingun. This is a place right out of Indiana Jones. The monumental base of an unfinished stupa like a stone mountain rising from the banks of the river. If finished it would have been a feat of Herculean proportions. The base alone is staggering in its size. Legend has it that the Burmese King abandoned the project after an astrologer prophesized his death should he ever complete it. Whatever the case, the gigantic plinth was split by an earthquake as if a god hit it with a mace. It's hard to get your head around the scale of the devastation until you see it up close and climb the staircase to the top. Cracks like fissures have opened up along its sides and huge chunks of stone fallen away. It's Biblical. There is an official-looking sign right at the base of the staircase (a metal thing like scaffolding installed long after the quake and climbing through a giant crack in the north-east corner) that forbids climbing. People climb right past it. I, naturally, was one of those people. On my way up, struggling under the savage sun, some locals once again fell in with me ("Hello. Where you from?"). You get a sixth sense about it living out here, it happens that much. Those who genuinely wants to talk, and those out for a piece of your wallet. These were of the latter. Still, it didn't bother me. My new shadow, a tired-faced tomboy of indeterminate age (anywhere between twenty and forty), spieled out bland factoids of information I'd already become familiar with through my print-outs. Yes, an earthquake destroyed it. Yes, you can climb it. Yes, it's a nice view. And so on. I'd rather just be left alone. I shaded my face with the folded paper I'd printed out. The view from the top, brown plains, gold stupas, and the shimmer of the Irrawaddy, was a sight more poetic than the haze from Mandalay Hill. In the end I let her take a picture of me at the top (the only one of myself from the entire trip, as it turned out), and of course when I was ready to go back down she wanted a "donation" for her unwanted services. At this point I was down to my final bucks and had no intention of changing over any more USD, so I doled out some small paper notes as a thank you for the picture, wished her luck for her studies, and retreated back down the steps and out of the sun. I could hear her grumbling under her breath as she slunk away. Monks were blasting karaoke music from their temple. Monks in saffron robes with smart phones. I'd tried my old tack of sneaking in through the side (I'd read that Mingun requires a ten dollar ticket and was on the lookout for any inspectors), through the garden of a pagoda, but nobody had asked me for my ticket, even on the stairs. It wasn't until I was getting back on Nyi Nyi's motorbike that the collector finally showed up and informed me that I needed to pay for a ticket. I already had the helmet in my hand. "Okay," I said, "I'm just getting it now." And we rode off and left him scratching his head.
The Sagaging road to Mingun hugs the steep banks of the Irrawaddy, lined with leafy pagodas and ornate monk's residences like Italian resorts set into the cliffs. It's the perfect place for an open-top Cadillac, if one possessed such a thing. Next time I come back here, I thought, I'm staying in Sagaging. If only I'd known it was this nice on the other side of the river. Sagaging itself is an old Burmese capital, one of several in the adjacent vicinity to Mandalay (also an old capital). There's four of them all butting up against one another. Hence the incredible concentration of stupas dotted on the hillsides and the endless processions of monks clustered along the road like red-robed hitchhikers. Next site on Nyi Nyi's whistle-stop moto tour of Mandalay and its surrounds was the hilltop Sagaging pagoda. There are many hilltop pagodas in and around Sagaging, but this one is the highest, and probably also the biggest. Another covered stairway to the summit ordeal, a la Mandalay Hill. Nyi Nyi left me at the base of the stairs and went for a tea break. Once more I found myself sweating it out up an endless staircase to the top of a mountain for the sake of a few snaps that probably wouldn't turn out anyway. In the end I don't think I even took any pictures up there at all. I just took in the hazy stupa-studded view and a little of that Burmese breeze, wandered the galleries of the mountain's resident golden stupa, failed to find any tea, and went back down again. Nyi Nyi seemed surprised to see me so soon. "Okay," he said. "Lunch time." We passed under the British brickwork of the rail viaduct and down some long country lane over-arched by trees and ended up at a ferry crossing. Chicken omelet and rice with a Mandalay tea on the deck of the stilt house above the pumpkin patch. MacArthur and Yamas***a battle it out in the streets of Manila. Scores of massacred victims. Women and children herded up into pantries and basements. A couple of tossed grenades. Bayonets to finish off the rest. American artillery blowing apart the Spanish Quarter. MacArthur's madness. I pulled my head out of the book. "What's on the other side of the river?" I asked (I had to find him first). "Inwa," Nyi Nyi said. "Old town." Right. I wish I'd printed out more of the "Around Mandalay" section from my pirated travel guide.
Inwa is another of those aforementioned ancient capitals. There's not a whole deal of it left. It's essentially an island of rice paddies, stilt houses, and rubble. I crossed over on the ferry and into the waiting arms of the horse-and-cart racket. The guidebook made it out to be a pleasant and essential aspect of the Inwa experience. I deigned to differ. Eight bucks for a scabby horse to pull me over some rutted backroads and snap a few pics of some old piles of stone? Actually it probably isn't all that bad, and if I wasn't travelling alone I would've had no qualms about joining in the horse-and-cart convoy. I just didn't want to blow the last of my money on frivolous exploits if I didn't have to. Walking was fine with me. I pulled out my folded pieces of paper, now repurposed as a makeshift hat or sunshade. I walked through the assembled horses and carts, dozens and dozens of the things, like Moses through the Red Sea. My only followers were flies. Flies and accusing stares. I was adamant that I would not pay for a thing on this island. But as it would turn out, I would pay with my life. Okay, not quite. But almost as bad.
I'd wandered some ways in along a well-rutted country road, past thatched fences and village children, and was already reconsidering my stinginess under the prospects of a few more hours in the direct afternoon sun, when I encountered a retiree-aged Dutch couple leisurely coming my way atop a pair of old bicycles. That's what I need, right there, I said to myself. (A bicycle, not a retiree-aged Dutch couple). I stopped them as they passed. "Where do you get those things?" I asked. They told me they'd got them from a girl who worked at one of the restaurants next to the ferry and all its horses and carts. Seven dollars for the both of them. I asked if I could follow them back and acquisition one for myself. How hard could it be to get a bicycle in this place? I was thinking. I trudged along at a trot behind them back to the restaurant. All the cart drivers were throwing us dirty looks. When the girl came out to collect them, she had this weasel-ish air about the whole transaction. Clearly it was not a practice openly condoned. Let the foreigners explore the ruins themselves? Surely not! How will we feed our horses when they're all riding the back roads on bicycles? One sour-faced local woman with the air of one in charge came out from the carts and scolded the girl. My prospects didn't look good. The two bicycles in question were wheeled guiltily away, back to their shed or other place of hidden storage. "Bicycle!" I kept shouting like a child. "Bicycle!" and pointing after them. Sour-Face shook her head at me like a Dickensian nun in the orphanage, lowering her withering stare at me, at the boy who dared to ask for more. I knew there would be no bicycles that day. I became petulant like a child. If I couldn't have my bicycle, nobody could have a bicycle. Then I realised that nobody had a bicycle anyway. That just made me more mad. The cart drivers were trying to get me into their carts. "No horse and cart," I kept saying. "Bicycle! I'll pay five thousand kyat (approx. $5 USD) to any man, woman, or child who will lend of me their wheels." (I'm paraphrasing somewhat here). "No bicycle!" they shouted back. Fine. f*** 'em. I'll goddamn walk. And walk I did. I walked off around the corner ignoring their shouts and mongering. An old man, a farmer, came running after me. He'd been watching the bicycle ordeal unfold and saw a quick buck in it. He was loping along in my wake pushing an ancient bicycle along with him, chasing me down. I began cheering. "How much?" I said. "Five thousand," he said. Five thousand! What a rip! But I was in no mood for logical thought. "I'll take it," I said, and handed over the note. It was worth it just to see the faces of the cart drivers burning lasers into me. Well, the one horse and cart driver who was close enough. But it was the principle of it, you see. That contraption must have been old as Dickens himself. Walking would have probably been easier. And faster. But I was having a great old time. In my mind, I'd won. In the farmer's mind, and in a far more practical sense, he'd won a lot more. Five clams. Five smackers. Five big cahoon-dogs. Stupid sucker, I could see him saying to himself, kissing the note and rubbing it on his brown belly for good luck. But I'd just as soon do it over again, sweat, struggle, and all. You enjoy that fiver, old timer. You spend that sucker good.
I pedaled over the sandy ruts cut by the daily procession of horse and carts. I visited the wooden houses of farmers and took pictures of their flowering gardens. I found a leaning watchtower rising up from the corn stalks. It was a beautiful thing to behold in its ruin. All that was left of the long-ago palace. I took out my notebook and began sketching the thing. Soon a small crowd of cart drivers and some Chinese tourists had gathered over my shoulder to watch. I'm afraid my efforts may have been a little anti-climactic. But I appreciated the gesture nonetheless. I think I did an okay job. I thanked them and continued on my way. Who is that strange, mysterious, and artistic gentleman on the old bicycle? I could hear them thinking after me.
I continued on in this fashion for some time. I saw a motorbike with a cargo of coloured ice cream cones. A stupa or two. Some cows. And so on. I came to a small cafeteria and stopped in for some tea. This is the point where my whimsical attitude took a wet turd to the face. I realised I'd lost my goddamn wallet. The thing had fallen out of my pocket at some point since handing over my 5,000 kyat note to the farmer. I began swearing at myself. Out loud (but softly). I jumped back on the bike and tried re-pedalling my steps. My tracks. The watchtower, the stupa, some farmer's kids gathered under a tree. It was gone. I gave it up. Too hard. I'd spent all my energy under the Burmese sun on those sandy back roads. Fortunately all the essentials, visa card, passport, big bills and so on, were safely stashed elsewhere. If anything I lost more dong than kyat or dollars. I was down to my last small money. But it was enough to ruin my day. At least for a while. I rarely can stay mad at anything for long.
There was one more stop to make. Nyi Nyi awaited me on the other side of the crossing with the moto. Patient and serene-faced as ever. I told him about my wallet. He seemed genuinely upset for me. Top guy. We raced the sunset to U Bien Bridge. Sunsets again, I was thinking. And I was right. More crowds. More crowds than anywhere yet. It was like a circus. But they're there for a reason. U Bien Bridge is one of those subtle wonders that endears itself onto most people's itineraries, and rightly so. It's the world's longest teak bridge, hand-built by monks, and over a hundred years old. It looks it too. Some of those supports are almost hollowed out when you get down into the marshy banks and take a closer look. The bridge spans a small lake to some temples on the other side. Think of it as a raised wooden highway for monks. It's a beautiful old thing in its length and simplicity. The kind of structure that makes you think, Hey, I should try making something like that. It's something like art. Sometimes I wish I was an architect. Alas. The sun crept closer to the water, the crowds pushed onto the bridge, and I was down to my final two shots on both of my cameras (I was shooting film, as has become my habit). I found a small island in the middle that can be walked down onto from the bridge. It's the perfect photo spot, but on this occasion, also surprisingly unpeopled. I guess everyone was in a hurry to get to the other side. As for me, I never made it. I set up my frame and released the shutter. First on the hefty Canon, then on the smaller AA battery-powered Autoboy I use as backup. It was at that exact moment, on the last shot of each of my cameras, at the last spot, the last sunset of the last day, that the Canon decided to go on the fritz, and the Autoboy ran out of batteries (in my rush to pack, I'd neglected to bring any spares. Rookie error). Both pieces down and out for the count. But they'd served their purposes. As it turned out, I got that final shot. I left before the sun touched the smoky bowl of the horizon and my home-boy Nyi Nyi drove me back into town. No more cameras to worry over, I took in the dusk from pillion position, wind blowing back into my face and hair. My final few thousand kyat remaining (after the hotel, Nyi Nyi, and the taxi fare to the airport) went on my last Burmese meal, chicken rice and a mandatory Mandalay tea.
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