a memory
In central Myanmar, along the winding Irrawaddy River, lies a desert field covered with thousands of ancient temples. Crumbling stupas and tiered pagodas extend to the dusty horizon. Chants can be heard from a nearby monastery, still in use after hundreds of years. At sunrise, hot air balloons fill the sky.
When I was 20, I saw a picture of Bagan and became transfixed. At that time, my inner world felt so small. Here was a reminder of the vastness of life, and its fundamental unpredictability. I had never heard of Bagan - how many places like it might exist?
Myanmar was the first time I'd traveled alone. I was an odd sight - grey sweatpants, shirt, and backpack. Slip-on sneakers for easy removal before entering holy sites. A thick copy of The Wise Man's Fear, my one indulgence in an otherwise minimal kit.
During a layover, I looked within my monochrome self and realized that I hadn't truly reflected on why I was traveling. Several possibilities arose. I had become very sick the year before, and spent months in repairs. My first love ended, only for fresh pining to take its place. And during what became my most successful semester, the engineer in me died.
I had lost faith in myself, for allowing these things to happen, for making choices that led to morose philosophizing in an overpriced Burger King at Doha International. Through travel, I yearned to find agency, identity, and meaning. It's a good thing the flight didn't require checking all those heavy expectations.
Myanmar was filled with many lessons I hope to explore in the future. Today, we return to the desert fields of Bagan.
I arrived at 3am to a shuttered inn - poorly timed night buses were a chronic oversight. After a few hours, the innkeeper came to meet me. My room wouldn't be available for some time, but I could rent an e-bike and catch the temples at sunrise. With my bag safely stowed, I hopped onto a bike, revved into the darkness, and valiantly wiped out.
After dragging the limp vehicle back and paying for damages, I sat in the waiting room, shivering. A few minutes later, the innkeeper returned with half of what I paid and a new set of keys. I vainly protested, now a firm believer in legs over wheels. She simply pointed at the brightening sky and shooed me onto another bike.
I still remember the first time I saw the fields. Green copses gave way to amber sand and golden sky. Soft beams of light filtered over dusty ruins. Temples extended to the horizon, and hot air balloons drifted above. I felt filled with the knowledge that I'd traveled around the world to be here. It was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen.
I spent the next couple of days exploring the fields on my now-trusty bike, stopping by altars and lacquer artisans. Some ruins were open, affording grand views of the expanse, while others were still in use by locals. All required removing footwear, a perilous activity given rumored scorpions.
Up to this point I had been feeling increasingly isolated. Some days I spoke no English, relying instead on simple Burmese and vague hand gestures. Once I couldn't communicate at a rest stop, and was unable to order food. I found a curb and sullenly ate my emergency oreos, certain that I'd find humor in this one day. Another time I was awoken on a night bus by flashlights and urgent tones. Men brought me to the side of the road, where they abstractly conveyed that I'd need to pay before I could enter their city.
During my trip, I repeatedly crossed paths with a Belgian man named David. Tall, with dark wheaty hair and a jubilant smile, David was a storied traveler used to chance encounters. On my third day in Bagan, fate decreed that we meet again. Resigned to the cosmic inevitability of our companionship, we settled to hire a boat together and visit a monastery across the Irrawaddy.
After fording the river we embarked on a steep, lengthy hike. We were both constantly out of breath, partly from exertion, and partly from the conversation which flowed between us. After so much time spent alone I was eager to speak, and took great comfort in the sound of my mother tongue spoken by another. Eventually we reached the summit, exhausted but triumphant. Suddenly David pointed, a rueful grin on his face, and I turned to see locals driving up the mountain on a previously hidden road.
On our way back across the Irrawaddy, I spotted a small, barren island which had emerged in the dry season. I remarked how exciting it would be to walk upon untouched land, but didn't want to bother our driver. David looked at me, confused, and told me that if I wanted something in life I should simply do it. Struck by this sudden profundity, I asked the boatman to make a stop, and we docked beside the bank. I stepped onto the sand and took in the vast space, brought here by genuine connection and deliberate choice.
We returned with half the day remaining. David, now sporting a worsening cold, committed to finding a juice parlor and hunkering until his night bus arrived. He invited me to join, and I was once again confronted by an unexpected choice. Do I spend my last few hours back in the field of temples, exploring an otherworldly place I'd traveled so far to see? Or do I spend it with someone I'd just met and may never see again, discussing politics and love and juice?
We sat, drank, and talked until dusk arrived. And when it was time, I hopped on my bike and sped into the darkness, one last time.
Thanks to Andy and Avery for reading. Thanks to David for speaking and listening.