Spires on the Horizon

by Hannah Wagner (United States of America)

Making a local connection Myanmar

My first view of Bagan was a glossy page of National Geographic. I had swiped a handful from my middle school classroom that had been picked apart for collages. As I turned through the pages, mismatched holes traced where my classmates had cut, some torn apart like a shark attack. The photo of Bagan was left intact and it was easy to see why. Bagan didn’t have a singular focus. It was a great assemblage of spires and treetops cutting through the smoky, orange sunrise. Like threads of a tapestry, each part contributed to the greater image. I read the caption, “Bagan at sunrise.” I wanted more. Fast forward to last year. I arrived in Bagan after a couple days in Mandalay. It was early, so I dropped my bags and took off on my rental e-bike. At first, I would stop at every pagoda, run inside, and marvel at the giant red-bricked temple. I’d take a couple pictures, jump on my bike, and ride 500 feet to the next one. The temples were so different from anything I’d seen, each one delicately symmetrical with massive, organically shaped towers, some displaying 10th century carvings. I followed the main road but found myself frustrated by the crowds. I wanted to see more than the biggest temples. None of my maps could account for the empty space in the center of the 40 square miles of Bagan so I went looking for the mysterious rooftops on the horizon. The roads weren’t easy to ride. I had crashed my scooter, gotten stuck in bramble bushes, and met dead ends where I’d have to turn around my cumbersome scooter. I was sweaty, bruised, and covered in dust and angry, sticky seeds from the dry brush. But it was worth it. A local took me inside a pagoda and illuminated an ancient wall painting of deep blue bodhisattvas with a flashlight. I met a woman who showed me a temple’s interior that was covered with thousands of tiny, meditating buddhas. I explored many empty pagodas echoing with the patter of my bare feet and the squeaks of bats. Around dusk and dawn, Bagan residents will offer to take backpackers to their own “secret temples” in exchange for checking out their handicrafts. Everyone wants that iconic shot. Though most compete for tripod space on the designated hill that overlooks the west. On my last day in Bagan, I chased the sunrise. A local took me to a building half-fallen from an earthquake. We stumbled up the loose bricks and perched on the crest of the wall. We chatted in the darkness and he helped pick brambles out of my skirt. He spoke impressive English. I asked him how old he was and about living in Bagan. He mentioned he wanted to become an artist like his uncle. Slowly light began to crash on the horizon like summer thunder. “Those are the balloons” he said. I looked around. The colors had become so vibrant with the rising sun. Hot air balloons swarmed the sky like glowing lanterns. The scene laid out before me like the photo that drew me in. I was suddenly able to grasp the scope of Bagan. I had seen over 20 temples, but hundreds of rooftops rose in assembly in every direction. There was so much to see, and I knew only fractions. I bought a painting before spending my last day in the great empty part of my maps, stumbling upon temples in the dust. If you visit Bagan, you cannot visit pagodas like you are checking off a list. There is magic in the vastness of it, how all the seemingly random aspects come together to evoke a feeling of authenticity. You feel immersed in the endless landscape. I challenge every visitor to be active: talk to locals, veer off the paved roads, and feel at peace knowing you couldn’t possibly see everything. My time in Bagan can’t be summed up with one moment. It is a gathering— of pagodas, of interactions, of smells and scenes all weaving together to create a memory that surpassed any glossy page I had tacked on my wall as a kid.