Fun and frolics amongst the temples.

Cities have worn me out too often, each leg of a journey necessitates being stuck in another transit point. And yes, as you’ve probably guessed, these are generally in the city. How many times must I relax in a beautiful place only to have the blissful tranquillity ripped asunder by arriving in yet another huge urban monstrosity? Isn’t this why I love the practicalities of independent travel? Of course it is! So once again I creep ever closer to the end of one journey with a deep determination not to succumb to another journey that relies on the foibles of the various transport services. Leaving Rangoon was a nightmare, it was bound to be, hordes of people were desperate to vacate the city before Thingya, the Water Festival. Absolute chaos ensued, it took hours in gridlocked traffic to reach the bus terminal, and then it took the bus three hours to get through the traffic and reach open highway. By the time we actually got moving it was past 9pm, though being three hours late wasn’t to be complained about. Arriving at our destination would be 6am, rather than 3am, and I know which I’d prefer. (Photo: First view of Temples - Bagan, Myanmar)

Bagan, an area renowned for it’s prevalence of Buddhist Stupas, or temples, an arid zone of seering heat and blinding sun. I’m not quite sure why I chose this place in preference to other destinations, truth be told I’ve seen enough shrines and temples to last a life time. I wanted to head towards the northern regions of Burma, a chance to see life out in the sticks. There isn’t really much apart from the temples around Bagan, I’m told there used to be a thriving community, especially in Old Bagan. Trouble is the government moved them all out into a new city, they wanted to have the areas around the temples clear, so it didn’t spoil the scene for the steady flow of tourists who make their unholy pilgrimage to the place. Naung u is another town, just north of the main concentration of temples, and at least there is a good mix of Burmese and foreigners. It houses the budget end of the tourist market, the cheap and cheerful guesthouses. But when I say cheap and cheerful I’m talking prices up to $20 a night, getting much for less than $15 isn’t easy. (Photo: Across the Northern plain - Bagan, Myanmar)

I must be honest, apart from the first few minutes on arrival, there are very few people touting for business. You can walk around unmolested, if you want to arrange transport you’ll need to find out where to go, it doesn’t come looking for you. Which is nice, I get fed up with constantly apologising because I don’t want whatever service is on offer. When I walked around the market, eyes followed me wherever I went. I certainly wasn’t the only tourist there, but there weren’t that many seen walking about. The domain of tourists is the main road and what’s referred to as restaurant row, after that they’re to be found amongst the numerous temples. And they are numerous, the temples that is. They’re spread over an enormous area, too far and too many to cover in only a day or two. The main sites see plenty of tourists, mainly domestic or Thai tourists, who far outnumber the westerner visitors. I wouldn’t say there were hordes of visitors either, even though coach parties are seen, is simply bad luck to catch a place while there’s such a group. If you wait a few minutes they’ll be gone and you can have the place to yourself, almost. (Photo: A monks' day out to the temples - Bagan, Myanmar)

Taking the easy option I booked a horse and cart to transport me around, the area is too vast to contemplate walking, and I was too lazy to cycle. The choice was sound though, my driver proved to be a good guide, providing a wealth of information as to the origins of various temples. With over 2,000 individual structures some guidance is invaluable, he had a good understanding of which ones gave decent views across the extensive plains. No doubt many we visited were the easier ones to access, the most popular amongst tourists. But it wasn’t necessarily for individual glory I appreciated the tour, it was the overall effect that left me stunned. Wherever you look, from whichever angle, the Stupas litter the landscape. Despite spending many hours that day hopping from one temple to another I never failed to be amazed at their sheer number. I may have been privileged to see some spectacular sites in the past, but few as wide ranging as this, or as complete. (Photo: Sunset view of across the temples - Bagan, Myanmar)

Ancient cities are widespread over Asia, huge complexes abound, but Bagan stands apart from them all. There is no single complex, no definitive central structure, just thousands of individual shrines from neat and compact to soaring giants. The diversity of shape, design is staggering. Most are constructed of compacted red brick, though many are coated with lime plaster, often adorned with gold leaf. There’s plenty of the archetypical bell shaped Stupa, many more suggest more worldly design. Some are easily liken to temples found on the Indian subcontinent, others more reminiscent of Mayan temples. Built over hundreds of years there is little uniformity, though duplicates are often to be seen built in small clusters. Multi-storeyed monstrosities give ample opportunity to climb to dizzying heights, though compact buildings can often provide access to the upper reaches through backbreaking passages and tight winding staircases. As big as small castles, at times they consist of nothing more than a couple of small chambers housing diminutive Buddha statues. (Photo: New but still traditional - Old Bagan, Myanmar)

After two days of being out amongst the temples I was worn out, hot and bothered I couldn’t face exposing myself to the debilitating heat. And that is when the water festival began! Not on the official date, a day earlier, like our own celebratory festivals, many people are just too keen and enthusiastic to wait. So as I walked along restaurant row I was somewhat surprised to see groups of kids lining the roadside, buckets in hand, a look of mischievous glee on their faces. The first group looked unsure as I approached, but only for a brief moment. They were restrained though, approaching sheepishly and carefully pouring half a bucketful down one side. That’s all it took, once seeing me wet the others were much more enthusiastic. Which was just the start. Next day every corner of every street, and plenty of places in between, sported groups of kids with an unlimited supply of water to soak every passer-by. Water wagons were wheeled round to top up their supplies, ensuring the fun would not abate for the briefest of moments. (Photo: High jinks to start the water festival - Bagan, Myanmar)

Water festivals are part of the Buddhist calendar, shared by most Buddhist countries in Asia. Any other place it’s a day of celebration, no holds barred jubilation. Unlike other countries they celebrate for a whole week in Myanmar, perhaps they need to extra release of tension, or maybe they are just more fun loving. No-one is sacred, though monks are rarely targeted, and anyone can join in the fun. Passing motorcycles are the prime targets, I think because they present more fun in trying to score a direct hit. The youngsters ride round, up and down the streets, presenting themselves as targets, rejoicing in the dousing they receive. But to my observations, the ultimate joy is soaking a foreigner. Often unsure of the reaction they’ll hesitate before letting fly, but it won’t stop them. Embracing the moment gives them immense pleasure, and lets face it, if you can’t embrace the local celebrations you’ve no right to be there in the first place. (Photo: Small only in stature, Water festival showdown - Bagan, Myanmar)

After three days of dripping wet fun in Bagan I decided I’d better get on with seeing other parts of Myanmar, so booked a ticket for Mandalay. Celebrations are reputed to be wilder, and wider spread, in the big city; how right they are. Not even the train journey there made us exempt. Pulling into stations, or slowing down near towns, inevitably saw a flurry of activity as passengers spotted locals waiting to hurl water through the windows. At one place they actually lined up with hoses on both sides of the train, it was like going through a chicken run of pounding water jets. It made me laugh to see the panic on the faces of other passengers. Of course loads of us had our cameras out to record the countryside scenes, and the local populace. A cry of warning would often go out, shutters would slam shut, most often too late. One window at least would remain open long enough, keeping the water out was nigh on impossible. Once reaching Mandalay it was complete chaos, taxis weren’t running to the hotels, the only choice was by motorcycle taxi. By some miracle we managed to make it with only one minor dousing. (Photo: Amongst the revellers - Bagan, Myanmar)

Having dumped my stuff in my room the first port of call was somewhere to feed myself. Not being far to the most convenient restaurant, it was still too far to remain dry. Four times I got drenched in only two hundred metres, at least I’d learnt the knack of only wearing beachwear. Being already wet I thought I may as well have a walk around and join in the festivities. The palace and fort form a hub to the city centre, they’re surrounded by a two hundred foot moat. Absolute mayhem surrounded all four sides to the complex. Numerous high capacity pumps drew water from the moat, every road was lined by fire hoses washing down every person and vehicle that passed. Jeeps, motorbikes and trucks full of people waited in turn to drive past a series of stages, lined with hoses. As the only foreigner in sight I quickly became the focus of attention, the word would go down the line, the jets of water homing in on me. My progress was met with hearty welcomes and much pumping of hands. The crowd got so dense it became impossible to get any further, and I’d only managed to get halfway along one side of the palace quadrant. Eventually I turned back and joined a group of guys opposite the hotel, in the rather meek use of buckets to soak people, rather than fire hoses. I got overly inebriated, and had a great time. I failed to understand the few tourists who took great exception to getting wet, it wasn’t a way to gain respect form the locals, and they ignored your pleas to remain dry anyway. A few times I joined in the fun, which seemed to mean so much to the local revellers. I’d like to think they had something special to celebrate this year, after the recent election, but I’m lead to believe it’s as manic every single year. (Photo: And the fun goes on - Bagan, Myanmar)