Bagan

If the non-fiction section of your local bookshop is anything to go by, you should definitely start worrying about the end of human civilization. Publishers are churning out studies in cultural pessimism like cookbooks nowadays.

One of my favourites in this genre is The world without us, a popular science title in which journalist Alan Weisman imagines Earth sans homo sapiens. Gathering evidence from places that are already devoid of human interference, like the Korean DMZ or Chernobyl, Weisman reveals that the rest of the planet would get over mankind pretty quickly.


Humans might have aided in the extinction of many a species, but apart from the polymers floating in our oceans, we haven't really created anything that can't be undone by nature. Sparks - them again - were right: Gaia is a vengeful bitch.

Good old-fashioned hubris

If the author ever needs material for a follow-up (More world without us?), he shouldn't look further than Bagan. The fabled capital of the Pagan kingdom had a skyline of more than 10.000 temples, pagodas and monasteries during its heyday in the twelfth century. Now, almost eight hundred years after the collapse of the kingdom, just 2.200 structures remain erect, separated by big swaths of green.

Ironically, it wasn't a natural catastrophe that wiped the city off the map. Good old-fashioned hubris was to blame. The building frenzy of the Pagan kings eventually drained the public funds and ruined the empire. But at least they left a photogenic mess.

Props to the lighting crew

2.200 is still a big number and the Bagan Archeological Zone is a big place. To get around, as suggested to us by our Lonely Planet guidebook, we hired bicycles from our guesthouse. “The real fun in Bagan is 'discovering' a temple as you cycle around, climbing up and just taking it all in with nary a sand-painting vendor in sight.” Sure thing, Mr. Planet! And off the main road we went.

Unfortunately, the particular byway we took quickly turned into a sandy bridle path and we were forced to push our bikes instead of ride them. After about half an hour of increasingly violent cursing and jerking, we stumbled upon a completely deserted temple with what looked like binary code on its walls.

Using our flashlights, we mounted a small stairway and exited onto the platform for the temple's spire. From there we could take our first look at the plain. Not all the way to the Irrawaddy river, but far enough to grasp the scale of the site. Accompanied by the sound of amplified mantras and cowbells, we spent the next three days zigzagging between bell-shaped zedis and tiered pagodas. Yet we still only saw a small fraction of it all.

Props to the lighting crew too. Bagan seems tailor-made for amateur photographers. Most hours of the day the ancient structures bathe in a golden hue, not unlike the beam that erupts from a cartoon treasure chest.

Clumsy entrepreneurship

Standing on a patch of grazing land that might once have been a thriving city district, I asked myself the question any philosophically-minded tourist is bound to struggle with from time to time, i.e. where is the bar?

No sooner had I expressed my intentions to Hannelore than a local girl asked us if we would like to have a drink from her family's store. We ordered something sweet and sugary and agreed to take a tour of the village. Half an hour later we felt refreshed and ready for another round of temple hopping.

The first one on our list was a monastery we had passed that morning. Most buildings in Bagan are red, but this one was entirely white. When we returned to the albino edifice, we left our bicycles by the gate. You can see where this is heading.

It wasn't what you would call vandalism, more like clumsy entrepreneurship. The exact moment we noticed our tires were slashed, a guy exited the temple gate and inquired if he could maybe fix them for us. This was the only time during our travels that I broke the most important rule in the backpacker's handbook: whatever happens, always stay polite.

Refusing to make use of this *****'s services, we returned to the village and asked the girl we bought our soda from if she could help us. Her uncle immediately set to work. Were they in on the hit? I guess we'll never know. This time I ordered a beer from the family store. Our tires weren't slashed again. Coincidence? I think not.