Buddha's Contest with other Gods

Five AM in my comfortable, charming new Pagan guesthouse I was torn from slumber by the muezzin from the local mosque who belted out his amplified morning call to prayer. Just when he really got into the swing of things the competition started up also. At first I thought it was Buddhist chants, also animating for prayer, but after a while when it sounded clearly like Burmese rap and a Myanmar ding-a-ling versions of western Schmaltz, it became pretty obvious that was just a means of drowning out the Islamic competition in Bagan, the bastion of Burmese Buddhism.
Duh!
The above described "Buddha's contest with other gods" was pure conjecture on my part. It seemed like the one and only explanation for the early morning cacophony, yet, for that to be true it would have to be repeated every morning. Muezzins don't do their thing only from time to time. When the next morning all was quiet, except for the bird's twittering, I had to search for new answers.
The lady at reception said it was a wedding.
"At five AM?"
"Yes," she said.
No matter how much I tried to understand, her English just wasn't good enough for an explanation. It sounded like she said that everybody starts cooking and every group has their own music. Amplified music??? Since that doesn't make much sense I'll have to plead ignorance. All I know now is; weddings, at least in the Bagan region of Myanmar, begin at five AM with a holly racket.

The Lonely Planet writes about four-thousand-four-hundred pagodas, stupas, shrines and Buddha figures in Bagan. It illustrates its enormity perfectly with the illustration: Gather all of Europe's medieval cathedrals onto Manhattan island and throw in a whole lot more for good measure, and you'll start to get a sense of the ambition of the temple-filled plains of Bagan.
The driver of the horse and buggy I'd hired to drive me around the major ones, claims there are over five-thousand. To explain the discrepancy, it probably matters how you count; there are humongous ones, medium ones and rather small ones, so the numbers might be a function of what size Buddha statue is included in the count. To a proper Buddhist, it seems, size matters a big deal. The driver would point out the tallest, the second tallest, the most voluminous, the oldest, the most destroyed and rebuilt, the richest. Nothing but superlative is good enough for glorifying Buddha. Trinket and souvenir sellers, almost exclusively cute young girls with faces painted in sandalwood swirls, self-appoint themselves as guides at individual sites so that after the viewing you would be compelled to buy stuff at their stand. According to them, whatever godly structure they had chosen as their place of business, is in some way the most, the biggest, the tallest, the shiniest, the most glorious, the most important or oldest.
With my sceptic approach to most things religious, I soon had enough of that farce but the driver cum cicerone wouldn't have any of it. "Next Buddha has different hand position, very important for .... ", because of my lack of interest, I have absolutely no recollection what the supposed importance of those hand positions are, even though it was amply explained, not only by my driver, but also the sandalwood-faced souvenir seller girls.
There came a short break in my Buddha, pagoda, stupa, temple and shrine visiting marathon. We stopped at a lacquerware production shop. It was really cool to see how they make those delicate vessels. The basic form of the most elaborate ones is first intricately woven from horse hair then, layer upon layer of lacquer is applied till that lustrous lacquer ware-look is achieved. They get cured in a large subterranean space because the process requires a precise amount of humidity. Artists engrave some of the finished ones with intricate traditional designs.

At dinner, together with a curious, previous, acquaintance we met a municipal works manager from Montreal. "There is no snow to remove so I can travel," he said. The other, the previous acquaintance, is a curious relationship because of incredible coincidences in our getting to know each other. In the hotel I eventually found after my long quest for lodging in Yangon, he was at the reception same time as I, for the same reason. We laughed about the difficult searches. When informed there were two rooms available without windows, he had the nerve to insist on one where he could tell if it was day or night. In the end, with no other options, he also settled for a windowless one. In Mandalay, a week later, he also showed up at the place where I stayed. A laugh and, "nice to see you again, the rooms here have windows," was as far as our conversation went. Days later, after changing from "Bates Motel" in Bagan, while checking in to the one I am in now, he showed up at the reception, also looking for a room. That was enough of an introduction, so now we have dinner together. He is from British Guiana, of Chinese descent, British nationality, and works as an English proficiency test examiner in south China.
The Montreal municipal works manager, the English proficiency test examiner in China and yours truly decided to share a taxi to go next day to Mount Popa, about an hour's drive from Bagan.
Mount Popa is an old volcanic outcropping, sort of like a giant, 700-feet tall, tree stump amidst gentle rolling hills. Droves of, mostly Burmese, pilgrims scramble, shuffle, wheeze, and groan up the endless, sometimes very steep steps to the top where, you guessed right, there is a huge temple/shrine/pagoda. Even though there are many Buddha figures, this shrine is dedicated mostly to nat worship, the animist spirits of the netherworld, forests and caves. Very old people, if they are too frail to do it under their own steam, get wrapped in a bag that hangs from a pole that rests on two young men's shoulders. They get carried to the top, presumably to sidle on the good side of those spirits whom they expect to meet soon in the next world - by bribing them with generous donations
Back in Bagan, the three of us had a traditional dinner in a local Burmese restaurant. By the time they'd finished laying it out, thirty-one food-filled bowls, large and small, covered the table. The variety of food was so large that, even if some of the dishes didn't exactly make every palate rejoice, and every heart sing, we all got our fill and when we were done there was so much left over, the display looked like we'd just been freshly served. It cost four dollars per person.
Today, while my two Mount Popa companions went for yet more pagoda inspections, I rented a bicycle, went to the market, then out into Bagan's rural surroundings - and got hopelessly lost. I didn't have a map of the region, but, even if I did, that would probably been of no use. The narrow, winding, sandy paths I followed were surely not marked on any map. The farmers I encountered didn't know a word in English - and my Burmese is way below limited, that is, totally non-existent. Besides, even if I could ask someone, I had no idea how to pronounce the name of the hotel. Its English spelling is Aunsminsalar, opposite Swezigon Pagoda. Eventually I found the river and tried to follow it in the direction of town which I knew is, if not exactly on the downriver shore, at least nearby. The riverbank above the high-water line is a total disgusting dump which meant it couldn't be far from town. It was impossible to navigate by bike in that mess (and I had absolutely no desire to walk through it in my flip-flops). So, keeping the river to my right, the bicycle and I bushwhacked inland towards where I thought was town.
With my previous day's extensive Buddha, temple and shrine visits I must have gained some heavenly Browny points because I stumbled on a large parking lot full of tourist busses and private cars. It belonged to a fancy restaurant overlooking the river. Of course I became one of the guests. It was the most expensive meal since my arrival in Myanmar, north of five dollars. The clientele in that restaurant topped all the previous observations about elderly travelers. A long table was occupied by a bus load of people that looked like they were on their last fling before having to return to the hospice. I noticed how most wore sneakers way too large for their feet (to get in and out without bending and lacing?)
Tomorrow I'll take a bus to Mandalay to meet up with Thar to go to his native village for that monk initiation ceremony celebration. I am very much looking forward to that - and it helps biding time 'til February 8.

Tomorrow has come. It is February 2 and I am already back in Mandalay.

If Buddha only knew! ....
Had the all-knowing, compassionate Buddha foreseen the coming of plastic bags, plastic bottles, styrofoam containers, plasticized and parafin-coated cartons, he would surely have preached against littering, especially of non-decomposing, non-biodegradable rubbish. Since he didn't, the country of his most devoted disciples, Myanmar, would be a champion contender if there ever was a world-wide competition for the most littered place on earth. It is rare to see rubbish in front of houses, it is simply swept to the side. With obviously no municipal refuse pick up, it just accumulates there in ever growing piles. With the coming of more "civilization" (more plastic wrapped goods), unless there will be serious changes, the country is eventually going to drown in its modern day filth.
The 180 km (about 120 mi) Bagan - Mandalay road is a rutted, dusty dirt track. On parts when it went relatively smoothly it was like driving on corrugated surface, when it went rough the surface was egg cartons shaped. The journey took almost seven hours, which means we averaged barely 20 miles per hour (30 Stundenkilometer).
Benevolent Buddha was very kind in directing me to a bus that, even though seats and legroom were barely large enough to accommodate small Burmese, never carried more passenger than there were seats. The stack of little stools for sitting in isles and the straps for straphangers were never used.
The ride was so bumpy, the driver's helper, apparently trained to see the early signs, dashed up and down the isle dispensing plastic barf bags from a bundle strapped to his waist. When full, they were chucked out to add to the country's pervasive plastic blossom landscaping.
Along they way we saw armies of ladies in straw hats, some hand-sorting different sized gravel from huge rock piles and others hauling straw baskets full of tarred gravel to fill in potholes by hand (Patty cake, patty cake .... Mandalay version).
On the whole journey, 'til shortly before Mandalay I saw not one gas station. Instead there were numerous stands with shelves full of old plastic water bottles filled with gasoline, the rural version of gas dispensing.
One of the reasons for the bumpy ride must have been the fact that we were not over full like some of the other busses we passed. Those, apart from layers of people inside, also had stacks of them on the roof - together with piles of luggage. Had we been heavier, the ride would surely have been smoother because the weight might have depressed the rock-hard springs a bit more. At the bus station, before leaving, I photographed the spring package under a passenger pick up. Fifteen blades!
My same size, same brand, Toyota, pickup in Vermont has either three or four. It rides relatively smoothly, but those springs would never support transporting twenty people, all together with huge loads of luggage. No need for the Burmese spring arrangement in Vermont though, because real, red-blooded Americans would never agree to be thus packed like sardines in a can even if it was for something like the only available transport to get to their own wedding.
The only western travelers on the bus were yours truly and another Swiss, a middle aged man from Lausanne. He travels with his friend, a stunningly beautiful Thai girl. That brings me to my:
Ode to Nescafé.
At a mud and straw rest stop we ordered coffee. The darkish, grayish, brownish, warmish liquid in a cup neither looked, nor tasted, nor smelled like any coffee I'd ever been exposed to. I am not particular but there was no way for me to drink that without a shudder. The Swiss, a former researcher with Nestlé, asked out of the blue if they had Nescafé. Lo and behold, a kid brought packages of that life saving three-in-one stuff (three-in-one means the package contains instant coffee, sugar and milk powder). I am at a loss for words to describe how good that elixir felt on my tongue.
During the rough ride I was afraid the spine would turn to mush, but the contrary was true. As in an intensive massage, or with a chiropractor session, everything inside the body got re-arranged - apparently for the better. On arrival in Mandalay, the only slight discomfort was in my kneecaps. The whole trip they had been pounding on the iron backing of the seat in front of me. Avoiding that contact would have raised hell with my tailbone because across the back of my seat passed an iron bar. If I moved my butt back far into the seat, the knees would have been free, but with my tail I'd then sit on an iron bar during that rough ride. If choosing that option, I might not have been able to walk anymore by the time we reached Mandalay.
Now I am back in the hotel where the staff had witnessed the adulations I received from Thar and his wife before I left for Bagan. They must think I really someone special because now they even bow when they hand me the room key.

A little note about spelling.
You might have noticed that sometimes I spelled a place's name differently from entry to entry. I am not alone. Since all are phonetic transcriptions of Burmese words that are written in a different script, variations are aplenty. In books, on signs, everywhere one can find different spellings because different transcribers interpret it differently. With Thar's doctor son in Bagan, under his guidance over dinner, I tried to properly pronounce his name. From the way it sounds, I would now write it as: Pfehjunio.
Tomorrow I'll ask Thar how they write it.
Now I know!
The real spelling is: BHYONYUNT.