Beyond the Floating Islands - Miranda Bruce-Mitford (freenovel24 txt) 📗

into the ruined city I looked back. The vendors were walking away from the river bank and the boat was manoeuvring back into the midstream. No one was waving now. The foreign passenger was forgotten as the business of breakfast took over.


CULTURE CLASH


There’s an ancient city in Burma called Pagan. It lies encircled by the Irrawaddy where that great river swings eastward towards the Shan Hills. A thousand years ago this was a mighty Buddhist city of temples, pagodas, monasteries and monks. Of course there were houses and lay-people too, but all life revolved around the upkeep of the monasteries and the worship of the Buddha.. Sadly, the houses have long gone, and the people with them. Pagan stands ruined on the arid dusty plain. Of its former grandeur some five thousand religious monuments remain, in varying states of decay. Although no one lives here, it stands - for the Burmese - as the pinnacle of their ancient Buddhist culture. Still today people travel for miles to attend one of the two pagoda festivals held here annually, and of course they reverently remove their sandals to enter even the humblest ruin.
For me too, this is a place of great spirituality. A café owner once told me, after spitting carefully out of the door, that he prayed to be reborn in his next life as a nat, a guardian spirit. That way he would be able to spend his entire life drifting happily and watching over the temples of Pagan.

I have been here often. I feel drawn to the place as though by an invisible thread. The river, the dust, the shimmering heat, the light of the late sun on the red bricked monuments, the thick stillness… all of that. Many times I have climbed shoeless up the narrow dark stairs to the high terrace of the Sulamani, and waited quietly for the sun to sink orange behind the river. A profound calm washes over me as I sit, insignificant against the weight of the past.

So now you know about Pagan, which I love, and where the curious little incident occurred, It could have happened anywhere of course, but fortunately it happened here, where there weren’t any people around to witness it.

I was on a two week tour of Burma, escorting a group of elderly travellers around the main tourist circuit. At this point we were on Day Two of three days at Pagan. It was late afternoon, and I lagged behind at the Shwesandaw Temple while Zaw, our guide, led the group off to view the gigantic reclining Buddha, which lay in a low, cramped building nearby. I can’t remember what I was doing – maybe photographing some reliefs, but as I walked towards the reclining Buddha I heard shouting, and I rounded a corner of the building to see my group gesticulating angrily at four or five young people- Italian it seemed. They in turn were shouting back. This behaviour was quite out of character for these elderly, educated travellers. When they saw me, they shouted even louder.
“Quick,” said Zaw, “Sort this out before you all get deported”
“What’s happened?”.
“Those two girls were sitting up on the image, next to the Buddha’s face, having their photos taken. Luckily there aren’t any other Burmese around or it’d be an international incident”

I looked from my angry friends to the bewildered and defiant young Italians. How to explain to them the enormous sacrilege of a woman’s unclean lower body coming into contact with the head of the Buddha – the seat of his Enlightenment? How could I deflate this situation, as clearly everyone expected me to do?
“It’s ok. You didn’t know,” I said. "This place: It’s sacred, like a church. Holy.” I made the sign of the cross, and several ladies nodded severely.
“Imagine this was St Peter’s in Rome. You know, ST. PETER’S?” They nodded. “Well, would you sit on the altar to have your photo taken?” I patted the Buddha’s podium and with much waving of arms I put my point across.

Gradually the mood changed. The young travellers, shocked to find that they had committed such a grave offence, became embarrassed and regretful. To them, this was just a beautiful place which had once been a great city. They hadn’t thought that the temples were still holy. They hadn’t meant to upset anyone. Realising their discomfort, Zaw and the elderly tourists were at once all reassurance and kindness:
“Never mind” …”It was a simple mistake”…”anyone could have done it.” “Enjoy your holiday” With a nod of heads we parted.

By now it was getting late. It was our second day of pagodas and temples. The group was tired and wanted to go back to the hotel and change for dinner. Luckily there was no lecture tonight. Hot and weary, we piled onto three bullock carts for the slow, jerky but infinitely pleasing journey back to the river side.
“Ooh, isn’t this fun!”
“ “How nice not to see any cars!”
“Isn’t it peaceful?”
“Silly people,” muttered one woman suddenly, and at once they all murmured their assent..
“ But they were so young,” said another, as though that explained it all. There was a pause,
“And after all, everything is so different here”
Zaw looked at me with a rye smile. It had been a long day and thank goodness we’d managed to salvage that one. With a leap he jumped from the cart and held out his hand to me with a small bow.
“Care for a walk in the dark?” he said. I took his hand and jumped out. We stood together and watched as our charges were driven trustingly into the Burmese night.


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Text: Copyright 2010
Publication Date: 04-11-2010

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