Postcards From Bagan

Life as a Tumbleweed

There was something cinematic about the clunking of hooves against pavement as the horse drew our cart across Old Bagan. Dawn was coming, and across the indigo sky the sun slowly stretched its rays in streaks of pink and orange. We were still laughing hysterically at the turn of events right after we got off the night bus from Yangon. The moment we exited, a horde of drivers closed in on us, offering their rides. In the rush of things and our grogginess and accents we haven’t yet mastered, we ended up on a rickety carriage pulled by a horse plodding at what seemed like 5kph through the barely-lit streets of the old city.

It may have taken a while to get to our hotel, but sitting in the horse cart, in the dimness and the silence, gave me a thorough soak of the size and the texture of the…

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