Slowly the first fingers of light appear. The horizon forms. Morning yawns awake to the hollow echoes of a gong struck somewhere in the darkness below. Shapes emerge from the mists. Among the trees, stupa, after pyramid gradually come into view. The sun’s beams begin to creep through the countryside, illuminating the city of five thousand temples. The ancient stones beneath your feet, the steep climb up the pagoda’s steps, the simple expectation of what is to come do not prepare you. Sunrise in Bagan is a moment of wonder, nature’s glory matched by the majesty of the hundreds of pagodas that surround you. It is an astonishing sight.

Once a great national capital, trading hub, and monastic center, Bagan (formerly Pagan) is now a vast ghostly ruin. It’s temples and pagodas are scattered across almost twenty square miles. Nearly all are built of crumbling red sandstone, damaged over the centuries by weather, earthquakes, and human pillage and surrounded by overgrowth and dusty fields. I cannot help but think we have set foot in another world, a quiet realm of imperturbable and indifferent eternity.