Striking Gold in Bagan

Tiny cooking fires dotted the roadside from New Bagan to Old Bagan, their flames illuminating an ancient passageway.
Early risers were already oiling their woks and others huddled coven like, forged into the shadows of the buildings behind them.
Hooded monks whispered past, their maroon shoulders hunched against the chill, the glint of their alms bowls not yet full.
The pagodas were lit in varying stages, from cool grey, to Vegas like fluorescence. The pinprick glow of a camera at the top of one pagoda told us that we were not alone in our quest for a sunrise vantage point.
The sky began to pale, as we swerved onto a deserted trail, our electric-bikes fishtailing in the sand. An old man in a grubby green longyi called out to us in Burmese, pointing to a larger pagoda further down the trail. We followed his gestures until we reached the stone gate and hurried along a cobbled path.
From behind a shed, he suddenly appeared again, this time ushering us towards a dark niche inside the main pagoda. We poked our heads inside to find a crumbling stairwell ascending into darkness. With our headlamps strapped on, we crawled upwards, our fingers brushing aside crusty rodent droppings.
Stumbling onto the first floor terrace we were faced with the mist-swaddled panorama of the Bagan plains. From every angle, pagodas studded the red earth, their stupas bedded in the mist.
A bulging shadow appeared above them, skimming the highest stupas, as if a child’s balloon were navigating a pin-cushion. Within minutes, several hot air balloons had filled the sky, a lazy swarm, eerily silent for so much movement in the sky.
We followed a wider set of steps up to the highest terrace and settled ourselves in front of an alcove housing a golden Buddha.
A swathe of pink layered the horizon, and to our disappointment, it seemed as if the sun might deliberately thwart us and rise below the mist.
We sat quietly as our clothes, the bricks, the trees, began to soak up their regular hues.
The slither of a pink disk surprised us when it arrived, at first shy, then sudden and eager, gilding the edges of the pagodas and bathing the golden Buddha behind us until every inch of him glowed.
From the courtyard below I heard a soft rasping sound. As we climbed back down into the heart of the pagoda, we met the same old fellow with a broomstick in his hand.
He paused for a moment, before giving us a complicit nod and a grin that left me feeling as warm as the sun’s first rays.