Without a Brain Injury

Chinlone Ballers

I arrived here in Bagan after several quiet days in Mandalay fighting a cold and some serious homesickness.  Daily I wandered the streets gobbling up mangosteens, the prettiest little fruit that is both fun to eat and a little eyebally, while agonizing over what to do, where to go, what I want.  While I didn’t come to any major decisions, I did manage to sink into a little bit of a funk.  This country is lovely and full of gentle people, but it is also far more isolating as a solo traveler, English only just beginning to emerge among the locals, and travelers often behaving as decidedly exclusive couples.  Nowadays I try to pay attention to the feelings that accompany my growly funks, having far fewer distractions behind which to hide, and far less consistent access to my support system.  It’s for these reasons that I rely more heavily on my proven funk-busters: fresh air, long walks, good coffee, lots of sunshine.  And on special occasions when I’m very lucky, a friend born before 1995. 

After spending a few days tottering around this ancient town of 3,000 temples on a dinky little scooter, I chose a big girl bike capable 

accelerating beyond 30 kph, feeling decidedly more confident than I should have, perhaps even a little cocky: I’m the daughter of a biker, after all.  I got his eyes and his calves, why not his Harley skills?

After some stealthy surveillance to determine she was in fact alone, I practically accosted Theresa, asking if she wanted some company.  More to the point, if she’d be willing to be my friend for a few hours.  A bit startled but no less gracious, she agreed to share a mango lassi to determine if we’d want to commit to being friends for longer than an hour.  Just a few sips into our thickly delicious sweet and sour drinks, we knew we were a friendly fit.  We spent the next few days tearing up temples and pagodas, visiting carvers and painters, and avoiding disasters.  Or at least, nearly avoiding disasters. 

With my burgeoning confidence and what would later prove to be an inaccurate map, we headed eastward to see more of the country and get off the beaten path.  And see it we did, driving for hours beneath the brilliant sun in circles leading to nowhere.  When we eventually found the road we were looking for we turned left, full of confidence and misinformation, into an unplowed field of gravelly sand.  It wasn’t 5 minutes before I was airborne, realizing in slow motion that brakes don’t work in sand, and we had indeed made a mistake.  I popped up nearly 

as soon as I landed, wanting to assure Theresa I was okay, knowing I’d look a disaster squashed awkwardly beneath my damn big girl bike.  As I spit sand from my mouth and dug gravel from my knee, I realized my dreams of proving my coolness to my brothers were effectively dashed.  Instead of a wild-and-free selfie with hair billowing in the breeze, I’d be lucky to get a photo at all, or at least one that hid the ripped and ruined pants now barely covering my bloody leg. 

All told, the first few days here in Bagan were good for my soul.  Proper quality time with a new friend, fresh air and sunshine from the seat of a mildly nefarious scooter, even thwarting a brain injury.  Solid reminders of the pleasures of simplicity, and the freedom I have to pursue them.  Now if only I could convince my brothers that only the coolest of big sisters experiences whiplash in her armpits…