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My fondest memories of Burma are of my time spent in Pagan. Memories of viewing myriad red brick, white and gilded temples and pagodas out across the arid plains from the seat of an old horse carriage with the rhythmic clop of hooves on the thin veneer of weathered tarmac the only sound to break the early morning calm; of the sweet smell of smoke that rises as illuminated white curls from the cheroot lightly held in the wrinkled fingers of the old woman as she sits with a contented smile on her bamboo straw mat and enjoys the warmth of the morning sun on her back; of watching a young village girl with her cheeks adorned with yellow streaks of thanaka powder skillfully etch intricate traditional designs into a handmade lacquer bowl placed in her lap; the sights and sounds of the open marketplace with its wandering vendors; the gritty coolness of brick tiles on bare feet while walking the halls of an ancient temple; the pleasurable excursion to Mount Popa and the experiences in the small villages en route; the cool breeze on my face and the hiss of the parting waters below as I watch the setting sun turn the sky and the surface of the Irrawaddi River a brilliant red-orange from the deck of an old riverboat. Pagan is truly a magical place.
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