From the land of green ghosts

5.30am. It’s pitch black, I’m late, and the boat waits at the Ayeyerwady River for Bagan. I scramble out of a jeep, on to a steep bank and down a stairway lit by candles that flicker and flinch from the night-cool. Baskets of snacks and their sellers perch on steps that lead to water, moon-black and thick, where a hubbub of chat and music stirs boats. I clamber aboard, cutting it fine. A horn blows and we heave out, heavy, into a fug of blue smoke and blast; launching into the bitumen-black of night. The distant fires of the Mandalay shore dwindle, flicker, and are gone.