uiet flowsQ

the Ayeyarwady

“This is Burma,and it will be quiteunlike any land youknow about...”

Rudyard KiplingLetters from the East

1989

Text andPhotographs by

J.-L. Gao

Sunset looms over the Irrawaddywhere seagulls sing and fleetQuiet flows the river to the eaststreaming to the far-away sea...

Once upon a time, this idyllic folk song brought achild’s imagination to a dream-like wonderland.At the time, I only knew Irrawaddy as a river in a

distant country named Burma. But the sunset,the seagulls, and the serene river has haunted inmy dreams ever since.

Sandwiched between the Indian subcontinentand Indochina, Burma has long been the back-water of the region. The country emerges from acomplete oblivion in the mind of people mainly

due to its much charming and charismatic NobelPeace Laureate Aung San Su Kyi, and the notori-ous military government she is fighting against.International sanction in recent decades deep-ens the country’s isolation, shielding it from thesight of the world. The legendary name of Man-dalay is degenerated to a casino in Las Vegas.

Even fewer are familiar with the country’s officialname Myanmar. The name adopted in 1989 reflectsthe complete severing from its colonial past. In thenative language, Myanmar has always been the of-ficial name for the nation. The British colonists im-posed the name of Burma in the 19th century whenthey annexed the kingdom into part of British In-dia. The name Burma was due to the Burman, one

of the largest of the 130 plus ethnic groups in thecountry. The United Nations has officially recog-nised the change, even though it is still resistedby some countries like the United States.

Similarly, the Ayeyarwady River was also anglicisedinto Irrawady by the colonists. So named by itsstatue, the 2000-km big (ayeyar) river (wady) hasnurtured the land and its people since genesis.Gushing down from the southern slope of theHimalayas, streams of snow water merge in theplain, forming the mighty river that cradled thecivilisations along its shores. Dynasties flourished,Buddhism thrived. Centres of civilisation likeAmarapura, Sagaing, Mingun and Mandalay adornthe magnificent river like pearls on a silver belt.

But Myanmar wasn’t always as unnoted as it is to-day. During the British period, foreigners fanta-sised a land full of boundless treasures, exoticgems and precious timbers. Rudyard Kipling wasmainly responsible for romanticising the land withhis numerous poems and correspondences. Thesunshine, the palm trees, the pagodas, the tem-ple bells, and the flying fish all come to live underhis pen, not to mention his famous lines “Road toMandalay” that conjure up fascinations of genera-tions. However, George Orwell was more realisticin his roman Burmese Days. The book critical tothe British colonial system was based on the per-sonal accounts during his police service in Burma.By the end of the World War II, Myanmar attractedthe world’s focus again as a grand theatre whereallied expedition forces fought bloody battles withthe Japanese Imperial Army in the steamy jun-gles.

Long political isolation and economic sanctionhinder developments. However, they also createa benign side effect that not only keeps the coun-try relatively immune from the influence of for-eign cultures, but also retains the originality andhuman touch among its people. Life remains un-disturbed in this country despite the rapid devel-opments of the neighbouring country.

Even its capital city Yangon is in no way resem-bling an ultra-commercialised capital of its neigh-bour. One January morning, several travellers andI stand alone on the tarmac of Yangon’s Interna-

Source: CIA World Factbook (http://www.odci.gov/cia/publications/factbook/)

Country Name (English): Union of MyanmarCountry Name (Burmese): Myanmar NaigngandawPopulation: 42,720,000 (2004 est.)Ethnic Groups: Burman, Shan, and 130 othersMajor languages: BurmeseLand: 657,740 square kilometresCapital: Yangon (aka. Rangoon. pop. 4,383,000)Major Cities: Madalay, Pathein, MawlamyaingLife Expectancy: 56 years (2004 est.)Birth Rate: 18.64/1,000GDP: $74.53 billion (2004 purchasing power parity)Currency: Kyat (official $1/6, unofficial $1/900)

tional Airport. The arrival hall is locked. The door-keeper scramble to find immigration officers. Butsoon I come to appreciate this seemingly under-developed city: parks and lakes make up a largepart of the suburb, while high-rises has not yetsubstituted the colonial houses the city centre.Men and women in sarongs poise gracefully ontheir bicycles roam avenues filled not with trafficfume but the scent of magnolia. Adding the bee-tle-like teakwood Chevrolet buses, it only lacks aBritish officer in colonial uniform to complete aperfect souvenir picture of the South Asia in early20th century.

To visit Myanmar is to embrace Buddhism. The re-ligion entrenches so deeply into the country’sculture, tradition, mindset that everything I saw, Iheard, even the air I breathed, had an unequivo-cally Buddhist touch. In Yangon, thousands ofprayers fill the colossal, elevator-equippedShewdagon Paya days and nights. This splendidgolden wonder of architecture that once deeplyimpressed foreign travellers like SomersetMaugham, is not only the pilgrimage centre forall Myanmar people, but also where the soul of the

...Men and women in sarongs poise gracefully on their bicycles roam avenues fillednot with traffic fume but the scent of magnolia...

entire country rests upon. Oneday in a restaurant, I watch in TVsome men in army uniformsprostrating to the Buddha as pi-ously as anyone else. Alas! I laterlearn, they are exactly the mili-tary junta.

Throughout the towns andcountry, monks and nuns withlacquer bowls and umbrellasroam around their precincts foralms. In Myanmar, giving is notan act of charity but a way of life.The donors in turn receive fromthe monks the blessings indis-pensable to their current, or per-haps future lives. With nearlyevery man and large number ofwomen in Myanmar having per-

Lunch time in the Maha Ganayon Kyaung in Amarapura. Founded in1914, the kyaung (monastery) is housing more than 5,000 monks.

The Umin Thounzeh (Thirty Caves) situated inSagaing Hill. The colonnade in crescent shapehousing 45 Buddha sculptures is typical toBuddhist architecture.

manent or temporary monastic experience, it isno longer easy to draw a line between a monasticand a secular life. Such prevalence of Buddhismattributes to the warm, gentle and generous na-ture of the entire population. Violent crimes arerare, gold shops in Yangon and Mandalay hardlyrequire special protection.

My three-week journey starts with a morning strollalong the moat surrounding the Fort Mandalay atthe very heart of the city. On my left side, My pass-port is inspected at the U-hteik Bridge in front of

(Right): Vermillionroofs of the palaceinside the royal quarterin Fort Mandalay.Built in 1857, origi-nally as the palacecompound for KingMindon Min, the fortwas later occupied bythe British colonists asFort Duffrin, thegovernment house. Atthe end of the WWII,it was incineratedduring the fierce fight-ing between the Alliesand the JapaneseImperial Army.(Below): Palm treesand azaleas adorn themassive rampart ofFort Mandalay.

the Fort’s east gate. Military camps and a few vil-lages settling their families still occupy much ofthe area behind the rampart. A long straight av-enue lead to the royal palace at the core of thefort. The entrance is guarded by a cast-iron can-non.

I reach the top of the Nan Myint Saung Towerthrough the spiral staircase to take a command-ing view of the entire royal living quarter and partof the cityscape. Time has washed away the pompand circumstance of the dynasty. What left behindare the crimson palaces and other functionalchambers sitting calmly amid the fresh lawns anddense tamarind trees like miniatures. King Mindondismantled his all-wood palace in Amarapura, andreassembled it piece by piece at the current site.But his palace did not outlive himself by very long.Less than a hundred years later, the Japanese in-stalled a military depot here, causing a total incin-eration by the ally fire. The replication after thewar fell far short of the original grandeur, and cor-rugated iron sheets substituted slates for the pal-ace roofs.

Before concluding of my royal visit, I quench mythirst with the water in pottery jars provided by

the roadside at the east moat. Mandalay is a citythat retained even its smallest details of the tradi-tional lifestyle. On the way to Kuthodaw Paya(Temple), I happen to walk alongside with a pro-cession of monks in vermilion gowns and blackalms bowls – the elder in front, and the youngerat back, all bared-foot. In front of me, arrays ofbrilliant white stupas in the paya shine in the az-ure sky, and an ox cart rumble from the distance.As everything converges together, I felt as if I seeKipling standing by the roadside, calmly observ-ing this familiar scene as well as this strange mod-ern traveller.

Coming to Mandalay is not just paying a royalhomage to King Mindon. It’s also carrying out apilgrimage to the mountain to which the great cityis due. Like other pilgrims, I scale the sacredmountain with my bared feet via the 1,700-plus-step stairway. Astrologers and vendors line by thesides of this covered footpath, telling fortunes tothe devotees, and selling items from Buddha im-

ages, ceremonial paper umbrellas, incenses tobooks, antiques and souvenirs. The perpetualsound of worship from the loudspeakers inun-dates my ears. The spirit of devotion was in theair.

Mandalay Hill has every reason to be a sacred site.In front of the breezy observation deck at thesummit is the panorama of Myanmar’s centralplain, traversed by the mighty Ayeyarwady thatirrigates the boundless green fields and nurturesthousands of villages along its shores. Even Bud-dha fell in love with this fertile land, and proph-esied a city at the foothill. As I am going to em-bark in a river journey the next day, I follow theMyanmar tradition by pouring small cups of wa-ter over a Buddha figurine at a shrine to wish my-self luck. I must do so at the post of my astrologi-cal sign, I am told, and the number of cup I pourmust be one more of my age.

“Come you back to Mandalay, where the old Flotilla

Three generations join and pour water onto theBuddha’s figurine as a way of wishing good luck.

lay: Can’t you ‘ear their paddles chunkin’ from Ran-goon to Mandalay...”. Kipling’s ditty is the ultimateinspiration for my seeking flotilla experiences onthe Ayeyarwady. Who could have thought thatthe Irrawaddy Flotilla Company was once the larg-est riverboats fleet in the world? Although theScottish company has ceased to exist since theindependence of Myanmar, the routines of inlandriver navigation carry on. Flotillas no more, thou-sands of government and private vessels stilltransport tens of million of passengers and tonsof cargo each year throughout the country’s wa-terways.

I arrive in the jetty before dawn for the Mandalay-Bagan Express Ferry. The pier had already turn intoa bazaar under moonlight. On one side, portersrush the last piece of cargo. On the other, travel-lers garner their last-minute snacks at stalls bykerosene lamps. I jump cross the springboard, andam greeted by the Myanmar crew onboard. Theymight never comprehend this traveller, who hascome from afar just to realise his Irrawaddy flotilladream, albeit no longer the legendary Scottishcaptain in kilt and the Indian crew in turbans. Die-sel has replaced steam to propel the boat.

The boat sails pass the town of Sagaing increpuscule. Twice being the capital of central

Myanmar, one during the 14th century and theother 18th, the town is said to host some 600 mon-asteries and nunneries, many of which secludedin the dense woods in the Sagaing Hill on the westbank of the Ayeyarwady. The Hill and the monas-teries in the mist has not yet awaken, only thesound of the boat motor disturb the dreams ofsleepers inside. The first aurora of the day alreadycasts onto the high bluff. Pagodas embedded inthe lush forest shimmer like golden bells on holi-day trees. But soon the sun rises over the treetop.The universe wakes up in the sea of light. Gullshover above the fishing sampans drifting along

(Above): A man in tradi-tional sarong stands on theAyeyarwady ferry. Untilquite recently, the Ava Bridgein the background was theonly bridge spanned over theAyeyarwady. Transportationbetween both shores dependheavily on ferries. (Right):Home from market via theU Bein Brigdge. Theteakwood bridge spans 1.2km across the shallowTaungthaman Lake some 10km south of Mandalay. Itwas built by U Bein in themid-19th century when thecapital of Innwa Kingdommoved to the nearbyAmarapura.

the gentle waves, the silhouettes of the on-shore temples flicker on the golden ripples.

If there is one place representing the quintes-sential Myanmar, Bagan should well deservethe title. Not because of its much longer his-tory than those of other ancient cities likeSagaing or Amarapura, its unique architecturaltreasure is also unparalleled in the world. WhenKing Anawrahta was converted to Buddhist in11th century, he started building a city of tem-ples and stupas by the east bank of the Ay-eyarwady big bend. However, he might havenever foreseen what architectural legacy heleft to the humankind. Marco Polo visited heretwo centuries later, and was stunned by thesheer number of edifices tightly packed withina small area. He astonishment by the city’ssplendours and craftsmanship is evident in his1298 chronicle, in which he called Bagan “one

Ananda Temple(left on right) and thousands ofstupas (above) dominate Bagan’s skyline.

of the finest sights in the world”.

In a cold and breezy morning, I pedal my bicycleunder the twilight in search of a sunrise vista point.A network of sandy paths connects the few thou-sand ancient architectures, turning the area intoan immense museum without boundary. In spiteof its world-class archaeological and architecturalsignificance, Bagan does not belong to theUNESCO World Heritage list, thanks to the politics.This might nevertheless be a blessing, for this hid-den gem could be spared from hordes of tourists.Those who have come a long way to appreciatethis wonder, however, would certainly enjoy theprivilege to wander around this 40-square-kilome-tre archaeological zone, and scale most of thestructures without restriction.

At dawn, I pose high on the terrace of a namelessredbrick stupa, savouring the descriptions byMarco Polo. In a distance, the majestic white

Ananda Temple dominates the Bagan skyline,soaring higher than the mountains in its backdrop.Under its shadow, arrays of smaller stupas clusteraround the Temple like soldiers accompanyingtheir general in the battlefield. Time and disastershave taken tolls to these monuments. Bricks haveloosen, plaster fallen. Yet these stupas never top-ple. They have stood and will continue to standto witness the evolution our history.

But Bagan is not an open-air museum for the localpeople. It is the land they are rooted, the veryhome in which they grow, live and die. To me, it’sa unique locale where ancient relics mingle withdaily life in modern time. Each building, habitantand activity under the sun is an integral part ofthe Bagan landscape. Indeed, below the terrace,peasants drive white oxen and plough lands be-tween clusters of monuments. Descending fromthe stupa, I say Minglaba (Hello or Blessing) to a

group of jolly women harvesting soybeans in frontof the towering Htinominlo Temple. During myjourney, I am always attracted by the grace of theMyanmar women for their kind and friendly na-ture, their elegant sarongs and the unequivocallyMyanmar cosmetics of Thanakhar, ground fromthe Thanakhar tree barks and smeared on facesas astringent and sunscreen. I am not content tobe an observer. I share their works by joining inamong their laughter, even though I realise thatdaily labour isn’t a joyful event everyday.

Meanwhile, a wisp of smoke rises from the chim-ney behind the stupas. I follow a herd of sheepto a village entrance. Under the lush umbrella ofa huge banyan tree, children sit and form a cres-cent in front of a snack peddler. Their faces tell itall. The home-made snacks are the most deliciousin the world. On the main street, cheers erupts asyoung men kick Chinlon – Myanmar’s nationalsport with a flair of volleyball and football. Fur-ther down the road, outside a small grocery store,women gossip and together roll cigarettes withlocal tobacco.

I am cordially invited into a family home. It is a

Bean harvesting in front of the towering Htinnominlo Tem-ple. Bagan is not an open-air museum to the locals. It is thevery home they grow, live and die.

(Above): A woman in Thanarkha, an universalcosmetic in Myanmar. (Below): Chilon, a wovenrattan ball with a flair of volleyball and football, isMyanmar’s national favourite sport.

A piece of cactus on thedoor signals the arrivalof a new life in thefamily and, accordingto the Pa-O tradition,fends off evil spirits anddaemons that might beharmful to the child.

typical Myanmar style home with wooden andbamboo structure, with the main floor a few feetabove the ground. Tea, snack and fruits are of-fered, family members are introduced, neighboursgather. Smiles are written on the faces, commonlanguage is not required.

Sitting on a cool bamboo matt, I sap tea whilewatching people chatting and children playing. I

ponder the phrase of “gross national happiness” Ilearnt not long ago. For a person who comes froma country with the biggest gross national productin the world, my sense of happiness is dwarfedby the peaceful and harmonious lifestyle I expe-rience here and elsewhere in Myanmar. The peo-ple of this country deserve neither a military gov-ernment nor poverty. But where should the coun-try steer toward from here? Would the democ-racy we transplant from our soil ever flourish ontheir land? Would the merchandise we export in-

...I ponder the phrase of “gross national happiness”...Would the democracy we transplant fromour soil ever flourish on their land? Would the merchandis we export increase their happiness?...

crease their happiness? Would the land cease toenchant with the influx of foreign culture? Shouldall countries have the same political framework,and share the same set of value? What would bethe Myanmar people’s choice if they were givenfreedom?

When I depart Mandalay for Yangon, I hail a rick-shaw from my hotel to the bus station. At the end

of the long and exhausted ride on the pothole-littered streets, the rickshaw driver insists to guideme through the chaotic bus station, verify the busnumber, and wait under the blazing sun until thebus departs. As I watch him waving farewell withsmile through the tinted window of the movingbus, It reminds me Kipling’s famous quote in hisLetters from the East. Although this is the 21st cen-tury Myanmar, it is still quite unlike any land weknow about.

In Innwa, a Buddha is holding a flower bouquetoffered by an unknown devotee. A long timecapital of northern Myanmar after the fall ofBagan, Innwa was later abandoned in favour ofAmarapura a few kilometres to its north. Today,the ruin of this ancient capital offers a quiet re-treat from the more touristic Amarapura.