Magical Mrauk U

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The cloudy flight from Thandwe afforded slight glimpses of the terrain below. A long quilted patchwork of brown-mottled fields of dry crops spread out across the vast plain beneath. Long, brown swirls of river snaked between the tortoise-shell-like landscape as the little twin-prop banked hard then landed at Sittwe. I was only one of a couple of foreigners to disembark and fought off the army of touts, vying for the small amount of business, to secure a taxi with another traveller, a German lady, to my hotel.

The rain poured down on Sittwe as it had done in Ngapali with only short breaks between the showers. Sittwe is the main town of the Rakhaing province in western Myanmar, close to the border with Bangladesh. As a result of this the people here are visibly different to the rest of the country. Indian features are prominent with many of the town’s local inhabitants.

Sittwe’s inhabitants are not used to seeing tourists and as such we were welcomed by curious stares combined with bright beaming smiles and calls of ‘hello!’ as our tuk-tuk sped over the pot-holed road. Sittwe was once the country’s capital – the British moved it here because of its strategic position across the Bay of Bengal from Calcutta and as such some grubby and crumbling colonial architecture and infrastructure remains evident.

Sittwe is the gateway town for trips to an old Rakhaing city called Mrauk U – which is located 40 miles upriver. This was my primary reason for being here as it offers a chance to get off the tourist trail completely because it is such a challenging place to get to. This is something I found out very quickly.

Our group swelled to three as we were joined by an Australian girl and we set out to try and organise transport upriver for the following day. We had missed the twice-weekly public ferry boat which had left that morning. Other transit boats called line-boats were also unavailable as they had been commandeered to help isolated communities in the wake of Cyclone Nargis, which tore through here.

We therefore had to negotiate hard to secure a private boat for the following day, costing us each $20 per person – an immense sum when compared with the general costs I have encountered so far in the country. That fare was based on a one-way trip 6 hours or so up the Kaladan River and left the following morning at 8am.

I had to endure one night sleep in the most horrid hotel I have experienced since arriving in Burma. Everywhere I have stayed has been cheap, clean and comfortable. This place – The Prince Hotel – was positively awful. The tiny, dingy wooden room was infested with mosquitoes (because of the rain) and also inhabited by a big spider (a Huntsman I think). One of us would definitely have to go. There were no other options in town as most of the other guest houses are not licensed to accommodate foreigners.

I took on the spider in a duel to the death as I could not endure one single night knowing he was scuttling around my room on his huge fat brown legs. I weaponised a little milking stool that was in my room and took the spider on, smashing it several times into the wooden, paint-peeling wall until he was pulp. Victory! I stood no chance against every mosquito but hopefully my mosquito net would deal with them sufficiently.

I slept intermittently on my bed of sharp springs and endured a night of constant acupuncture. I awoke for the hundredth and final time in the morning to have breakfast before leaving for the boat. Dark clouds still hung threateningly in the sky but rain hadn’t stopped play so far today.

Our boat was a tiny wooden thing. The large motor was concealed with a wooden cabin and in front three plastic chairs were set on some tarpaulin which was also covered by a wooden-frame roof with another tarp sheep thrown over. Thin cotton curtains on each side of this roof provided protection from the sun and little cockroach-like sea creatures scuttled across the deck hurriedly.

We set off and turned out into the large brown foreboding river, fighting against the surging current. The engine emitted a large, loud and thunderously repetitive clattering sound that resembled the chattering teeth of a giant. The ride was not comfortable but at least it wasn’t raining.

On cue the heavens opened up and swallowed our boat in an all-consuming blanket of driving rain. The little boat was no match for the incredible down pour which swept into the boat from all angles. Pulling the thin little curtains was pathetically futile as the large droplets that hammered against them were dissipated on the other side in the form of a misty spray.

The tarp from the roof proved totally ineffective as well as it dripped from such a great variety of locations it was impossible to stand in any one single place and not find oneself beneath a steady shower of droplets. Our group of 3 wrapped up and stood huddled together in the centre of the small wooden deck, consigned to the fact we were going to get soaked through. Another 3 torrid hours of this relentless weather was in store for us.

On the way we passed drenched farmers attending to crops and water buffalo grazing by the riverbanks – perhaps the only creature to be fully enjoying this weather. We passed tiny thatched-hut village’s en-route and little wooden canoe boats. These boats generally contained two people – one very wet person paddling whilst the other frantically scooped the rising level of water out of the boat to prevent them from sinking.

It was all that kept us entertained as we endured the weather, which remained miserable and ensured we reached Mrauk U wet and cold to the very core of our beings. We were met by the owner of Prince Hotel Mrauk U (tipped off, no doubt by his Dad in Sittwe) who wanted to show us his place. Hoping that it was not going to be similar to its sister hotel in Sittwe we had a look and were glad to find clean and bright rooms. We stayed here for the duration of our visit, which was for a few days until the public ferry left for the return to Sittwe.

After a hot shower, clean and dry clothes and a plate of fried noodles the world was suddenly a much nicer place. The next day was positively glorious. The two day bad-weather blip arrived at the perfect time because they were essentially two transit days where nothing else was to be done. Getting wet on the boat had almost been worth it.

I had decided to begin my exploration of Mrauk U by horse cart which would provide a good overview of the 700-or so temples in the jungled area. Mrauk U is the Bagan that many tourists do not see. It was once a thriving city which was an important stop on major international trade routes in the 15th to the 18th century. Its decadence and size once rivalled that of London or Paris allegedly but it declined rapidly when it was assimilated by the Bamar culture of middle-Myanmar. When the Brits moved the capital to Sittwe it consigned this marvellous place to the scrap heap, left to be gobbled-up by nature.

Today a village thrives around the ancient temples – the two co-existing in this beautiful setting. The colourful clothes of locals contrast to the worn grey stone of the stupas which dot the landscape, rising from the thick green jungle, fighting to break free from the imprisonment of the strong creeper vines that keep them wrapped up. Mrauk U is Bagan without the tourists, without the investment and is absolutely marvellous as a result.

The first day we clip-clopped by horse cart around the main temple sights and past villagers going about their business – on their way to school, herding buffalo, cultivating crops in the field, ferrying passengers around in trishaws, mending broken oily engines and expertly preparing morsels of betel nut for red teeth-stained punters. These very people waved, smiled, called out hello and ran after our cart just to catch a glimpse at us. Three white faces are a rare sight here indeed, but very much a welcome one.

The temples were Tomb-Raiderlicious. Some of my favourites as we bumped around the rough tracks of Mrauk U that first day included Kothaung with its square base stuffed with stupas, Pesi Daung Paya for its crumbling remains and cob-webbed statues and Andaw Paya for its fabulous girth. Each temple offered something different from secret passages and ancient intricate carvings to spellbound ragged remains near-swallowed by the surrounding foliage.

Throughout the day we had been the centre of attention wherever we went. Villagers were happy, in fact, they absolutely loved posing for photos. Children grouped together for a picture and then clamoured over each other to catch a rare glimpse of themselves on the curious machine capturing their image. Women blushed red as they posed, and the results were some fabulous portraits of these beautiful people with Tanaka-smeared faces and blood-red lips. Tanaka is a type of scented make-up which looks very much like mud has been smeared across the faces which is worn by most women and a great deal of men right across the country.

The highlight of the day was the interaction we enjoyed from the pockets of curious villages we encountered. It was wonderfully exotic to watch colourfully dressed women drag water up from a well, filling up shiny pots then balancing them on heads and under arms as they head back to their villages. Boys moulded small balls of mud to fire from their self-made catapults – my aim had not improved one iota since the market near Nyuang U.

Late into the afternoon after countless wonderful experiences with inquisitive, friendly locals we made our way to another temple in an open plain which was alive with village activity. Temples dotted the scorched-dry landscape as children played, laughing and joking with us as some played with skipping ropes and others played football. Women swept up large areas of rice, drying all day in the sun, kicking up clouds of dust as they worked. To the right, men women and children – draped in simple longyi, were having their daily wash in a large lake. They each preserved their modesty gracefully as their patterned longyi combined with the colourful maroon and pink of both monk and nun frocks to create a wonderfully colourful picture.

We finished the day by enjoying the sunset from a high vantage point across the plain. The sun turned from a deep orange to blood betel-juice red as it sank languidly towards the horizon in the completely cloudless sky. It cast the final illuminating beams of light over the landscape which was an assortment of corrugated iron roofs and stone stupas thrusting through the sea of green palm trees and other assorted dense foliage.

The following day we all decided to change the mode of transportation and take a stroll instead. The day was bright, blue and glorious yet again and we started a slow amble through to the southern side of the village and towards some of the (even) lesser explored temples and some lakes.

We soon lost ourselves in a warren of small villages. We were always greeted by an assortment of locals and animals as in each area goats, chickens, pigs and dogs appeared to wander freely – their scent hanging in the hot air. They wandered around the villages which were arranged in muddy streets lined by thatched-huts with bamboo fences separating them from the track. Tree’s cast their shadows overhead keeping everything cool in the rising sun.

By walking we were able to have more fun with local villages as again we found ourselves surrounded by them on our walks. Barefoot groups of children followed us, bright eyed and clad in stained old, ripped clothing. I played football with a few as we further explored some of the more obscure temples. I’m sure I did my silky skills an injustice by playing with flip-flips on a horribly bumpy muddy surface!

The temples in this area were some of the best. Although they were nowhere near the biggest they were certainly some of the most atmospheric. They had been so fully-reclaimed by the surrounding shrub-land that from afar they resembled grassy, stupa-shaped hills. Green and yellow grass sprouted from every possible fissure in the structure, encasing it in a mossy prison where the grass had become part of the fabric of the temple. One of these temples even had a thick branch growing – Ta Prohm-like – from the upper level and sending a deep crack down to the ground below. The entrance was consumed by a twisted entanglement of grass, vines and colourful flowers.

We happened upon the lake we were looking for and wandered around the edge to a covered viewpoint area housing a Buddhist statue. A group of women had congregated here who were holidaying from Sittwe. I had great fun with them as they each wanted a photo taken with me, culminating in a group shot which was hilarious. From one of the older women I got the gist that they were trying to establish if I was single and suitable for one of the girls present. I waved my adoring fans goodbye, promising to send a postcard.

We ended our walk by completing a loop to take in the central village market. This was a colourful experience indeed and set within a building containing a confusing warren of interior and exterior lines of vendors. The claustrophobic passageways heralded a wide array of items and memorable scenes such as medicinal herbs and ailments being prescribed, pharmacies selling vast quantities of unpronounceable pills, women barking at clothes stores, colourful and voluptuous fresh fruit and vegetables plump with ripeness being sold and dank oily petrol dens where bottles were re-filled.

We retired to our hotel after the mornings sensory-overload to enjoy a siesta, before awaking to enjoy the sunset again. This time we chose a different perspective – one which was on higher ground behind our hotel that the hotel owner had suggested. We climbed up to the golden stupa that was being re-painted to watch the event unfold.

The sunset was a carbon-copy of the previous evening, except the landscape was different. Our vantage point tonight provided a 250-ish degree view of the entire area which encompassed a variety of rivers, lakes, villages and pointed stone stupas, all surrounded by the familiar entanglement of lush green jungle and fields of agriculture with tiny workers filing away on their way home for the evening.

Having utilised horse-power and ambled our way through Mrauk U so far it was time to give pedal power a chance to enlighten us further to the areas hidden delights. The German lady – Brigitte – was feeling unwell and so Imogen and I hired a couple of bikes and made our way out into the morning sun on the rusty old frames. Squeezing my brakes hard had little to no effect but the basket on front was useful, if not a particularly masculine addition to my bicycle.

We rode through now-familiar villages and veered off towards our destination – Pophru Chuong village, on the banks of the Lemro River, 6 miles away. This seemed like a fairly simple feat but it soon became more challenging when we set off on the long road towards the river. The track deteriorated into a 6-mile length of mud, comprising of lots of fist-shaped stones scattered all over the track. They were too numerous to avoid and so we were both saddle-sore very quickly, my mid-section taking a particularly severe beating from my suspension-less frame.

The rattled ride was gorgeous however as we bounced past sublime fields of varying agriculture. Large squares of pristine green, yellow and brown stretched off on both sides into the horizon, lit beautifully by the high sun and cloudless sky of another wonderful-weather day. Lone farmers toiled under the sun, straw hats protecting their faces from the sizzling rays which rained down upon them. Cows drank from nearby streams and we passed a small amount of local traffic – trishaw drivers bouncing passengers over familiar terrain, horses dragging passenger-laden carts and motorbike drivers shuddering over the stones.

We reached the river and explored the area for a while on foot. The Lemro River was wide and mighty with a half dozen boats crossing over constantly. One of them carried a fine, gravely dirt that was unloaded by women – ferried up a steep, muddy bank and then dumped into the back of an industrial-looking tractor. Men were sitting on their paunches, watching this display of strength – the scene was mesmerising.

It was not the first time we had seen women working in such a way. In Mrauk U itself I was amazed when we passed groups of women by the road side, building a new pavement. They were wielding large hammers, lifting them high above their heads before they came crashing down on chunky rocks below and smashing them to pieces. Their delicate features and small frames obscured great strength both physical and mental – it was incredible to watch. Women at home are empowered by wearing power-suits and barking orders in offices – here their actions speak countless volumes louder than any words ever could.

My testicles were tortured yet again for the ride home, like a set of maracas in the hands of an over-excited infant, before we reached Mrauk U again. On the final afternoon we explored some distant hill-top temples that we had spotted on one of the sunsets and literally had to fight our way through a twisted mess of head-height reeds, grass and bushes to reach. Climbing up on the jungle-clad stupas gave fine views of Mrauk U – the wonderful spires of the immense stupas visible and surrounded sporadically by smaller ones poking through the jungle of village lanes, corrugated iron roofs and palm trees.

We caught the public boat back to Sittwe the following day after a marvellous four days in Mrauk U. The overwhelming highlight was the incredible friendliness, compassion and pure innocence of the villagers I encountered. They total joy in merely communicating with us, playing around us and looking at their own faces gazing back at them through our camera displays was an unforgettable experience and worth the complete hassle in getting here. I saw only a handful of tourists in our thorough exploration of Mrauk U, which emphasised the areas isolated beauty even further.

There are not many places left like this on Earth. By that I mean large areas that exhibit such historical significance, such a thrilling wonder to explore but that are seriously lacking in terms of attention towards their preserve. Mrauk U therefore will, one day, find itself in the paradoxical situation whereby as the country opens up more, and more tourists inevitably pour in bringing further investment, the area risks losing the wonderful charm it emits effortlessly. That day will no-doubt arrive but for now, people willing to take the time and effort to explore will be rewarded, as I have been, by an enchanting historical wonderland that feels as if it is you yourself that is discovering it for the first time.

I felt sad to be leaving as we said goodbye to our hotel family. They had been wonderful – all of the children attending to our every need with the sole aim to purely make us enjoy our stay. Not for money or tips, but the pure satisfaction of leaving an excellent impression.

Our tuk-tuk bounced to the jetty and our boat, which soon came into view. The large grey and white hulk was older than the British Empire and its cargo re-defined the phrase ‘packed like sardines’. We each surveyed the throbbing mass of people rammed into every available tiny patch of space on both decks scarily. We surged aboard and somehow wormed our way through the crowd, to the upper level and then the back of the boat. My seat, which I consider myself lucky to obtain, was a small brick shelf which had space enough for one butt-cheek.

This journey promised to be an even more uncomfortable one than the trip here. Scenes of disasters such as Hillsborough flashed through my mind as I consoled myself that at least it wasn’t raining. Cramp was already beginning to set into my knees after just 30 minutes let alone lasting for the entire 6 hour journey to Sittwe. I had no room to wiggle a toe let alone stretch a leg. A sea of people was, literally, rammed onto the deck, fused around each other uncomfortably and representing a marine disaster waiting to happen.

I began communicating with my surrounding passengers which instigated one of the most joyous boat journeys I have ever taken. For the last few hours I was centre of attention for a group of women of varying ages in front of me. Through an interpreter who spoke very limited English they set about (again) qualifying that I was indeed a bachelor and then who would be the most suitable women for me. This was hilarious as we laughed and joked for the journey, making many younger girls blush. In all the entertainment my cramp was forgotten and the minutes ticked by fast.

My new friends that surrounded me offered me tea and snacks as I soaked up everything that was going on around. Women slowly weaved through the sea of people offering fried snacks and sticky rice, men and women smoked fragrant cheroots – green cigar like objects, people rose to spit blood-red betel juice from their mouths overboard and into little laden bags, women openly breast-fed adorable babies and everyone chatted at a thousand miles per hour.

I amused many around with photos and held a large audience whilst I demonstrated the wonders of the ipod touch. With many crowded around, one woman I had showed how to use the device flicked through many photos from around the world and even watched an episode of Flashforward I had stored. They were besotted with this little gadget and it was great to let them loose on it.

I arrived in Sittwe with a large group of new friends and as we said our goodbyes our original group re-united and were met by a barrage of tuk-tuk touts with offers of rides into town. The solitary white faces on the boat representing quite the golden ticket for them. We bargained hard to secure a ride back to town and I went in search of another room – I knew of one hotel which remained my only hope of a good night sleep.

They were full. I had to then, endure another night at the dingy Prince Hotel – a marginally better spider-less room awaited me in a (hopefully) quieter section of the hotel. The water stained walls and broken (glass-less) wooden window frames would have to make do as my room for the evening and I pledged to spend as little time in it as possible.

My only remaining chore for the evening was to get my only pair of trousers repaired as a rather embarrassing rip had enlarged in the crotch area. I only need them for another week at the most and so I took them to a shop on the main road. Such is the beauty of Burma that a simple task like this becomes a memorable experience. The seamstresses were busy at work and all looked up as I called into their open-fronted shop. I tried to preserve my own modesty as I showed them the problem and, using the power of gesture, acted it out in a kind of textile-charade game. They found this hilarious and erupted into fits of giggles, but one did offer to sew me up. I changed at my hotel and returned with the trousers which they repaired very well indeed for 500 kyat (40p).

After a surprisingly decent night sleep our group converged for one final outing – the Sittwe fish market. We wandered the short distance to the market area and became immediately absorbed in the fantastically raucous atmosphere. The central market comprised of a couple of layers – the outer one selling a large amount of fruit and vegetables – women puffing on cheroots bagged up tomatoes, apples, oranges, bananas, aubergines, cabbages, onions, garlic, chilli’s and more. They stuffed piles of turmeric into pots and offered sweet snacks to passers-by.

As we entered the fish market area we were hit by a sensory overload attacking our sight, sound and smell. The strongest was the overpowering stench of fresh fish, still wriggling as it was sliced up before our eyes. The incredible amount and assorted variety was staggering as row after row of silvery fish glinted in the morning light filtering in from across the river. Men and women were slicing up manta rays, sharks and eels, ripping out their slimy innards before negotiating with groups of punters.

The market is certainly not for the squeamish and is an incredibly visceral and bloody scene, alive with the satisfying sound of sharp knives effortlessly ripping through fishy flesh. A loud murmur of noise continued throughout the place as I was in awe of the fish which varied in length, width, shape and girth. Some are still squirming and some stare back with still, lifeless eyes. Around this pots of shrimp and wriggling prawns bask in the rising sun and women pick out bogey-coloured lumps from shelled-fish expertly. It was a fantastically exotic and raw experience and was the perfect way to bring our time in Sittwe to a close.

After saying my goodbyes I caught a trishaw down the bumpy main road back to the airport as grubby shop fronts moved past slowly in a haze of morning light. I had elected Air Mandalay yet again to take me back to Rangoon and thus complete my epic loop of Burma. This time, the slightly older and more ragged-looking twin prop even left on time.

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Photos

Working Girls
Stopped for pictures on bike ride

Pesi Daung Paya
Mrauk U

Resident Monk
Smoking a Cheroot

Cute Village Baby
Mrauk U

And Another One
Mrauk U

Girl at the Well
Many Wells are dotted about the villages.

Comments

[Patricia Somewhere]

superb!
Great blog! Thanks for all the details and insights into the Burmese culture. I'm going to Burma late March and found you blog very helpful as i prep for my trip.