Discovering Mawlamyine

George Orwell is widely thought to have written one full novel on Myanmar, Burmese days, an angry critique of British colonial rule's failings. But in Myanmar this book is seen as the first in a trilogy, with the follow ups - Animal Farm and 1984 - charting the subsequent course of the country's future. So spot on was Orwell that in tea house literary discussions it is said that he is referred to as the Prophet. 

Orwell's link with the country begins with Myanmar's fourth largest city, Mawlamyine (pronounced moul-e-mine), where his mother was born and where he later returned to work as a police officer. This is also where we found ourselves after an 8 hour drive from Dawei cramped into two small seats of a minibus. With a 4am pick up, no leg room, a chain smoking monk, a beer drinking driver, and the greatest hits of Burmese pop music turned up to the max, it was a full on introduction to Myanmar's bus network.

As well as Orwell, Rudyard Kipling spent one of a three day cameo in Burma walking the streets of Mawlamyine and oddly the city became the inspiration for his famous poem Mandalay (a place he never bothered to actually visit). It starts:

"By the old Moulemine Pagoda, 

looking eastwards towards the sea..."

Never mind that the view to the east looks inland, the sunset west over the sea from the Pagoda had us sitting in quiet reflection while monks went about their evening chores around us. Down below a shadow swept across the city, engulfing an old colonial prison that is still in use today and that continues to dominate the view. 

"Orwell wrote about a hanging in that prison," we were informed by the same Australian man we had met at the bus station in Kanchanaburi. Within minutes he had diverted the conversation away from the literary greats to a detailed description of his 4-day battle with the squits. I later found out that the prison appears in Orwell's biographical essay Shooting an elephant. The opening paragraph reads:

"In Moulemine, in lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people, the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me."

How time heals. Because, just like in Dawei, life for us was very different. While climbing the stairs to the pagoda we were swamped by a group of children who posed and played with us all the way to the top. They pulled faces, high-fived, laughed and wrestled for our attention, before squealing with delight when we showed them the subsequent photos. 

As we stood short of breath at the top, a boy who was mentally disabled ran up to me pleading to have his photo taken. What followed was twenty minute photoshoot, whereby Sofia wandered around the pagoda, while I traipsed around with the boy taking picture after picture of him holding my bag in different locations. Each time he would look at the image and laugh before running off to a new location, dragging my bag along the tiles as he went. We now have more photos of this boy than us.

The curiosity afforded us didn't wane during an afternoon trip to Win Sein Taw Ya, the self-proclaimed world's largest reclining Buddha, located 20km south of the city. The Buddha is 180 meters long, made from concrete and about as structurally secure as many of the abandoned colonial buildings in town. The whole project was the brain child of a recently deceased ninety-something year old monk, whose attempt to build an even bigger one lay abandoned on the other side of a large multi-lane waterslide. It gave the place the odd feeling of being an underfunded theme park. 

We watched from the Buddah's eyes as children raced each other down the slide, their attention only turning the moment they noticed us.

Mingalaba! Hello" they shouted, before posing, laughing and waving as we walked by. 

When we reached the exit they raced out of the water in an attempt to entice us onto the slide, eventually having to make do with high-fives. 

To reach the Buddha we had taken the local bus and now found ourselves standing on the side of the main road, wondering what time the return one would appear. In Myanmar many people travel via pick up truck, which are modified with wooden seats and a low roll-bar-like roof. These can be flagged down as they approach by waving at a man who hangs from the back shouting the final destination. We waited for half an hour for the bus to arrive, during which ten of these trucks screeched to a stop in an attempt to entice us to jump aboard. Eventually, with rain clouds and the heat baring down on us, we decided to give one a go much to the joy of the man collecting our 20 pence fare. He even jumped out and arranged our taxi when we reached the city.

Coming from the UK, which becomes increasingly inhospitable to foreigners and where children are taught to never talk to strangers (a learning all Londoners carry into adult life), the warmth of the people here never ceases to surprise. Ultimately, in lower Myanmar we were fascinating to large numbers of people, the only times in our lives where we have been lucky enough for this to happen to us.