In the morning we ventured out to survey the scene. Eric a contractor, working on the reconstruction of Christchurch, dismissed our experience as a trivial event. Only about 5.5 apparently. “You’ll get fourteen aftershocks a day”, he grinned. “We’ve had thousands of tremors since the first big one. That destroyed most of the town centre and badly damaged the cathedral.”

The most frightening aspect, Eric told us, was the shaking earth liquefying soil into a fluid mud that flowed into houses. Bewildered people had stumbled at night into mud filled crevasses opened up by the quake.

That day we ventured into the demolition site that was once the beautiful city of Christchurch. The second big quake had killed 185 people and completely destroyed the cathedral. Outside the fenced off devastated central area  portacabins  and temporary buildings housed coffee shops and restaurants. Life went on, but it was far from normal.

After a couple of days and several minor aftershocks we headed south with some understanding and certainly sympathy for the friendly people of Christchurch we had chatted with.

Ox cart heading across the lake with the famous 200 year old teak bridge in the background.

Cyclist heading home over the 1.3km long teak bridge.

Three cyclists silhouetted against the setting sun.

Cycling through the sun

It’s not often you see people walking above the setting sun.

Whilst the communities who lived among the overgrown ruins have been relocated they still actively farm the land. So we walked from one enchanting and enigmatic pagoda with rich wall paintings and a huge standing Buddha statue through a field of tall waving corn to another with a poignant history. A rival king, captured and placed in house arrest commissioned a temple. In it he placed a gigantic seated Buddha which occupied almost the entire space within. Approached through a narrow gateway the oppressive confinement of the Buddha still conveys the sense of helpless frustration and home sickness the king felt. There are reverberations from that ancient monument to the present day unresolved politics of Myanmar.

Meandering amongst the crumbling stupas we came across a caretaker who also farmed the land with his family. As we chatted to him the most delicious aromas were wafting from a simple bean curry being cooked by his daughter. On being invited to sample the pot by this friendly and generous family we discovered the best Myanmar curry we had encountered. Not in posh hotel in Yangon, or in a roadside café in the mountains or on the steel deck of a river boat but a home cooked creation handed down through the generations and prepared on a wood fire in the centre of the mysterious and beautiful ancient city of Bagan.

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Bagan is a huge archelogical site with over two thousand ancient Buddhist temples, monastaries, libraries and stupas spread out over the plain.

Whilst there are hundreds of tiny stupas there are also magnificent examples of ancient craftmanship like Htilominlo Temple.

Inside there are glorious Buddha statues and exquisite wall and ceiling paintings.

Exploring these monuments we met monks as well as many local tourists. Getting around in a horse and buggy was very popular, if a little bumpy.

The area was still used for agriculture. So we approached many temples through fields of crops.

One King who had been taken prisoner build a big Buddha Statue in a very confined temple with a narrow entrance way to express his feelings of confinement. Looking at the Buddha you can still sense his feelings of home sickness and frustration today.

Everywhere we went in Myanmar we met friendly people. This girl was sitting outside her house preparing lunch for her family. Her father was a temple caretaker. They chatted and invited us to taste the food she and her mother were cooking. It was delicious.

As the sun slowly sank we perched on a high temple wall and watched the thousands of spires of ancient Bagan being enveloped into the warm velvety night of Myanmar.

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The Irrawaddy River is narrow until it gets to Bhamo in northern Myanmar. Bhamo is like a frontier town, full of hustle and bustle as cargo is transhipped from small boats to the big river cargo boats. It is also an incredibly friendly place. Whilst strolling throught the evening market these people asked us to photograph their children.

Even in hardware shops people were eager to chat and share a joke.

Bhamo was a lovely place to relax in to wait for the next cargo boat to sail down the Irrawaddy River

Dawn on the Irrawaddy River at Bhamo. An old flat bottomed cargo boat is moored ready for the trip down stream to Mandalay.

Passengers settle down for the two day trip. Cheerful girl sets up the onboard shop for snacks and drinks.

Washing clothes on the muddy banks of the Irrawaddy River where the river boats are moored.

Fisherman on the Irrawaddy River pausing for a smoke.

Relaxing over coffee with new found friends and sharing a joke.

Food being prepared by the wood burning stove, on the wooden deck. Ladies eagerly awaitng lunch.

River Boat moored at a village to take on more cargo and passengers.

Food sellers streamed onboard with fresh bread, roast chicken, dried fish. On the muddy banks food stalls serverd lamb stew, chicken curry, rice and soup. Passengers rushed ashore to buy food before the new cargo was loaded and the boat sailed.

Boys enjoying the muddy water playing on the litter strewn banks next to the boat

Monks enjoy a special lunch cooked in the boats galley. Allan enjoys a rat bought from a stall on the bank before the boat sailed.

Allan chatting to passengers on deck. People spread out amongst the cargo. A card school is in full swing on top of a pile of sacks.

Gold sluicing operation on the banks. This monk spoke good English and explained all the things we were seeing as the boat slowly went down the river.

On the final stretch of our journey on the Irrawady River, between Mandalay and Bagan, Margaret took this fantastic shot of a fruit seller on the bank. She was part of a group holding up fruit and snacks as the boat moored at a village. She is wearing traditional Myanmar make up that protects the skin from sunburn and also has soothing properties. It is made from ground up tree bark.

Our trip from remote Bamaw, south, to ancient Bagan by way of Mandalay in Myanmar would take three days and two nights.  Here in northern Burma, the mighty Irrawaddy River was still young and this was as far up as the big river boats could venture. Upstream belonged to canoes with outboard motors and the dip of paddles.

Golden light flooded the vast alluvial plains picking out farmers driving wooden spoked carts pulled by pairs of white oxen and the start of the day’s water buffalo ploughing. Gazing across the calm surface gently taking on the rich blue of the morning sky two unmistakable forms rose in perfect arcs. We were delighted to watch the backs and dorsal fins of rare and endangered Irrawaddy dolphins moving purposefully up the great river. Pointing excitedly and exclaiming to the folks we were talking to they smiled indulgently.

Our fellow passengers were utterly charming and much too polite to suggest we were unacquainted with the river or the etiquette of cargo boat travel. We chatted about families, hopes and aspirations and eventually enquiries emerged about where we came from and how old we were.  Only after many hours of friendly and comfortable banter did the politics of Myanmar arise. The views expressed were forthright, various and seldom positive.

The water was low and dropping. In some places the bank was a sheer wall of earth cut by the rainy season torrent just months earlier. Wood and thatch villages seemed to be perched precariously some six or seven metres above us.

A loud hoot galvanised the slumbering crowd from their warm blankets, but made no impression on the card players. Around the bend a larger village approached. On the gently shelving banks a multitude waited, some with baskets and basins of food and tit bits, some with large bundles on their heads and some just idly curious.  Even before the plank descended food vendors swarmed aboard penetrating every part of the boat and every nook and cranny of the stacked cargo. At the same time half of the passengers leapt ashore trotting toward tables with pots of steaming delights. Glancing over unctuous stews, blackened pots of sweating greens and rice with inclusions my eye lighted on a spatchcocked offering. At first I thought it was a small chicken but the prominent incisors suggested something more exotic. A friendly monk confirmed this delicacy as roast rat – perfect for lunch. Sauntering back to the busy boat with my prize I paused to watch four naked little boys as brown and shiny as chestnuts smearing themselves with grey river mud before plunging acrobatically off the plank to impress the watching passengers spooning rice from their tiffin tins.

Two blasts from the boat sent the shore passengers rushing back against the torrent of vendors pouring down the plank to the shore. Too soon the path to the slippery bank was pulled aboard leaving the lingering food sellers to jump into the river still balancing trays of morsels on their heads.

Yo, a successful and devout woman passenger arranged a special lunch for our contingent of monks. Closely watched by the smiling and nodding boat travellers the serene and dignified monks tucked into a bumper feast. Their satisfied grins lit up the upper deck.

Many folk joined us in ones and twos to strike up friendly conversations. A small inclusive group of well oiled, neat rice alcohol imbibers invited us to join them on the stern rail. Padlocked boxes were pulled from the cargo for us to sit on.  All the while we moved sedately down the widening brown river past villages, passing cargo launches piled high with empty drums or earthenware pots and rafts of bamboo being floated down to Mandalay.  Teak logs dragged to river by elephants were loaded onto barges. Emerging from the Irrawaddy gorge an array crooked water pipes led to mechanical gold sluicing operations.  From time to time new railway bridges spanned the river.

A golden dusk sparkling on the spires of delicate stupas brought our first river day to a gentle close. Feathery palm trees and intricate monasteries silhouetted against an enormous setting sun heralded our arrival in Katha, the town where Eric Blair, better known as George Orwell based his famous novel “Burmese Days.”

The river murmured and gurgled as we settled into a velvety star lit night, still progressing downstream. Navigation was aided by a depth stick and an ancient searchlight. When we eventually tied up for the night the silence was overwhelming. Even the card players were quiet.

The days were warm and pleasant punctuated by calls at riverside towns, delicious local food and friendly chats. All along the banks women were pounding soapy washing while their toddlers waved to the boat. As the river broadened the passing boats became bigger and their loads expanded. Beyond Mandalay, toward Bagan huge barges were moving earth moving equipment and steel pipes for the great oil pipeline being built from the Bay of Bengal to China.

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The city is dominated by Mandalay Hill and being experienced pilgrims we opted to climb it barefoot. This of course brings you into better contact with a whole range of jovial, friendly and welcoming fellow pilgrims, not to mention more monks.  We enjoyed numerous conversations, swapped e-mail addresses, listened to stories and picked up tips.

One of these was to see the biggest book in the world. In a nearby pagoda at the base of the hill the whole Buddhist liturgy has been inscribed on 729 marble slabs, each housed in its own white stupa.

Bicycle rickshaws are a fun way to get around Mandalay. The markets are colourful and vibrant and teaming with novice nuns. These shy, demure head shaven young girls, all dressed in pink robes seemed to flit from background to foreground in the blink of an eye. One rickshaw driver took us into a convent to watch the nuns eating their mid day meal. We don’t know why exactly and since no one spoke English and we didn’t speak Burmese all we could do was smile and nod. Everyone seemed happy with that arrangement.

There are some sights which need to be stared at in wonder. One of these was U Bein’s bridge. He built his bridge of teak logs across a shallow lake two hundred years ago. Incredibly that amazing bridge, well over a kilometre long, still stands high over the lake and is used by thousands of local people every day. The silhouettes of monks, women with pots on their heads and bicyclists wending their way home on the tall bridge at dusk is just visually stunning.

Another feast of interest is the transformation of blocks of marble into benign smiling Buddhas at the hands of expert craftsmen. Lovingly polished by teams of chatting, laughing girls under trees with permanently white stone dust frosted leaves lingers in the memory of this lovely country.

Huddled bundles snoozed peacefully on the platforms of Mandalay as we made our way toward another early train heading north over mountains. Settling down onto the wooden slatted seats of the first class compartment we used our torches to help a pleasant young woman stow her chickens under her seat.  To climb the steep gradients the train zig zagged up the side of the mountain to reach the plateau and the line to Lasio, near the Chinese border. Chatting to fellow passengers, smiling at the kids and buying meals from trackside vendors the journey sped by. At one station people told us about separatist guerrillas being active in the area and shots having been fired the month before. A glance at the armed policeman sleeping in our compartment however suggested that tensions had slacked since then.

The highest railway bridge built in the British Empire spanned a gorge on our line. Photographing bridges is technically prohibited in Myanmar but we’d encountered no problems so far. But a steely glare from a fully armed soldier guarding the bridge left no room for doubt that this bridge was different.

The country towns were absolutely delightful. People smiled, waved across the road and chatted inquisitively. Older folk talked about the British Days with nostalgia peppering their accounts with facts and figures to bolster what may have been just happy memories of youth. Rudimentary Myanmar language was sufficient to get directions to features like waterfalls on our treks into the countryside.  The only offence I think we caused was to a water buffalo who definitely took a dislike to us. But his young woman owner just laughed at her spooked animal.

Our northbound meanderings took us to the frontier town of Bhamo, the highest navigable stretch of the mighty Irrawaddy River, and only a few kilometres from the Chinese border. Here we stayed overnight in the Friendship hotel and met several Chinese tourists. In particular we talked with a young Chinese professional photographer on an assignment to photograph places in Myanmar for Chinese tourist publications.

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Full Moon Party with friends in Manadalay

Allan and Margaret on Mandalay Hill. Chatting to a young monk surveying Mandalay spread out below the hill.

Group of monks visiting the pagoda and shrines at the top of Mandalay Hill. Massive Guardian Lions protecting the entrance to the hill. From here it is a one hour barefoot walk to the summit and magnificent views over the city.

Kuthodaw Pagoda where 729 huge marble slabs have been inscribed by the entire Buddhist liturgy. Each slab is housed in its own stupa. We used bicycle rickshaws to get around the lovely gleaming white pagodas in this part of Mandalay.

Bustling Mandalay Market thronging with busy but very friendly people

Young novice nuns begging for alms at the entrance to a Mandalay convent. Nuns resting in the cool and shade of a stairway in their convent.

Monks strolling across the 200 year old U Bein’s 1.3 km long teak wood bridge at Amarapura.

Large flock of ducks being herded by a boatman at U Bein’s teak bridge at Amarapura

Cheerful girls polishing marble Buddha statues.

Mountain train from Mandalay to Lashio stopped at Pyin U Lwin. Picture of us taken by another passenger.

Friendly train passengers in first class compartment. Nice boy smiles to say hello

Selling snacks, food and drink to train passengers in two trains.

Carriage passing Purcel Clock Tower in Pyin U Win. We used these stagecoach type throw backs to colonial British days to get about the hill top town of Pyin U Win. The town was once a British Hill Station.

Scenes of rural live around Hsipaw. Shy water buffalo casts a suspicious eye over Allan. Ox cart trudging along a country path.

Margaret admires a fine water buffalo cart during a trek to a waterfall near Hsipaw

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Fisherman on Inle Lake using his leg to row the boat. This keeps his hands free to pay out his net.

Water weed is collected from the bed of this shallow lake using long poles. The weed is then composted and used on the floating farms in the centre of the lake.

Chatting to a friendly camily at the special five day Full Moon Festival market at Phaung Daw Oo Pagoda at the southern end of Inle Lake Myanmar

Small boy fascinated by the camera as Margaret buys a sarrong from his mother. Woman buying flowers as a pagoda offering from a flower stall during the Full Moon festival.

Vegetable stalls at the special five day Full Moon Festival market at Phaung Daw Oo Pagoda at the southern end of Inle Lake.

Khun Htwe Nge didn’t speak much English, but he knew how to handle a boat and he definitely knew the lake and its people. It was endlessly fascinating to watch fishermen standing in light skiffs playing out a net with both hands whilst using a leg to paddle the boat with an oar.  You really need to see the photographs.

Water hyacinths floated in clumps, large and small, and drifted with the wind. In other countries these caused endless frustration as they clogged up canals and waterways. Here however, Khun explained, how they were corralled into islands and used to grow crops on. An amazing range of tomatoes, beans, cauliflower and other plants were nurtured on these huge floating farms pinned to the lake bed by arrays of long bamboo poles.

Shimmering over still waters the sheen from the full moon gleamed on the huge stupa of a lakeside pagoda. Next morning Khun dropped us off at the special pagoda market for the annual Full Moon Festival. Vast ranges of fruit, vegetables and flowers were being snapped up by people preparing for the parties, hospitality and festivities to come. Everyone was bright and cheerful and we shared many jokes and laughs with the locals.

That evening vast crowds gathered excitedly to see huge homemade fabric hot air balloons in the shape of animals swept aloft by vigorous open conflagrations hung precariously below the billowing canopies. Given that the surrounding houses were mostly wood and thatch the whole event seemed to totter on the verge of disaster.

Even from our lake based sanctuary loud, joyous but discordant music drifted across the surface until the early hours of our last morning. Dawn saw us joining the early morning fishermen wearing head torches out on the lake. Saying our farewells to Khun, we drove to the town on the road to Mandalay packed with riotously colourful festival floats and marching bands. True to their loyalties some were decorated with blue Chelsea towels, others declared an allegiance to Manchester United. That maybe explains why, when we said we were from Scotland everyone beamed broadly and exclaimed, “Ah Alex Ferguson!”

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