Myanmar's forgotten River the ChindwinPrepared by Harold Stephens
Travel Correspondent for Thai Airways International
Your hear it said that all of the world has been discovered; there is no adventure left. I disagree. There are many such places of discovery left in the world. One place I can assure you is the Chindwin River in Burma, or Myanmar. Now there is real adventure.
The Chindwin flows into the Irrawaddy. That doesn’t say much but if I tell you that since World War II the river has been off-limits to foreign travel, that may change the picture. As a result of its isolation, the Chindwin is a time machine that takes the traveller not into the future but back into time, a hundred or more years. The good news is it may soon be open to foreign travel. How do I know? Let me explain.
Ever since, as a kid, I read Rudyard Kipling and James Orwell and heard war stories about General Stilwell and the Flying Tigers, I’ve wanted to travel the Chindwin. But, with the political situation the way it was, it seemed like an unlikely dream. However, dreams do come true. Mine came when I was invited to join the Chindwin River expedition a few months ago.
The invitation came from Phyoe Wai Yar Zar, a staff member of Myanmar Marketing. Ten years before I had traveled with Phyoe to the ruby mines in Mongok. Now he asked if I would like to record an expedition up the Chindwin especially arranged for a group of retired German business men and their wives. Ayravata Cruises had been granted authorization by the government to travel up the river to Mawlaik, the last outpost. If successful, the government would consider opening up the river to foreign travel. Here was an opportunity I couldn’t turn down.
There wasn’t much I could find out beforehand about the river. There are no travel guides or tourist brochures. I did learn the course of the Chindwin lies within steep mountain ranges and deep forests, making access difficult. It originates in Kachin State near the Chinese border and snakes for 1,207 km before reaching the Irrawaddy. The mountain ranges to the west are formidable but not totally impregnable. (During World War II, when the Japanese had cut off sea access, the British army and other allied forces under General Joseph Stilwell retreated on foot to India across the same mountains, with disastrous results.)
Phyoe filled me in on the rest. His family lives in a small village far up the Chindwin. The people who live on the river, he explained, remain unspoiled and are out of touch with the outside world. Except for a few of the larger towns they have no television and not even radio. No cinemas, no grocery stores or even electricity. But there were lost ruins and jungle-eaten temples to see, abandoned British outposts, caves cut into a mountain of solid stone, and prehistoric sites and villages that had yet to see a foreigner.
Our riverboat was the RV Pandaw, a great old lady that caught my fancy the moment I laid eyes on her. Built in 1947, she is a replica of the paddle wheelers that plied the rivers of Burma before World War II. To step aboard was to step back into days long forgotten.
The captain and his staff were lined up on the lower deck to greet arriving passengers. Once aboard, the purser showed me to my stateroom, starboard side, top deck. After a briefing from the purser we cast off and Bagan, with its skyline of temples, passed by on our starboard. We made our first stop at Pakokku on the Irrawaddy just before entering the Chindwin. Our shipboard printout said that it's a "charming tobacco and cotton growing tropical town in the middle of Myanmar." After an hour’s stop we were again on our way.
Pandaw zigzagged from one side of the river to the other to avoid sand banks. Sandbanks stretch far out into the river and are a constant threat to navigation. Some banks stretch for kilometres. Clusters of houses appeared on the riverbanks. We could only travel during daylight hours and at night had to moor in villages or along the banks.
At Ye Se Gyo landing we had our first taste of what was to come. People by the hundreds came to watch our arrival. They thronged the riverbanks, waving, shouting to one another, pointing to us aboard Pandaw. When we waved, they waved back frantically. When we stepped ashore they made way to let us pass, and then fell in line and followed us. If we lifted a camera, they graciously stopped whatever they were doing, stood still and posed for a picture. Mothers with toddlers especially wanted their photos taken.
Two lorries with seats in the back awaited us. The road was a hard surface of tamped mud. Temples appeared everywhere, and not one or two but multitudes of them. Temples by the hundreds and perhaps thousands and even more temples than in Bagan it seemed. Most were small, simple, and white washed. Others had crumbled and were in every state of disrepair. Many were overgrown and I found them only by accident when I stumble upon them. At times I felt like I was in a mini Angkor Wat and, with my fedora, like Indiana Jones.
We plodded along in our lorry buses, made a turn and stopped. Before us, perhaps a hundred metres distant, appeared an ancient wooden monastery––Pakham-gyi, a marvel of teak construction, built in 1860. It’s old teak, worn with time, defying the ages. An old monk in a dark red robe, he too worn like the teak floor upon which he stood, stepped out from a door to greet us. He was affable and didn’t mind having his photo taken. In fact, he was rather proud to have us do so.
Pakham-gyi is an ancient town and the remains of the old city wall are visible. We visited the archeological museum in town. Indiana Jones would love it here. The town is actually prehistoric with Iron spikes from the Konbaung period and iron horse shoes from the same period on display. Human bones from the Neolithic Age abound. Stone Age axes and pots come from the Neolithic Period. The museum has stacks of manuscripts of Buddhist scriptures from the Gomback Period.
Village followed village. At each landing the crowds seemed to become larger and larger. Had word gotten out that we were coming? I couldn’t help feeling like an important dignitary, someone very special, when I stepped ashore. When I walked through the streets people saluted and waved and I waved back. What had we done to deserve this? I now believe there is no place in the world where people are friendlier than in Myanmar. Obviously the villagers had not seen many foreigners.
We visited at least two villages a day for the next two weeks. A few of the larger villages had a store and one even had a guesthouse. The streets were tamped earth with no sidewalks and if there were fences they were wood and not metal or wire. Houses stood high above ground on sturdy posts. Space beneath the houses was reserved for wheeled carts, farm ploughs, field harrows and cattle. The cattle, oxen or milk cows, were tethered to the posts. The grounds, in every instance, were swept clean—no debris or refuse and no garbage. Each house had its own fenced-in compound and was self-sufficient. Families had their own coconut palms and banana stocks, papaya and pamelo trees and an assortment of other fruit trees. For sure, there were chickens with mother hens scratching the ground and young chicks following. Lazy sows sought shade in far off corners. The villages were universal. What you saw in one you’d see in others. If we stopped and lingered, we were quickly offered papaya or pomelo. If we sat down to rest, it was young coconut to drink.
Villages exist on barter trade of sorts. Each family makes something its neighbor might want or need. I watched workers making thatch and others stripping bamboo into pieces while still others took the strips and weaved them into mats for fabricating walls for their houses. We saw no plastic, no paper bags. Strips of rattan served as twine for tying things together. And there were men who climbed the coconut trees to gather ingredients to make toddy. I was hoping to sample the toddy but it was out of season.
We came upon hundreds of colonial buildings, mostly abandoned. Phyoe explained that the British established themselves by building their offices and homes in villages that lay one day’s journey apart on the river. Some were fine residences and even had golf courses. When the British left, local people moved in but, apparently, they were unable to maintain the buildings and keep up their appearances. Still, the old colonial buildings are a grand reminder of the past.
One of the most impressive sights on the Chindwin was the caves of Shwebadaung, an hour’s drive from the river. King Anawrahta of Bagan (1044-1077) wanted a temple that would be everlasting. He had his ministers search and they found for him a mountain of solid stone on the Chindwan. Here his followers cut caves in the solid stone mountain and carved out whole edifices. When completed they had over 900 caves and 446 images. We could explore but a few of the caves.
Women come down to the river to bathe and wash clothes. No board walks, no platforms, only the mud banks. They wash clothes by pounding them, without soap or detergent, on a hard surface. Kids swim naked, frolicking in the river. Cattle graze in fields higher up, and all the along the shore boats are pulled up on the banks.
The motion of the river is the life and soul of the people. Their survival depends upon the river. From time immemorial this timeless river has flowed down to the delta carrying debris, silt, trees and limbs—and death.
I am sure the people are not aware of their circumstances. Why, to them, is life any different? To them, it has always been this way and they expect it always will be. We who are transient, we are the novelty. How strange we must appear to them—hot, sweaty, overweight, loud, and noisy.
Kalewa is a trading post, the London of the upper Chindwin. There are coffee shops that are not short of customers. At one, customers sat watching a kung fu Chinese video. An old man wobbled up to me speaking English. He was 84 and learned English in high school. He no longer sees any foreigners. He did during the war, Englishmen and Americans.
The people are proud of what they have and willingly want to show what they have. If it's a hand grinding mechanism or a contraption with the hammer on the end that pounds out grain, they will show how it works. They are serious when we look at them but they laugh easily. What wonderful people.
We visited schools. Teachers didn't mind the intrusion. Students were always neatly dressed; the classes had order and discipline. Women teachers all wore black longyis with white blouses. The men, white shorts and shirts.
We moored to one bank early. The river was dangerous ahead and the captain did not want to negotiate it at night. The crew took chairs ashore and placed them around a campfire. They then set off fire balloons into the air, at least 20 of them. Villagers came from out of nowhere to watch but the crew seemed to have the most fun, laughing and singing. Then the Germans began to sing their songs and now the crew listened.
I left Pandaw at Monywa. Phyoe had arranged a Jeep for me and I wanted to travel overland on the same route 20,000 British troops had followed, and many of which perished, when they fled from Mandalay with the Japanese in hot pursuit. But that’s another story for another time.
QUESTIONS & ANSWERSQ. Dear Mr. Stephens. I always enjoy your adventures stories. Here’s one your readers might like to hear about. Anantara Si Kao Resort & Spa has launched a series of rock climbing courses which range from a simple half-day workshop to a thrilling three-day journey. Courses are designed for the beginning climber through to an advanced level. Climbers will travel to Ao Ton-Sai Beach (just a 20-minute ride by longtail boat from Ao Nang Beach) to reach the climb areas. All courses include transfers, boat trips and equipment. For information, they can phone 66 (0) 2725 6000 Ext. 6212. Why don’t you come and enjoy the fun. ––Marion Walsh, Director of Public Relations Anantara, email: mwalsh@anantara.com.
A. Dear Ms Walsh. Don’t tempt me. I may turn up at your doorstop.––HS
Harold Stephens
Bangkok
E-mail: ROH Weekly Travel (booking@inet.co.th)
Note: The article is the personal view of the writer and does not necessarily reflect the view of Thai Airways International Public Company Limited. | 
