MANDALAY, Myanmar — After
closing its doors to the West for half a century, Myanmar has reopened,
inviting all to come and discover its treasures, ancient palaces of
kings long gone, legends and mysteries told in stone. And the world is
expected to come.
These are the early days, perhaps the best, and
with ill-equipped roads and railways, there is no better way to explore
than by river. Public ferries crisscross through glistening green
paddies; old teak fishing boats can be rented by the day.
And now,
there is the luxury riverboat cruise. In late July, the Orcaella made
its maiden voyage on a 1,600-kilometer (994-mile) journey deep into
Myanmar's interior, almost to the border of India. It is operated by the
Orient Express, the group that runs luxury hotels, trains and boats
globally.
It's not a handsome ship from the outside. As the
cruise's first 30 travelers board in Mandalay, it seems squat and square
and a bit worn out. But once we step over the gangplank and enter the
roomy lounge, our impression changes completely. Totally remodeled from
the hull up and gracefully furnished, it is a space where all of us
immediately felt relaxed.
Over the next 12 days we will tour
sights rarely seen by foreign tourists: villages left back in time,
gilded pagodas filled with Buddhist statues, thousands of them long
neglected.
My cabin is spacious, with hardwood floors, fresh
flowers and a walk-in closet. Best of all are the glass sliding doors
facing the wide river, where one can lie in bed and watch the world
glide by.
We travel first for six hours along the mighty Irrawaddy
River, more than 400 meters (yards) wide. The shores are almost level
with the land, the brush low with a few large trees.
Every hut or
fishing boat we pass generates loud greetings. Groups of children wave
and call. Water taxis carry passengers from one riverside village to the
next, and huge, heavy boats laden with teak head downstream.
When
we reach the confluence with the Chindwin River, we meet our first
obstacle. The captain slows our 25-cabin ship to a near-standstill and
struggles to navigate around a small whirlpool. The shifting sandbanks
make it difficult to read the riverbed.
Eventually we pass,
continuing north on the Chindwin along the melted waters of the
Himalayas. We slice through sandstone cliffs and patches of forest, but
this is rare. For long stretches, sometimes days at a time, the view is
more monotonous than I would have imagined.
The first village of a
decent size we come across is Monywa, where the people appear as
fascinated by us as we are by them. As we walk down their dusty roads,
we must look like clumsy giants. Their own bodies look so delicate,
women walking gracefully even when carrying baskets of bricks on their
heads.
The small, beautiful children stare in wonder. A teenage
traveler snaps pictures of a little girl from the village and her
4-year-old older brother, then gives the boy a turn at the camera.
Every
day, we stop to visit one or more of the many pagodas, old and new. We
have seen golden Buddhas towering over us, and a traditional ceremony
for young, freshly shaven monks.
After a few days, we reach Sittaung, a few kilometers (miles) from the Indian border.
It
has 35 very solid, large teak houses, all without doors and elevated on
stilts. Green rice paddies are on either side. The river is only a few
meters away and floods a frequent occurrence.
An old, frail woman
stood by the gate, leaning with both hands on her cane, her eyes fixed
upon us. She was prepared for our arrival, dressed in her finest blouse
and longyi, a traditional wrap-around sarong tied firmly in a knot at
the waist.
I will not forget her, and our conversation in friendly
gestures. I don't think she'll forget me, wondering, most probably, why
a woman of 86 years would travel so far to see her.
Her rugged
village is full of welcoming smiles, along with disdainful looks from
yellow dogs and water buffalo when we expected them to move.
Here
we turn around. It took eight days to get here, but we will return in
less than half the time, heading with the current toward our home harbor
and the temples of Bagan, the first kingdom of Myanmar, also known as
Burma.
On our final night on the ship, elephant dancers — men in a full-sized pachyderm costume — are brought in from a nearby village.
The
bejeweled beast appears with its leader and begins a dainty dance that
soon becomes more boisterous. We are amazed when it stands up on his
front legs, then on his back. It crosses a plank stretched between two
barrels and takes a bow under enthusiastic applause, encouraged by the
free flowing champagne. We politely overlook the two pairs of nicely
polished shoes that poke out from under the beast's feet.
As the
show wraps up, I stand up to get a better look at the lovely young
singer among the musicians. Her mother, seeing my delight, smiles and
beckons me to sit with her.
source: The Modesto Bee
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