Bhamo to Mandalay I – The Love Boat

Bhamo, Northern Burma.

“Tomorrow. Wednesday. You come back.”

“But tomorrow is Monday. So do we come back tomorrow or Wednesday?”

“Yes, tomorrow,” he smiled.

“Ok, see you tomorrow,” I said and began to walk away.

“Yes, come back Wednesday,” he said with a wave and a smile. He was always smiling. Either that or pulling his eyebrows together as he tried to grasp the meaning of our questions. This was the third day we had tried to buy tickets for the ferry down the Irrawaddy river from Bhamo to Mandalay so we had come to know his betel-stained smile, crinkly leather face and faded Myanmar Ferry uniform pretty well. We had thought we were dealing with a language barrier, but as the days passed we began to suspect that he was just a tad clueless. We walked back to our hotel, kicking rocks listlessly and swearing gently in three languages and five accents. We had met farther upstream in Myitkyina and, mostly by virtue of being the only backpackers for several hundred miles, had formed a little band of travelers – German (sorry, Bavarian) Max, Japanese Misaki, English Chris, American Susanna and your erstwhile Idiot. Well, I say travelers, but for the last few days we had been more stayingstillers, as it were. The ferry to Mandalay hadn’t left for a week and no one seemed to know when it would leave again. We were all eying the expiry dates on our visas.

Things to do in Bhamo. 1. Photograph cows. 2. Umm... no, that's about it.

That afternoon we walked through the town market. Again. Past the same flyblown pigs heads, flopping fish, live chickens, piles of fruit and vegetables that I didn’t recognize (mind you, I wouldn’t recognize an apricot unless it was labeled). We walked from one end of town to the other. Again. We decided it was too hot and went for a beer. Again. We had another beer. Again. You get the picture. Not that Bhamo is a bad place to be stuck, with more horse cart than cars, wonky wooden houses leaning against crumbling British-era buildings and gnarled, fuzzy-limbed trees shading the broken streets, it’s lovely. Just not exactly overflowing with distractions. It’s also where George Orwell lived and where he set his novel Burmese Days, one of his books about Burma (the other is 1984. Get it?)

Susanna, drying monks' robes and sunset over the Irrawaddy.

At sunset we walked though a Buddhist temple to the banks of the river and watched the haze turn to fire over rice fields and stilted fishermen’s huts while teenaged monks chased each other around gilded stupas or dangled their feet in fountains. In the river a boy cartwheeled and backflipped on a sand bar while his father cast a net, rippling and tearing the river’s golden surface. Max and I took our bro-mance to a new and borderline homo-erotic level by forming a silhouette heart with our arms while Misaki took pictures. When the sky turned dark Max and I coughed uncomfortably and talked about football. And tits.

Maxxie, mein liebling.

In the morning we trudged back to the ticket office and rattled the gates. Our vague friend strode towards us at a pace I had previously thought him incapable of.

“Boat go. One hour. Hurry.”

We quickly paid our $7 each for the three day journey and shifted our feet while he painstakingly entered our passport and visa details into a yellowed ledger. As we raced to pack and check out of our hotel, the staff generously gave us each a bag full of instant noodles, bottled water and fruit before ushering us into a minivan which bounced and swayed us to the dock. Therefore I will give them a plug. If you’re ever in Bhamo, northern Burma, stay at the Friendship Hotel. Although, now I think about it, it’s the only hotel in town, so you haven’t got a choice, have you?

Bhamo’s port is very easy to find – it’s the section of muddy riverbank that has boats parked on it, as opposed to the other 20 miles of muddy river bank that don’t. At first glance, our vessel looked like a teetering mound of white rice sacks. It looked the same at second glance. As the salty old sea dogs among you will know, the floaty bit of a boat is known as the hull, and is generally considered quite important. Our vessel didn’t appear to have one. Yet it did float, after a fashion, and we all shimmied over a slimy gangplank and took up positions on the towering mound of cargo. The motor had clearly been stolen from a museum dedicated to the early history of the lawnmower but it started and we chugged through the shallows to where four big old boats waited. 

Dockside at Bhamo.

Our ferry was 60m long and 20m wide with two levels and a corrugated iron roof. It looked a lot like a big fridge, only less watertight. On top, a small bridge (where the captain sits) rose aft (behind) a black smokestack. Forward (in front) were two heads (toilets) and half a dozen cabins (rooms) where the crew (people who work on boats) slept. At the stern (back bit) was a little galley (kitchen) stocked with warm cola and a huge vat of steamed rice. We picked a section of deck (floor) to the starboard (left, or possibly right) and just athwartships (no idea) of the mizzenf’c’sle (I made that one up) and rolled out our sleeping mats. Once we had made camp, I began a quick lecture on nautical terminology before Chris told me to go walk the plank (piss off).

Never one to disobey a direct order, I went exploring. Our deck, the second, was covered by a curved iron roof. Thick, uneven planks rippled lengthways between two iron guardrails and rusty nails protruded where the boards had warped and sprung. Down a steep staircase the lower deck was crammed with hundreds of 40kg sacks of rice and chicken feed. I edged between them and hopped over coils of rope. At the front new, raw planks ran in an uneven stack two feet high which shifted and bounced under me. Everything iron was rusted and bent and everything wooden was twisted, rotten or scarred. Like all Burmese riverboats, it was a left-over from British rule, built in the ‘30s or ‘40s. At the back of the lower deck three women in sarongs washed in buckets of river water. Our deck, the passenger deck, was now occupied by perhaps 20 people, although there was room for 100 more. Each group had claimed their space, spreading plastic sleeping mats and surrounded themselves with battered suitcases, red and white striped plastic bags and boxes tied with string. Men lounged against bags and women sat cross-legged arranging cooking pots and chatting. Three barefoot men in mismatched military uniforms sat in a circle drinking from an empty tin. One was missing a leg and they had maybe ten teeth between them. Max and Susanna were sitting with them and waved me over. We shared some thick, clear moonshine and did our best to chat while our eyes watered.

The SS Kelvinator.

It was lucky we had rushed for the boat because it was a mere 5 hours before the twin diesels belched smoke and we were under way. We traveled less than a mile before the captain, for reasons unknown, moored against the bank – I could still see the dock. As the sun set, we decided to go for a wander. A short plank ran over fast water to a steep, sandy bank and we scrambled up it clutching cameras. Mudflats dotted with foul-smelling pools stretched for a hundred meters to a village half hidden at the top of a densely-forested bank. Our fellow passengers watched the sunset and stretched their legs. Naked kids splashed in the shallows near an upturned wooden boat. One of the crew, an older guy with decent English, jogged after us.

“Where are you going?” He asked softly.

“To the village. Maybe take some photos.” I pointed to my camera.

“No. Very dangerous. There are snakes.”

“I’m Australian,” I said, “I’m not scared of snakes.” I am scared of snakes as it happens, but only Australian snakes.

“Yes but there are dogs, too. Very dangerous.”

“Not scared of dogs.”

He was running out of ideas. “Men. Bad men. Men with guns. Very dangerous.” He was clearly bullshitting, I guessed he was a government man and this village just wasn’t on the list of authorized tourist areas. I thanked him for his concern and caught up with the others.

“What was that about?” Asked Chris.

“Apparently there are men with snakes. Or dogs with guns. Or something. We’ll be ‘right.”

The village was one sandy road flanked be widely spaced bamboo houses on stilts surrounded by yards full of pigs and chickens. A 10 year old kid rode a motorbike with his 8 year old brother on the back while a buffalo pulling a wooden cart plodded by. At the village shop half a dozen shirtless men drank Chinese beer – warm and watery. We bought a couple of beers each and walked back to the boat. Men and women stood at their gates and waved. Kids posed for photos and ran around us in circles.

Chris getting his Nat Geo on at the village.

On the deck the air was chilly and we huddled in our sleeping bags and blankets while Chris, a professional photographer, showed us a slideshow of his fantastic Burmese photographs. Our shipmates gathered around shyly, peering over our shoulders and watching silently. When the beer was gone we opened a bottle of rum and muddled in some fresh limes and got satisfyingly drunk as we listened to music and talked nonsense. The night was so cold that we ended up huddled together on the open deck engaged in some just-friends spooning – a little multi-national bundle of warmth and love.

We woke to find ourselves still moored to the bank. We had traveled a mile in 20 hours – a taste of things to come.

Thanaka-painted Misaki after her on-board Burmese makeover.