Mawlamyine

I could hear the sound of traffic, but I couldn't see it. Somewhere down the hill, hiding behind a canopy of palm leaves, was the city where George Orwell worked as an assistant superintendent for the British Imperial Police. By the old pagoda where I was standing, Rudyard Kipling stole glances at Burmese women and collected impressions for his incongruously entitled poem Mandalay. Who cares about details, such as the actual name of a place, when you're somewhere east of Suez, where the best is like the worst?

Despite its importance for British literature, Mawlamyine, or Moulmein as it used to be called, is blissfully devoid of tourists. Most visitors to Myanmar concentrate on the big four: Yangon, Mandalay, Bagan and Inle Lake. But if you'd like to wander through a more dreamlike, less convenient Asia, this crumbling town by the Andaman Sea isn't to be missed.

Chelsea wins

So how do you get there? Well I'm not a travel agent, so I'll just tell you how we got there. One beautiful November afternoon, two rather toothless gentlemen transported us by taxi bike to the sprawling Mandalay bus station, where we boarded a coach to Bago, a town a couple of hours north of Yangon.

Exiting said vehicle at 3 AM in the deserted streets of what we could only hope was Bago, we were once again reminded that transport in Myanmar isn't exactly a costumer-centric experience. Luckily, we found a tea shop on the main drag, where we devoured some steamed buns and watched a Premier League match on Sky sports. Even in Myanmar, Chelsea wins.

Soon we were joined by a talkative local fellow, who wanted to know what our plans were. Foolishly, we admitted that we would only be staying in Bago for one day, then head to the Southeast.
'Why not go now?', our table companion demanded. 'There's a pick-up truck leaving for Mawlamyine in a quarter of an hour. I'll make you a good price.'

So, instead of checking into a guest house, we set off on another seven-hour trip, this time in the back of an Isuzu. The fact that we were already quite drowsy at this point actually worked in our favour. As most university students know, you can only endure sitting on a wooden bench for long stretches of time if you're either drunk or tired or both.

While we rushed through the starless night, blowing our horn at every settlement along the road, Hannelore reclined against the frame of the car and I gestured my way through a conversation with the driver's sons, who happened to be expert baggage handlers and gifted mimes. Home, I was happy to realize, felt very far away.

Two girls, one cup 

Long after our legs had surrendered their last remnants of feeling, we crossed the bridge over the Thanlwin river and came to a halt in the sweltering midday sun. Our first impressions of Mawlamyine weren't too favorable. To our delicate olfactory nerves the city's commercial center reeked of heat, sewage and fish. While I generally like the smell of fish markets, this particular melange, piled on top of the tiredness from the long drive, struck me like the 'Two girls, one cup' video struck those unsuspecting marines. It was time for a nap.

When I regained consciousness I was in a room without any windows. To my right was a pile of limbs that might or might not have been my girlfriend. To avoid any criminal charges, I decided it was best to leave the building at once and go for a stroll. Outside, the working day was winding down. Our guest house was only one broad street removed from the sea and the sea only one broad sweep removed from the sun. In Yangon the magic hour signaled the arrival of food stalls and sightless musicians. Here, the streets were almost empty.

Reluctant to make any definite plans for the evening, I sauntered off in the direction of a hill I thought I'd seen on the drive into town. The slums at the foot of the hill had an air of permanency over them, while a deserted mansion a bit further up the road with several willow trees stooping in its courtyard seemed ready to collapse.

Soon I entered a narrow passage flanked by monastery halls. A sole monk was sweeping the floor, which to my eye was clean to begin with. Somewhere to the right, a couple of voices were chasing a mantra. A bell rang, a dog barked, but that was it. A carefully executed audio play.

Looking back, I realize that Mawlamyine was the place I really wanted to visit when we left for Asia. It wasn't premeditated. It wasn't even in our guidebook. But it was the timeless Asia I had dreamt of. The boats, the people, even the trucks and scooters, everything was slow like the kinetics of a dream.

So what did we do? A lot and nothing much. We visited a nearby island (where horse-drawn carriages were still very much à la mode) and a gigantic reclining Buddha statue inhabited by a sickly monk and his collection of x-rated statues depicting the life of Buddha. We ate a fantastic fish-and-lemon dish and pomelo with a salt and pepper mix. Hannelore discovered Spy, a brand of red sparkling wine from Thailand, and vowed not to drink anything else ever again. Everrrrr.

And eventually we stepped on a boat and – very slowly – saw Mawlamyine disappear from view. No Burma girls to send us off, though. Still waiting for Rudyard, I guess.