Silvery dawn crept over the muddy bank crowded with heavily laden people patiently waiting their turn to balance up the steeply angled single plank onto the creakingly old river boat. Swathed against the light mist drifting gently across the open steel decks, passengers dropped the bundles from their heads and settled amongst their rope tied bags and their sleepy children. Smoke rose grudgingly from the wood fire on the upper deck where vegetables were chopped and dropped into the steaming broth for breakfast. Wrapped in voluminous brown robes shaven headed monks squatted serenely on a huge table overlooking the crowded deck. Even before the flat bottomed cargo boat juddered reluctantly into the wide brown river a crosslegged card school commandeered a high stack of bulging rice sacks.

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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