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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Mandalay was our springboard to northern Myanmar. On our arrival the Full Moon Festival was still in full swing here too. Popping in to see friends we were promptly invited to a Full Moon party and snacking on tasty treats cooked in a huge wok of oil. Our contribution was a locally baked cake.

The city is dominated by Mandalay Hill and being experienced pilgrims we opted to climb it barefoot. This of course brings you into better contact with a whole range of jovial, friendly and welcoming fellow pilgrims, not to mention more monks.  We enjoyed numerous conversations, swapped e-mail addresses, listened to stories and picked up tips.

One of these was to see the biggest book in the world. In a nearby pagoda at the base of the hill the whole Buddhist liturgy has been inscribed on 729 marble slabs, each housed in its own white stupa.

Bicycle rickshaws are a fun way to get around Mandalay. The markets are colourful and vibrant and teaming with novice nuns. These shy, demure head shaven young girls, all dressed in pink robes seemed to flit from background to foreground in the blink of an eye. One rickshaw driver took us into a convent to watch the nuns eating their mid day meal. We don’t know why exactly and since no one spoke English and we didn’t speak Burmese all we could do was smile and nod. Everyone seemed happy with that arrangement.

There are some sights which need to be stared at in wonder. One of these was U Bein’s bridge. He built his bridge of teak logs across a shallow lake two hundred years ago. Incredibly that amazing bridge, well over a kilometre long, still stands high over the lake and is used by thousands of local people every day. The silhouettes of monks, women with pots on their heads and bicyclists wending their way home on the tall bridge at dusk is just visually stunning.

Another feast of interest is the transformation of blocks of marble into benign smiling Buddhas at the hands of expert craftsmen. Lovingly polished by teams of chatting, laughing girls under trees with permanently white stone dust frosted leaves lingers in the memory of this lovely country.

Huddled bundles snoozed peacefully on the platforms of Mandalay as we made our way toward another early train heading north over mountains. Settling down onto the wooden slatted seats of the first class compartment we used our torches to help a pleasant young woman stow her chickens under her seat.  To climb the steep gradients the train zig zagged up the side of the mountain to reach the plateau and the line to Lasio, near the Chinese border. Chatting to fellow passengers, smiling at the kids and buying meals from trackside vendors the journey sped by. At one station people told us about separatist guerrillas being active in the area and shots having been fired the month before. A glance at the armed policeman sleeping in our compartment however suggested that tensions had slacked since then.

The highest railway bridge built in the British Empire spanned a gorge on our line. Photographing bridges is technically prohibited in Myanmar but we’d encountered no problems so far. But a steely glare from a fully armed soldier guarding the bridge left no room for doubt that this bridge was different.

The country towns were absolutely delightful. People smiled, waved across the road and chatted inquisitively. Older folk talked about the British Days with nostalgia peppering their accounts with facts and figures to bolster what may have been just happy memories of youth. Rudimentary Myanmar language was sufficient to get directions to features like waterfalls on our treks into the countryside.  The only offence I think we caused was to a water buffalo who definitely took a dislike to us. But his young woman owner just laughed at her spooked animal.

Our northbound meanderings took us to the frontier town of Bhamo, the highest navigable stretch of the mighty Irrawaddy River, and only a few kilometres from the Chinese border. Here we stayed overnight in the Friendship hotel and met several Chinese tourists. In particular we talked with a young Chinese professional photographer on an assignment to photograph places in Myanmar for Chinese tourist publications.

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