Arakan Days

[fotomachi]

My great-grandfather died recently. He was a passionate traveller and photographer. When I went to visit him, he was always talking about his travels to the East, playing some kind of Indiana Jones. When people in the West had just started to learn writing Bandar Seri Begawan without spelling mistakes, he was already trekking along the Subcontinent, from Singapore to Bombay. As a tribute to my photographical inspiration, I’d like to present a part of his diary and some of his photos from a region in today’s Myanmar that left a very deep impression on him: Arakan State


Arakan Days



November 10

We finally arrived in Sittwe yesterday, by plane from Rangoon. There were mainly British officials on the flight. They considered me a fool: why on earth would someone visit a place like Mrauk U, a place populated by robbers, thieves and pirates, a site infested with cholera and malaria, a region forsaken by God Himself. Those whose fate is to live in these lands have not yet tasted the fruits of civilization, certainly haven’t received the illumination of Christ, but worst of all, continue refusing to accept the benefits the British Empire has to offer. I nodded in agreement, in the hope that the hysterical ladies would look for another subject of discussion.
Sittwe is an unruly place, which to me seemed not only forsaken by God but also by the British themselves. Rampant poverty rules the city and the number of beggars here is certainly much higher than it was in Rangoon. There are only two guesthouses in the city. The first one is aimed at wealthy British officials and much too expensive for me. The only option left is a hybrid guesthouse, somewhere in-between a hotel and a whorehouse. I arranged a boat in the harbour to bring me to Mrauk U the next day. Most of the boat owners reacted reluctantly: there are pirates over there, and the ship would certainly not leave unaccompanied by other boats. I finally found a captain that had to travel upstream again to load new shipments of rice. Four armed soldiers and a group of Buddhist monks would travel along to protect us. We would leave at sunrise.



November 11

We left early in the morning on a small steamer, stream upwards. The captain didn’t lie. There were four soldiers of the British Indian Army onboard, as well as a group of monks. Furthermore, there were two officials, both of Indian stock, to organize the colonial bookkeeping. One of the monks spoke English fluently and we chatted for hours and hours, from vipassana to Darjeeling tea. Before I had well realized it, we were arriving in Mrauk U and the sun had nearly disappeared behind the horizon. My first impression of this “city” is difficult to put on paper. To me, it seems that this pirates’ nest actually is an inviting place, and rather then being forsaken by God, it looks to me as being forgotten by time. It was difficult to find a place to stay, though the locals were very helpful. Communication was very difficult: they don’t speak English in this corner of the world. They even don’t speak Burmese! Luckily, my monk friend from the boat helped me to find a guesthouse, where I could stay for the next few days and could rest from the trip. I invited my monk friend to share some Arakan curry, a delightful dish, before he rejoined his troop. But he had to go, sadly, so I asked whether he wanted to pose for a portrait as a memory of our encounter.





It was the first time I used my newly purchased Leica III in Burma. I have the impression it won’t be my last.



November 12

After a good night’s sleep and a copious breakfast, I take my camera and start to explore the city. The locals approach me with healthy curiosity: they don’t see foreigners here that often, and when they come, it is usually with bad intentions. My camera attracts a lot of attention, especially from these small, ever-running and energetic creatures called children.





Families here are very big, with at least eight children per family. Having less appears to be a sign of infertility and bad luck. It is really difficult to roam around Mrauk U freely, as they follow you everywhere – literally everywhere! They are always playing, happy and a source of remembering why life is so beautiful. But there is also sadness… Sadness because of their life conditions, their deprivation of basic scholar education, the unavailability of medicine. But despite the lack of these basic conditions deemed necessary as the foundations of a happy life in our European society, despite this they continue to embrace life and enjoy its joys, as if there is nothing else to do in this life.





I wanted to visit a monastery to ask the monks questions about vipassana meditation techniques. I decided to climb up to the ruins of the Ratanamanaung.





The monks were very friendly, but sadly we could only communicate with difficulty. We didn’t share a common language, but we all enjoyed betel nut, tea and laughter, so we shared this – and everybody was happy. The monks were enormously fascinated by my camera. It seemed to me they had never seen one before. Tired of all the betel nut chewing, I decide to go back to the guesthouse and order another plate of Arakan curry and have a good night’s rest.



November 13

The guesthouse owner told me about a beautiful temple named Kutaung. It is especially loved by the locals. And there we went, with a full belly and my camera. I hadn’t put 10 passes outside of the guesthouse or the first smile was already being shined into my direction. Pure magic…





It was a pleasant walk to Kutaung, with many ruined temples dotting the landscape. The more wealthy families living here also have bicycles.





Kutaung temple is a delightful place. I haven’t seen many temples like this one during my travels in the East. It’s not especially big, nor especially beautiful. It’s not really appealing nor richly decorated. But it has charm, it has character, it has a good vibe that connects with its visitors. It is not difficult to understand why the locals cherish this temple so much. The ruins are also a favourite playing spot for the children.







Kutaung reminds me of the questions I have for the monks and I decide to look for more answers in another monastery. The guesthouse owner had told me to look for a certain Ven. Siti Ban U, who lives on a hill top and secludes himself from other monks. Finding the hill was not difficult, but finding a path to the top was quite a different story. The locals wouldn’t tell me – the name of Siti Ban U filled their eyes with fear. They had warned me for Ban U’s witchcraft, but I never thought the locals would take it that seriously. Finally, a local farmer would lead me up to the top, but not without paying some silver rupees. We arrived, he pointed his fingers into the direction of some dilapidated stupas and ran away, ran as fast as he possibly could.





Where to go? I search around, but there is nobody to be found here. There even are no signs of habitation here. I have the impression that there indeed lives nobody here and that the mythologically powerful witch-monk Siti Ban U is just that – a myth. Nevertheless, the location is beautiful, with wide views over the surrounding planes and ruined temples.





It is time to go, to go back to the guesthouse and time to pack. Tomorrow I can return with the same steamer to Sittwe. If I don’t return tomorrow, nobody can’t tell when the next opportunity will present itself… A shame, because I was falling in love with Mrauk U. Hopefully, I will return one day, be it this life or a next.










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For your information: I have never known my greatgrandfather... There is some truth in the story, but it is mixed with considerable fantasy

[poilu]

great reportage!

[kds315*]

Fantastic, what a treasure you have there!
Thanks for sharing that with us!!

[sichko]

Thank you.