April 7th Train from Yangon to Mawlamyine

Having returned to Yangon in order to send some stuff back to the UK, I travelled by train to Mawlamyine, an interesting town adjacent to Bilu Kyun, an island that's home to many cottage industries. It's also fairly close to the town of Hpa-An that I was keen to visit later. But the train journey to Mawlamyine from Yangon, a distance of 310 kilometres, gave me the opportunity to more fully experience Myanmar railways, which was something I had wanted to do since arriving in the country.

The station at Yangon was a short walk from where I stayed, yet when I arrived to purchase a ticket, it turned out that the booking office was in an entirely separate building situated a short walk away, and when I arrived there, I found that the slightly more salubrious tickets - with cushioned seats! - had all been taken. Indeed the clerk who sold me the ticket wore a puzzled expression in acknowledging that a foreigner was travelling "ordinary class", and sent me to the "upper class" counter, although I already knew that those seats were all taken.

The train left at 7.15am the following day, and it took around 10 hours to reach Mawlamyine on another sweltering day. Compartment 3 Seat 33. You would think that finding the right seat would be a straightforward matter, and before that morning, I'd thought that numerals were comprehensible across all languages, but the numbers etched on the side of the train proved hard to decipher, and just as I was abandoning all faith in my understanding of elementary numeracy, a kind soul ushered me onto the right compartment, but not before I had shed a pound or two dragging my stuff back and forth along the platform.

We set off through the urban sprawl of Yangon, with grey buildings interspersed with a few trees, an abundance of stray dogs, rubbish-strewn alleyways and expanses of water covered in green lillies. Despite there being no cushioning on the seats, this was not as uncomfortable as I had imagined, apart from the last hour or so of the journey.

However, very soon we arrived in a completely different set of landscapes full of lush green fields and open spaces, yet at other times consisting of scorched brown earth. The contrasts were sudden and bewildering, the only constant being the vast expanse of sky. On reflection it was hard to believe that these images were recorded during a similar period of time.

The train passed through various small villages dotted with fairly large bamboo huts, some on stilts, perhaps thirty yards or so from the railway line. There were the occasional young men on motorcycles hurtling from one place to another, then an abundance of rice fields whilst the blowing of the train driver's horn became a fairly constant refrain.

Opposite me an older lady lay slumped on her side, her eyes closed, lost in the incantations she mouthed silently to herself, her lips moving with a slow and constant rhythm. After some time, the train pulled into a small station, and she suddenly sat upright, then conversed with the young vendor of savoury snacks standing by the open window and bought a cellophane-wrapped delicacy. She then fixed me with a beautific smile and offered me a chunk of it, but I politely declined.

I momentarily recalled travelling on Indian railways as a boy, when it seemed as if a train's arrival at a station would herald a stream of hawkers at the compartment windows offering a rich variety of items for sale: footwear, newspapers, magazines, fresh fruit (mainly bananas and tangerines), etc. I recalled my mother buying a bar of soap on one occasion. Some vendors would come onto the train and offer tea, which they would proffer in small earthenware pots, as well as milk and various snacks. Given my experience of Indian railways in recent weeks, this tradition seems to have become a thing of the past, but in Myanmar it still exists, albeit on a smaller scale.

Plying for trade on the railway line 

Vendors on the train

Vendors on the train

Fried fish?

Vendors on the train

One particularly ambitious vendor arrived on the train armed with a loud speaker, something which I'd not seen before, but which made perfectly good sense. In truth it was not the loudest of loud speakers, but it seemed to have the desired effect, as passengers came forward to purchase items of clothing. Long-sleeved checked shirts of different colours seemed particularly popular. I had to admire his entrepreneurial acumen!

As the train rolled on, more bewitching sights were revealed. A clutch of small homes in close proximity amid the foliage. Semi-barren landscapes with golden pagodas glittering in the distance. Agricultural workers in the field. Beautiful waterways of different shapes and sizes which became more intriguing as the harsh morning light faded with the passing of time. This rural idyll included cattle grazing, or working the fields with their masters, people cycling, bright clusters of flowers, vessels moored on waterways, men fixing things in front of their homes, people travelling by horse and cart, and the occasional tractor provided a jarring reminder of mechanised farming. A solitary monk cut a resolute yet lonely figure as he walked along the line.

Bridge

Vessel moored on a waterway

Horse and cart

Solitary monk

The practice of setting fire to vegetation was something that I'd seen during the trek to Inle lake, with the apparent intention of replenishing the earth, but here it seemed to occur on a larger scale. It seemed that there might be some inherent risk in managing the land in this way, especially given the parched nature of the scrubland, and as the smoke rose mystically from the parched earth through the clear air, it appeared somehow other-worldly.

Scorched earth

As the train entered the last couple of hours of the journey, the flattish land rose quite appreciably, and the palm trees became taller and thicker, giving a sense of a jungle environment. Toward the end of the journey, I had moved to the other side of the carriage and sat opposite a young man. Immersed in my guidebook and gazing out of the window, I suddenly heard the sound of liquid splashing, and looked up to see that the poor man had been thoroughly drenched in water. This was a portent of the madness of the imminent water festival that was soon to engulf the place. The man nonchalantly shook the collar of his shirt ineffectually, completely at ease with what had just occurred. I then realised that a full bucket of water must have been hurled from the other side of the train. Quite unbelievable.

Arriving at Mawlamyine station, I accepted an approach from a taxi driver to the dormitory accommodation I'd booked earlier. This was before I realised it was to be a scooter taxi. I must have looked slightly disconcerted at the prospect of the journey, with my backpack hanging heavy on my shoulders, and the remainder of my stuff nestling between the driver's knees. "Have no fear, i've taken loads of tourists" he said, and with that we set off. I'd requested the driver to go carefully, none of which registered with him as we embarked on a hair-raising trip, weaving through traffic at high speed, overtaking vehicles when it didn't seem entirely wise to do so. I was pleased to get there in one piece!